She remembered this moment. Not exactly, but something very like it. The fall, her mother’s dramatic wailing, the stifled giggles of her younger sisters just beyond the threshold—yes, she could hear them now, Lydia and Kitty whispering and laughing in the hallway. This was her past, a memory playing out before her eyes. If her mind was collating the two falls, if this was all some fevered vision, then soon she would wake, nestled in the grand bed at Pemberley, with Fitzwilliam at her side and James sleeping soundly in his cradle.
Any moment now.
But the sensation of the linen beneath her fingers was too real, the ache in her head too persistent. The scent of Longbourn, a mix of lavender and old wood, surrounded her, grounding her in the present—or rather, the past.
"Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Bennet interrupted sharply, having evidently reached the end of his patience. "Your lamentations are hardly conducive to Lizzy’s recovery. If you wish to faint from nerves, I suggest you do so elsewhere. For now, you are of no use to anyone."
Mrs. Bennet gasped, one hand flying to her chest in wounded indignation. "No use! Mr. Bennet, how can you speak so cruelly? A mother’s concern is never of no use! Why, I have been near senseless with worry! But do I not have cause? Lizzy, my dear, you must promise me you shall never be so careless again."
Elizabeth could only nod weakly, knowing no response would ever satisfy her mother. Mrs. Bennet huffed but, seeing no further attention given to her distress, gathered her skirts and flounced out of the room in a flurry of murmured complaints.
Just as the door swung shut behind her, the distant chime of the front doorbell rang through the house.
"Ah," Mr. Bennet said with some satisfaction. "That, I expect, will be Mr. Jones. Let us hope he can make better sense of all this than we can."
A few moments later, Mr. Jones was shown into the room, his presence bringing a hush of expectation. The physician, a middle-aged man with a composed demeanor, approached Elizabeth’s bedside and began his examination with a practiced efficiency.
"Miss Bennet, can you tell me your name?" he asked gently.
Elizabeth opened her mouth, the response automatic. "Elizabeth Antigone Bennet—" she nearly continued, "Darcy," but bit her tongue just in time. Her heart thudded as she saw the briefest flicker of surprise cross Mr. Jones’ face before he nodded.
"And the year?" he prompted.
Elizabeth hesitated, her mind rebelling against the truth she did not wish to accept. "Eighteen fo—" she caught herself, pressing her lips together before forcing the correction. "Eighteen-eleven."
A long pause followed. She did not need to look at Jane or her father to know they were troubled. Mr. Jones' pen scratched lightly against his notebook before he continued.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, raising his hand.
She exhaled in relief at the simple question. "Three."
"Good. Now, do you recall what happened? How did you come to be injured?"
Elizabeth frowned, trying to sort through the memories colliding in her mind. She had fallen—yes, but which fall? Fitzwilliam had warned her about her overconfidence, and she had disregarded him. She had been riding. But that could not be right, not if she were here.
Then it struck her. The horse. Not her own mount, but the one that had startled, bolting past her with wild eyes, its hooves pounding the earth. She had turned too quickly, lost her footing, and then—
"A horse," she murmured, grasping onto the truth that fit this time and place. "A horse ran past me, startled by something, and I… I must have fallen."
"Yes, my dear, that is what we were told," Jane soothed, though her eyes were still clouded with concern.
Mr. Jones nodded again, studying her carefully. "Well, Miss Bennet, you seem to be in possession of your faculties, though there were a few… curious moments. I shall recommend several days of bed rest and observation."
Elizabeth accepted the pronouncement with a docile nod, though inside, her mind reeled. She prayed she would not have to endure again the pain of misunderstanding, the weight of not being believed. She had lived that once—she had no desire to relive it. What she needed, more than anything, was Fitzwilliam. Her Fitzwilliam. The one who understood her, who held her hand through every trial, who loved her beyond reason.
But if this truly was 1811, he was not yet her Fitzwilliam. Not yet.
Each night, she lay in her bed at Longbourn, closing her eyes with a whispered prayer to wake in her true life, to open her eyes and find herself beside her husband, with James safe in the nursery.
Each morning, she awoke in 1811, and disappointment weighed heavier upon her soul.
Just as the weight of sorrow threatened to press upon her once more, her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried Mrs. Bennet as she bustled into the sitting room one morning, fanning herself with evident delight, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Elizabeth froze. The words sent a jolt through her, striking like the toll of a great bell. The moment had come.
Mr. Bennet, seated in his usual chair with a book in hand, merely turned a page. “I have not,” he replied without interest.
