Mr Darcy Returns

By S. Faith, © 2016
Words: 18,600 (in four chapters and an epilogue)
Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)
Summary: Bridget had inexplicably gone to Darcy's time, and now he returns the favour.
Disclaimer: What's Jane's is Jane's; what's Helen's is Helen's and possibly also Jane's; the very small remainder is mine.
Notes: The follow up to Mr Darcy's Bed (Feb. 2013), which you can read on AO3, Fanfiction dot net, or on Still Waters Run Deep (an independent site where I've kept fiction). Started this almost immediately, but then got involved in other works. Takes place approximately 7 months after the events of that story. You could probably read this one without having read the first, but some things might not make as much sense.

Chapter 1

The cafetière bubbled and burbled with the sound and smell of freshly brewing coffee, and as this elixir of life distilled into the carafe, a small smile played across Bridget's lips as she stood before it. As often as they had been intimate since they had begun their relationship, there were those special times when it seemed they were discovering anew all there was to know about one another. The night before had been one of those nights of exploration; every moment had been sensual bliss.

She sighed, watched the last of the drips into the glass carafe… and then heard a shout and a scramble of footsteps into the kitchen of her flat.

"Bridget, what in the name of arse."

It was Mark, her boyfriend—fiancé, she mentally corrected—with whom she had spent said night of earthly delights. He looked as if he had seen a ghost: pale skin, stricken expression, and so shocked he'd come into the kitchen stark naked with only his crumpled robe in the clutch of one hand. Naturally, she was immediately concerned. "Mark, what is it?"

"Did the lot of us do something last night that I am blocking from memory?"

"The lot of us?"

He looked at her as if she were mad, spoke slowly to explain while pointing vehemently in the general direction of the bedroom: "There is another man in your bed. Our bed. The bed usually reserved for you and me. Two of us."

She laughed. "What are you talking about?"

It was then she heard another set of footsteps approaching the kitchen. She froze. And then she saw him.

She had to blink a few times to ensure she wasn't hallucinating, for before her eyes was as close to a carbon copy of her fiancé as she'd ever seen. He too was stark naked, though he had the sense to have pulled a sheet from the bed to cover himself. He also looked furious—and then he visibly recognised Bridget.

"Where the devil am I, and why are you here, Miss Jones?"

There was a time and a place to ponder the delightful existence of not one but two naked Darcys in her kitchen, but knew that this was neither; she shook her head and struggled to keep her eyes focused on his lovely brown ones. "This is my flat in Borough Market," she said, "and why you're here is as much a mystery to me as it is to you."

At that moment, Mark seemed to snap out of his fugue, turned away from the pair of them, and rapidly slipped into the robe he was holding, tying it securely in the front. Bridget half-expected him to ask the newcomer who he was, but clearly Mark had his answer in the man's resemblance to himself. "So it was all true then," Mark said, though he looked like he was fighting off an oncoming headache: fingertips to the corners of his eyes as he squeezed the lids shut.

"Must have been," she said, though secretly she had always known it had been. She turned to—well, they were both Darcy, but for her sanity she decided to think of the time-traveller as 'Darcy' and her fiancé as 'Mark'—Darcy and asked, "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Oh God," groaned Mark.

Darcy's brows lifted ever so slightly. "You… have coffee? Here?"

"Of course."

Darcy looked thoroughly sceptical, but agreed to have a cup. He glanced around the kitchen and the flat in general, the lot of which was fairly untidy, his features stamped with unmistakeable disapproval. "I always considered coffee a bit of an extravagance," he said. "One of the few items upon which is imposed a luxury tax."

She laughed. "And us with a Pret or a Costa on nearly every corner."

"Bridget!" Mark said in a sharp, raised tone, his temper veritably exploding from built-up pressure. "What is hell is going on here?"

"I know as much as you do, Mark," she said. "Do you think you could watch your language in front of your grandfather…" She paused to calculate, then thought better of trying. "…times ten?"

The men took a seat at the table as she poured coffee, and tried not to feel like some sort of domestic throwback by telling herself she would have happily got Mark his coffee anyway, and Darcy… well, he was out of his element altogether.

The Regency gentleman seemed to approve of the coffee; he looked stunned when offered sugar and milk, and gaped unabashedly at the refrigerator as if it were a miracle, which in a way, it was. She warmed up an extra pastry, too; she wondered what he thought of the miracle box that made things warm.

