She stopped, looking startled, and I cursed myself.
“By what means do you know my name?” she asked.
“Eh…Darcy’s mentioned you to me, and I recognized you from his description. He told me you had nice eyes.”
I saw Elizabeth’s brow raise slightly at this; then she gave me a small curtsy and retreated from the room.
I lay where I was, desperately trying to stay calm and think straight while the Fear danced across my chest. Something had clearly gone very wrong when I read Darcy intoPride and Prejudice, but at least he’d made it back into the story, which meant the book was hopefully safe. Now surely all I had to do was read the same lines again while focusing on why I really, really needed to return to my own world, and with any luck, I’d be able to reverse this mistake and get myself back to Baskerville Books. I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around for the copy ofPride and PrejudiceI’d been holding, but there was no sign of it. OK, never mind: I’d read the book enough times, I could recite the words from memory.
I filled my lungs with air, preparing myself for the hideous pain Iknew was about to come.
“‘Oh!’ said she. ‘I heard you, but I could not determine immediately how to reply.’”
Were they the right words? Even if it wasn’t perfect, it had to be pretty near. I concentrated all my thoughts on returning to 2026 and Baskerville Books.
“‘You wanted me to say…’” I continued reciting—but oh, bugger, what was next? “Something about ‘the pleasure of despising my taste’ and delighting in ‘overthrowing those schemes,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘premeditated contempt,’ maybe?”
Come on!I willed.I need to get home. Who’s going to feed Mr. Wickham if I’m not there? How will Mrs. Atallah cope without Darcy or me to talk to? Who will be Bianca’s chief bridesmaid if I’m not at her wedding? And Nick…At the thought of him, I remembered the panic in his voice, the way his hand had grasped mine as I started to fall.Oh, Nick, what have I done?
I tried time and again to remember the words, reciting different variations of the lines, but nothing worked. After an hour or so, I was absolutely exhausted and still very much stuck in the story. Tired, frustrated tears spilled down my face as I kicked myself for my own stupidity. Nick had told me to focus on returning Darcy to the story and not allow my thoughts to get distracted, and yet somehow I’d managed to wish myself in here too. And as much as fourteen-year-old Zoe would have been delighted to have a conversation with Elizabeth Bennet, twenty-eight-year-old Zoe very much wanted to go home.
I heard a knock on the door. “Darcy, is that you?”
It opened and Elizabeth stepped into the room, holding a candle. “No, it is but I, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, returned from dinner.”
I sank back on the pillow in disappointment. “Did you tell him Ineed to see him?”
“I did, but I am afraid the gentleman was ill disposed to meet your request. But perhaps, if you are feeling a little better, you may be persuaded to join us in the drawing room? My sister is much improved and intends to join the party for a short while.”
My head was still thumping, and I knew my face was red and puffy from all the crying, but if Darcy wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d have to go to him.
“I think I will come down, thank you.”
I pulled back the duvet and gingerly climbed out of bed, my body stiff after lying down for so long. I began to hobble toward the door, and then I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the dressing table and groaned. I was still wearing the clothes I’d put on in London this morning—no, yesterday morning, apparently—which were a pair of jeans and my “Books Before Blokes” T-shirt. There was no way I could go down to a Regency dinner looking like this, and Elizabeth clearly thought the same, as I saw her blink in surprise as she took in my outfit.
“Perhaps you would care to borrow one of my dresses?” she said tactfully.
“That would be great, thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, having fixed my hair and squeezed into one of Elizabeth’s gowns—it turned out early-nineteenth-century women were considerably more petite than early-twenty-first-century ones—I was ready to go and see Darcy. Elizabeth had told me where to find them, and I made my way down the grand staircase and through the cavernous entrance hall into the drawing room. I’d hoped he’d be there already, but when I walked in, I found only Elizabeth sitting with a pretty, pale girl, who must have been Jane, and two haughty-lookingwomen, who were staring at me as if I were something a particularly feral cat had dragged in.
Christ, of all Jane Austen’s characters I didn’t want to face right now, the Bingley sisters were right up there with Fanny Dashwood and the Crawfords.
“Miss Knight,” Elizabeth said, standing up when she saw me come in. “Allow me to introduce you to our hosts, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and my dear sister, Jane.”
“So, you are our newest uninvited guest,” Miss Bingley said coldly. “It appears it is the season for them.”
“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” I said.
Miss Bingley gave me a supercilious sneer. “You have my brother to thank, not I, for he is the kind of softhearted fool who could never turn away a waif or stray.”
Unless I was mistaken, I think this comment may have been aimed as much at Elizabeth as me. I went to sit next to the Bennet sisters on the hardback sofa.
“Where are you from, Miss Knight?” This was Mrs. Hurst, who was wearing an absurd dress that made her look like a peacock.
I scrambled around for a suitable lie, but my brain had turned to jelly. “Kentish Town, in London.”
The Bingley sisters looked at each other as if I’d said I’d been born in a bog.
