Page 21 of Time Stands Still

He sat beside her on the sofa, his heart full. “It is my fervent wish, Georgie, to make her my wife.”

Her smile was radiant. “Then I hope she will accept you, with all my heart.”

He looked into the fire with a quiet sense of satisfaction and a profound, unwavering hope for the days to come.

Chapter Fifteen

Darcy awoke in the familiar grandeur of his chamber at Rosings, the morning light slicing through the heavy damask curtains. The previous day, with its hurried journey to London and the momentous introduction of Elizabeth to his sister, had vanished as expected, leaving behind only the memory of their shared purpose. Yet, far from feeling the profound dislocation that had marked his first awakening to this new reality, he felt a strange and potent sense of anticipation. His role had changed from a man merely investigating a curse to one beginning a courtship. The notion brought a warmth to his chest he had not thought possible.

His valet dressed him with his usual efficient swiftness, yet Darcy could not help but feel an impatience that bordered on eagerness. He craved the fresh Kentish air, the brisk ride to the grove where he knew Elizabeth would be waiting, the now-familiar backdrop to their extraordinary circumstances.

She was already there, her back to him, looking out over the misty fields, a solitary, thoughtful figure. She turned as he approached, a look of quiet inquiry on her face, but with a new lightness in her eyes that spoke of their shared progress.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice even. “I trust you slept well.”

The simple pleasantry, so normal and yet so freighted with their shared, secret knowledge, sent a jolt of warmth through him. “Well enough,” he replied, a faint smile touching his lips. “I find I am looking forward to our research in the library today with an eagerness I have not felt in some time.”

Her lips curved in a knowing, faintly amused smile. “Indeed. I am quite certain the history of Kentish water sprites has never been so diligently pursued.”

“It is a matter of great scholarly importance,” he said, his expression sober, though his eyes danced with a lightness he rarely allowed in company. “And after our research… a walk, perhaps? As befits a gentleman and a lady who are… coming to know one another, on a path to a more permanent alliance.”

The blush that rose on her cheeks was all the answer he required. “A walk would be most pleasant, sir.”

They made their way to Rosings Park. As planned, they presented themselves at the house after breakfast, requesting permission from Lady Catherine to begin a study of local folklore. Darcy found himself holding his breath, only to release it in a slow, silent sigh as his aunt’s response came, as predictable as the sunrise.

“Folklore!” she boomed, her voice echoing just as it had the first time he had made this request, a declaration rather than a question. She proceeded to enumerate her own superior knowledge of Kentish history, declared that most local legends were tied, inextricably, to the illustrious de Bourgh family, and then summoned her other relations to witness this display of intellectual industry. “Such dedication to learning is to be commended. Richard! Anne! Come and see how a morning may be profitably spent. Not frittered away on idle correspondence and pointless promenades.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam ambled in, a half-written letter in his hand and an expression of good-natured resignation on his face, though he caught Darcy’s eye with a subtle, questioning lift of his brow. “Profitably spent with dusty books, Aunt? You spoil us.”

Anne followed more slowly, a book of her own, bound in faded green leather, held close to her chest. She offered Elizabeth a small, shy smile, a fleeting but welcoming gesture.

The morning unfolded under the watchful eye of his aunt, whose constant direction and commentary made their true purpose near impossible to pursue with any quiet efficacy.

“You must look for tales of the ‘Grey Lady of Barham’,” Lady Catherine instructed, her voice cutting across the room. “A tiresome story of a milkmaid who spurned a de Bourgh. Utterly fanciful, but one the common people seem to enjoy. Though why they would prefer such vulgar fancies to the true history of our family, I cannot imagine.”

Darcy, his patience worn thin by his aunt’s relentless pronouncements, finally set a particularly heavy tome down with a definitive thud. “Aunt, our interest is more specific. We are not merely pursuing local folklore, but accounts of a very particular nature. Of curses, or enchantments of a… temporal variety.”

Lady Catherine sniffed, her features hardening. “Curses? A morbid fancy, nephew. There is no such thing. Your education at Cambridge should have disabused you of such superstitious nonsense.”

“Specifically,” Darcy pressed on, feeling Elizabeth’s gaze on him, a silent encouragement. “Any accounts in which time itself is disordered. A day that repeats, for instance.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected a jest at her expense, but the earnestness of Darcy’s tone, and Elizabeth’s grave attention, seemed to give her pause.

“A repeating day?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, a slow, speculative grin spreading across his face. He set aside his letter, his attention now fully captured. “My God, Darcy, what a notion! The possibilities are endless! I should imagine one could become an expert at cards, paying off all one’s debts in a single evening. Or,” he added, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Anne, “one could finally learn to ride that unruly bay mare in the east paddock without a single tumble. Or,” he concluded with a mock-serious tone, “finally get the better of a certain younger cousin in a duel.”

“A duel would be an exceptionally poor use of such an extraordinary opportunity, Richard,” Darcy said dryly, a faint smile playing on his lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth, trying to gauge her reaction to this frivolous discussion of their dire situation.

“And you, Miss Bennet?” the Colonel asked, turning his attention to Elizabeth. “What mischief would you get up to, if granted such a gift of endless time?”

Elizabeth’s smile was faint, almost wistful. A flicker of a more private, weary truth entered her eyes as she spoke. “I should like,” she began slowly, her gaze distant, “to spend the day in the company of people I truly enjoy, and to examine my own character, to see where it might be improved.” She paused, and then added with a lighter, more conventional tone, “And after that, I believe I should spend the rest of the day reading. To finally have enough time to read all the books one wishes, without interruption or the demands of society.”

“A noble, if rather dull, choice,” Richard laughed, turning to Anne. “And you, Anne? What would you do with a day that never ended?”

“I think it sounds lovely,” Anne said, her voice barely a whisper, yet clear in the sudden quiet of the room. “To have a day with no expectations. To read, or to walk in the gardens, or to simply be… without consequence. To try something new, perhaps, without fear of failing.”

Elizabeth met her gaze, a soft, genuine smile touching her lips. "To have no expectations but one's own," she replied softly. "I believe that is a freedom few of us are ever granted. It sounds like a perfect sort of felicity."

Anne’s answering look was one of profound and grateful understanding.