CHAPTER ONE
June 21, 2026
Summer Solstice
What passed for dancing in the twenty-first century was truly disconcerting.
Although the amount of words, actions, or items that astounded him had lessened over the years, there were still things here that took Fitzwilliam Darcy aback. When he was young and in another century, dancing was a way to find a suitable marriage partner. It was a meaningful public activity within a community, with elaborate steps executed with an upright but relaxed carriage. Now it was only an excuse to move one’s body in a way to flirt and entice.
Although, as he watched his wife dance and hum to herself while she put away dishes, he conceded modern dancing was not all bad.
The short skirt of her white summer dress flared as her hips swayed to music only she could hear. Darcy set a book on the counter, and when Elizabeth did not look up at the noise, he went nearer and pressed a kiss to the base of her neck. Shestarted, then smiled before plucking the tiny white amplifiers from her ears and, with a few swipes of her finger across her watch, the song played from a speaker instead.
“You don’t know how fortunate you are.” He smiled as he listened to the music.
“For many reasons.” She gave him a quick kiss before returning to the dishes. “Which did you mean?”
“You are able to hear music whenever you want to,” he said, leaning against the counter. “No need to attend a concert or hope that someone in the house can play or sing. No need to wonder if you’re remembering a song accurately, or fear you will never hear a favourite song again.”
Elizabeth gave him a thoughtful look. “I guess that’s another reason women were pushed to be musically accomplished, and why it was important to find a wife who could entertain people.” She laughed a little. “Sandra’s piano lessons went terribly, so it’s a good thing she was born in my century rather than yours. Is she finally asleep?”
His daughter was seven, and full of boundless energy and curiosity. “I had to read three chapters before she closed her eyes. And what dreadful characters,” he added, tapping the cover. “Those children at the candy factory got what they deserved.”
“Did you mind reading that long?” she asked. “I know the books kids read now seem?—”
“No,” he said tightly. “I never mind caring for Sandra.”
She looked at him askance, confusion in her eyes at his tone. There was an uncomfortable stillness before she resumed putting away the dishes. The clang of porcelain and the closing of cabinet doors filled the room, along with the music.
He should not have snapped at her. Elizabeth meant nothing by it. It only reminded him of how he felt back when he did not know how to be a father in this century. His old-fashionedassumption that she would do most of the parenting and he would discipline and provide had led to a short-lived strain. Of all the things to learn in order to thrive in this century, how to be a father had been the most challenging.
But he had soon learnt to listen, to play, to comb hair, and to cut the crusts off sandwiches. Darcy now took joy in it. And his wife had learnt to trust him and ask for help, and accept what he offered. Sometimes, however, moments still reminded him how hard that adjustment to child-rearing had been—harder than any technology, history, or slang.
She looked like she was about to ask what was the matter, but Darcy shook his head to tell her nothing was wrong. He smiled gently in apology. She had faith in him as a parent, even if he had struggled all those years ago. Still, as she passed him to put away the last dish, Elizabeth gave his arm a squeeze, to say she cared even if she did not understand what bothered him.
After thirteen years together, full conversations took place with looks, nods, and touches.
“It’s after ten,” she said. “She will be tired tomorrow. It’s a good thing it’s nearly summer vacation.”
“I think they say summer hols here, dearest.”
His wife’s American accent and vocabulary still stood out, although it was fainter after having lived in England for so long. Though it had been a hindrance during her brief stay in 1811, he found her inflection and words delightful.
“See, we both had to learn a new way of talking.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as a new song came on. “Dance with me.”
Darcy put his hands on her hips. “This is not dancing. This is rhythmic swaying.”
“But it’scouplesrhythmic swaying.”
It was an old argument, but Elizabeth was between his arms, so he won either way. “This song is rather on the nose, is itnot?” He had learnt that phrase at some point. Modern word usage and slang came so easily to him now that he wondered if he could still make himself understood to someone born in the 1780s like he was.
Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve read the lyrics to some of those bawdy songs popular when you’re from. There was no nuance then either.”
“Why do people dance in the dark?” he murmured into her hair as he listened to the lyrics. “When I danced in the nineteenth century, the ballrooms were splendidly lit up with candles.” For him, darkness in the evening had been a way of life. The sun went down, and any light after that was a luxury that required effort. Now, darkness at night was a novelty.
“Focus on the other words, my dear.”
“Well, you do look perfect tonight.”
