Chapter 1
A dull, throbbing pain spread through her skull, slow at first, then insistently sharp, as though some unseen force was determined to pull her back from the depths of unconsciousness. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips, though the effort felt curiously foreign, as though she were inhabiting a body not entirely her own.
The sheets beneath her were cool, the familiar scent of lavender filling the air. Her lashes fluttered, and she became aware of the weight of a coverlet draped over her, of the slight indentation of a pillow beneath her head. This was not Pemberley.
She inhaled sharply. A memory surged—fragmented, sunlit, and vivid. She had been riding. The morning air had been crisp, the golden hues of dawn stretching over the hills. Fitzwilliam had been at her side—ever solicitous, ever cautious—reminding her, no, warning her to take care. He had insisted she wait a while longer before returning to the saddle, but she had laughed, certain of her own strength.
They had taken off together, leaving young James in the care of his nurse, his bright blue eyes watching them from the nursery window. And then—
"Fitzwilliam?" Her voice, weak and uncertain, carried into the silence.
“Lizzy! Dearest, you are awake.”
It was Jane. Her sister’s fair face was drawn with worry, her usual serenity marred by the evident distress in her fine features. Her hands, gentle yet firm, cradled Elizabeth’s own, squeezing them with palpable relief. “Oh, Papa! She has woken!”
Elizabeth turned her head sharply, and the motion sent a fresh wave of pain spiraling through her skull. She pressed a hand to her temple, wincing. Jane’s use of Papa registered dimly, but her mind was in tumult, reeling against a truth too disorienting to grasp. She should be in her chambers at Pemberley; Fitzwilliam should be at her side. Her father should be at Longbourn—over one hundred and fifty miles distant. Yet here she was, in her old bedroom: familiar, and yet entirely wrong—for it had not looked thus since she left it three years before.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice was hesitant now, wary. “What is it, dearest? Are you in much pain?”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly, her breath quickening. She had fallen. She had struck her head. She had—what? Slipped into some terrible dream? Or had she awakened into one? Her eyes darted to Jane, slender as ever, her willowy frame unmarked by the bloom of impending motherhood, but she should be....
"Jane?" Her sister sat beside her, eyes shining with relief, hands clasped together as if in silent prayer.
Jane, still holding Elizabeth’s hand, spoke gently. "You had an accident, Lizzy. You were out walking and took a terrible fall. You struck your head, and we have been quite anxious. You have been unconscious since yesterday. We feared—" Jane faltered, swallowing against the emotion that threatened her usual composure. "But you are awake now, and all shall be well."
Elizabeth frowned, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with what she knew—what she remembered. "Yesterday? But—I was riding. Fitzwilliam was with me." She looked about the room as if expecting her husband to appear at any moment. "James—where is he? He was with the nurse, was he not?"
Jane's expression froze, her eyes widening. "Lizzy… Fitzwilliam? James? I—I do not understand. Who—who are you speaking of?"
Mr. Bennet stood at the foot of the bed, his brows raised in mild amusement, though his keen eyes studied her carefully. "Perhaps, my dear, you might enlighten us. Who is this Fitzwilliam? And this James?" His humor faded into concern. "Do you know where you are?"
Elizabeth swallowed, her thoughts whirling. "When are we?"
Jane blinked, confusion clouding her expression. "A fortnight before Michaelmas."
Elizabeth shook her head, gripping the bedcovers as if to steady herself. "No, Jane. What year?"
Jane hesitated, then answered slowly, "It is the year eighteen-eleven, Lizzy. Whatever do you mean by such a question?"
A chill coursed through Elizabeth. Eighteen-eleven. Not Fourteen. Not the life she had known, the life she had built. The weight of it settled upon her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Mr. Bennet, who had observed the exchange with growing concern, now stepped closer, his sharp gaze studying her intently. "Well, now, this is unexpected. My dear Lizzy, you have always been fond of puzzles, but I confess this one eludes me.""
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. The truth pressed against her lips, but how could she explain it? How could she tell them that she was married, that she had a child, that years had passed since she last dwelled within these walls as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn?
She swallowed hard. "I… must have been dreaming. It seemed so real."
Jane exchanged a worried glance with their father. "You were fevered through the night. Perhaps—perhaps it was a fevered dream."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth murmured, though uncertainty coiled deep within her.
Mr. Bennet exhaled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I believe we had best summon Mr. Jones. If my daughter is speaking of unknown gentlemen and infants that do not exist, I daresay her head injury may be more troubling than we first believed."
Before another word could be spoken, the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber burst open with an unceremonious crash, and Mrs. Bennet, in all her flustered glory, hurried inside. Her cap was askew, her ribbons trailing as she wrung her hands in exaggerated distress.
"Oh, my poor, dear Lizzy! What a dreadful turn of events! My nerves can scarce bear it! To think, my very own daughter could have been lost! What a trial for a mother! I have been saying for years that walking so early in the morning is unnatural and dangerous, and now see what has come of it! Oh, Mr. Bennet, how could you allow such a thing? What if she had cracked her skull? We should have been ruined!"
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temple, the pressure doing little to soothe the pounding ache in her head. Her mother’s voice, as shrill and lamenting as ever, rang in her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up. This must be a dream. It had to be.