"Quite excellent," Darcy said; though no bigger or taller than Mark, he seemed too large, too awkward, for her kitchen table. "So I am to understand congratulations are in order, and you have wed?" he asked, an undeniable sadness in his tone as he glanced to Mark. The sadness, the glance, did not go unnoticed by Mark.

"Oh, we haven't yet," she said. "Still planning."

Darcy could not have looked more appalled.

Before he had a chance to voice an opinion on the matter, Bridget anticipated his response and said, "Things are different here. Now."

"Never would I have imagined quite so different," Darcy said imperiously, then turned a dangerous glare upon his progeny. "What mental deficiency has caused you not to have formalised your bond in holy matrimony with this lady?"

Mark looked torn between wanting to be deferential to a guest (and a famous ancestor) and wanting to punch him in the face. "We are engaged," he said stiffly.

"Yet sharing a bed already," Darcy retorted with scorn.

"Gentlemen," said Bridget lest an actual fistfight break out. "As I said, things are different. We are as good as married, anyway." She winked to Mark. "Let's have our breakfast, and you, sir, we will dig up something for you to wear."

One of Darcy's brows arched upwards in that timeless expression of doubt and disbelief. He looked at Mark's attire sceptically. "Please tell me there is more to your… fashion than this."

This made Bridget laugh out loud. "We may have radically different tastes than from your time, but we don't generally wear dressing gowns as casual wear."

Mark stifled a chuckle. "I seem to recall—"

"Not a word," scolded Bridget. "Eat."

It was certainly strange to have two men at the table who were practically mirror images of one another. She felt as if she were seeing double. They'd had the decency, at least, to stop bickering at the table. After eating, Mark dressed into the clean change of clothes he had brought, then went for the backup, emergency clean clothes for his doppelganger to put on. As Mark held them out for Darcy, Darcy took them, looking utterly befuddled.

"Unfortunately," said Mark, "you will not find a valet here."

Bridget offered, "The clothing should be fairly self-evident. I mean, the boxers, these things—" She pointed to the pants. "—they go on under the trousers and the opening goes in the front—"

Mark interrupted, pointing towards the loo door. "You can go in there to dress."

After the door closed behind him, Mark let out a long exhale. Bridget furrowed her brow. "What is the matter with you?"

"My fiancée's greatest fantasy just came to life in her bed," he said. "Wouldn't you be a bit disturbed in my place?"

"I doubt we would be engaged if he was your greatest—"

"Bridget," he said crossly, "you know what I mean."

She sighed. "It sounds like you somehow think I willed him into being, or something. That's absurd."

He ran his hand down over his face in exasperation. "I know."

"So what do we do?" she asked.

Mark said decisively, "We bring him to my house. That way, if anyone sees him, they think it's me, or a relative. Plus, I would prefer not to leave him here with you."

Now she frowned. "Do you not trust me?" she asked, pushing the thoughts of the last interaction she'd had with Darcy—in his bed—out of her mind. "And if you say, 'Don't be ridiculous'—"

Mark only pursed his lips, tightened his jaw.

…

The mysterious little room to which he was shown was insufferably small; Darcy barely felt he could comfortably move. He was less perplexed by the clothing than he had initially expected, which was a relief, but he urgently needed to urinate and had seen no sign of a chamber pot anywhere, just odd porcelain statuary. On the floor of the room, he saw curious articles of what he suspected was clothing, though the tiny amount of fabric argued against that.

The clothing did indeed seem straightforward to don; taking his cues from how this Darcy progeny had appeared, he felt confident that he had put it on the correct order and in the correct way. The fabric was very smooth and light; he reasoned that the clothing must have been very expensive.

The strange clothing, the odd room and situation helped to buffet the blow of seeing her again; he had never expected such a possibility to occur. When she'd disappeared, it had deeply affected him; seeing her again, dressed in a gown that revealed more skin than would have ever been considered decent even within the home in his own time, affected him even more.

As he emerged from the tiny room, he saw the two of them conferring together. He cleared his throat, then said as they looked up to him, "Pardon me—might there be a chamber pot available?"

Miss Jones smiled. "Here, let me show you." She came towards him, passing by him, then into the tiny room. "We call this the loo," she said. "Here's the sink, with water for washing your face and cleaning your teeth." She turned the taps on, amazing him. "And that…" She pointed to the giant porcelain bowl. "That is where you… relieve yourself. After you lift the lid, obviously; into the water."

His brows rose.

"And when you're done you push down on this thing here. To flush."

"Incredible," he said breathlessly.

"Yes… I suppose it is." Miss Jones grinned. "I'll, er, leave you to it."

Miss Jones backed up in order to back out of the room.

"Miss Jones?" he asked. "How exactly do I… er. Must I undress again?"

She smiled, turning a fetching shade of pink. "No. The front of the trousers have that… oh, you worked out the zip." He nodded. "Well, you need only undo the zip then, er, utilise the opening on the front of the underclothes. No need to get undressed. Well. I'd better go." She retreated, closing the door behind herself.

He did as she suggested—it seemed a bit odd to sully clean water in such a way—and after he finished he composed his clothing again, closed the lid then depressed the handle as she had instructed. When it finished, out of curiosity he raised the lid. The water was pristine-looking again. "Amazing," he said, again breathless.

…

Mark did not know what was going on, but he didn't like it very much. He felt like it was a dream, so bizarre that a figure he had considered fictional—and apparently his ancestor—there, live and in the flesh, transported somehow through time. This man came out of the loo for a second time, and again it took Mark aback; it was almost like looking in a mirror. Except for the sideburns, he thought, and the need for a shave.

"What are we to do next?" asked Darcy.

"We're going to go to my house," Mark said. "It will be easier for you to stay there comfortably." He glanced to Bridget, who looked peevish. He didn't understand why she was so put out; surely she understood how improper it would seem for him to stay with her. "It will be easy to pass you off as a… cousin or something."

Darcy looked affronted, lifting his chin in an imperious manner. "I shall not be shuttled about in the manner of a delicate package," he said. "And what am I to do whilst I am there? Sit in a corner and read a book?"

"Well, now you know how I felt," Bridget said. Then, as she turned to Mark, she added, "I mean, when I turned up there. As his, er, guest." Turning back to Darcy, she continued, "Now, brace yourself for the leaving. What you see will probably overwhelm your senses—autos, buses, billboards, the Tube. I mean, it's so different than your time." She pointed to the window. "Just have a look."

Hesitantly, Darcy made his way towards the window, then pushed aside the curtain. His gasp was audible. "Carriages… with no horses. No horses at all. Astounding. And—" Suddenly his head whipped around just as a train whooshed by, clattering and whistling, a sound the two of them had come to hear as background noise—that is to say, not hear at all. "Unbelievable."

"I suppose it rather is," said Bridget. "Well… I ought to get dressed too. And then we can go."

Bridget disappeared into the back of the flat, closing the door behind herself and leaving the two men on their own. Mark went over to the sofa and took a seat. At Darcy's querulous look, Mark explained, "She's going to be a while. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

…

Darcy did as told; he knew the ladies in his time had very long toilettes, and in this age a lady apparently had to do it all herself. He glanced to his side and saw what appeared to be a most miraculous thing: paper as shiny as a mirror, printed with exact reproductions of people as they looked, and in full colour no less. He picked it up and began turning the pages. "What is this?" Darcy murmured.

"A magazine," said Mark. "And yes, it's astonishing, when I think about it."

It really was. He slid his hand over the page, over the image of a lady in the tightest dress he had ever seen—indecent to be revealing every curve and indentation!—and a man wearing the same sort of outfit that Mark Darcy was wearing, though with what looked like a reduced, modified cravat at his throat. None of the ladies wore bonnets, not even the ones who appeared to be out of doors.

He turned a page, shocked even more by what he saw there: a woman, standing nearly nude with only the smallest amount of fabric covering her chest and her lower regions—without the faintest trace of modesty, and in fact, was smiling broadly, her skin as bronzed as a candlestick, as she stood on a beach with white sands and an azure blue sky. He found it mesmerising even as he felt embarrassed for the woman.

"All right," came Bridget's voice. "I'm all set."

"Record time," quipped Mark.

Darcy could only stare, agog. She wore a chemise of a light material, though it was much, much shorter than any chemise he had ever seen, and it had no sleeves. It was quite revealing, particularly as she wore no stockings. Her legs in fact appeared to be bare, and her shoes revealed as much of her feet as her clothing did of her body.

"You cannot go into the street looking like that," said Darcy, tossing the glossy paper aside. Even as he said it, he could not help but think again of the bronzed woman from the magazine. He turned to Mark. "You cannot allow her to leave her abode in this attire."

"I don't have much of a say what she chooses to wear," said Mark; he had an odd smirk on his face. "God knows on occasion I've tried."

"What's wrong with my dress?" she asked, looking down to herself, smoothing down the front of her shift. "It's a summer dress, because it's summer."

"Your dress is fine," Mark said, rising to his feet. "Come, we'll just get on—oh, bloody hell."

"What is it now?"

"I have extra clothes," Mark said, "but not extra shoes."

Bridget smiled brightly. "You've got trainers in your workout bag, don't you?"

"I'm not wearing those," Mark said.

When all was said and done, Darcy slipped into the so-called trainers. They were of a pliable material and a most curious substance comprised the sole; it was very spongy and very strange to walk upon. "You won't have to wear them for long," Mark said. "You can change into real shoes at my home."

Together they ventured out of the flat and down the stairs—Interminable stairs, thought Darcy, that look like servants would use—until they reached the street level. Bridget was outside first (causing unkind thoughts towards Mark for not opening the door for a lady), and…

The sights, the sounds, even the smells were overwhelming. The streets were bustling with people, and whizzing by were those amazing self-propelled carriages, loud and boisterous, and bringing with them a very pungent odour. He once again noted the absence of horses, as well as the absence of the sight and the smell of their deposits along the roadside. The sun was out and dazzlingly bright; the buildings nearby and in the distance were taller than any he had ever seen—

"Pardon…"

The sound of that word drew his attention to his right, where Mark had opened the door on one such metallic carriage, silver in colour and, and as he discovered upon taking a seat at Mark's gesture to enter, leather seats. Some things do not change, he mused.

When he pulled the door closed he was astonished at how efficiently the sound from the outside had been muted. He observed that he was in the front of the carriage, and that after opening a rear door for Bridget, Mark went around and took what Darcy assumed was the position by which the vehicle was operated, to Darcy's right.

The vehicle roared to life, for lack of a better term, causing him to take in a quick breath; with the adjustment of a lever that rose out of a panel between the two of them and some movement of his feet on pedals on the floor, the vehicle crawled slightly forward, then merged out and onto the road.

The whole scenario was nigh on miraculous to him.

…

The last time she had seen such unbridled amazement on the face of someone travelling through London, she had been riding with her three-year-old godchild. She had angled herself to be able to see most of his face reflected in the passenger-side mirror, and watching him was truly amazing (and amusing) to see.

Actually, watching both of the Darcys in the front of the car was entertaining. The posture and bearing of both men, even sitting in the BMW, was so similar as to be scary—

"Bridget," Mark said sharply. "Do take a proper seat and put on your safety belt."

"I approve of that suggestion," chimed in Darcy. "Safety is of key importance."

Double-teamed by Darcys, she thought. Just great.

In short order, they arrived to Mark's house and the look of complete approval that washed over Darcy's face was unmistakable. "Quite nice," Darcy murmured. Then he furrowed his brow. "If I recall correctly, Miss Jones, you mentioned this area is called Holland Park."

"Yes," said Mark. "This is Holland Park Avenue."

Darcy looked thoughtful. "In my time," he said wistfully, "we considered this land rural. There was a wonderful manor here… does none of it remain?" He looked to Bridget, his face paling. "And what of Pemberley? Has it been parcelled out into bits and stuffed full of homes like the land of that great manor?"

Bridget smiled. "No, of course not," she said. "Otherwise we never could have gone to spend a weekend there."

He looked relieved for a moment, then his dismay bloomed anew. "As guests of the family? Your family?" he asked as he looked towards Mark. "Or…"

"It's not a family home," explained Mark as they entered the house. "It's still in trust, I understand. But it's now… what would you call it, Bridget?"

"Like a posh hotel."

"Hotel?" asked Darcy.

"Rooms for rent," Bridget said.

Darcy's eyes widened.

"More like a resort," said Mark, seeing his look of horror. "In case you're thinking 'cheap room over a tavern'-style accommodations. I'll show you the brochure. I think you'll approve."

Mark led them into the sitting room. Darcy's gait slowed until at last he stopped; something came together in his mind and he looked shocked again. "You had the master suite," he said. "You… shared a bed in my suite."

"Yes," said Bridget. "We were celebrating an engagement."

"And is that why you were so eager to return to that bed in my time?"

"What?!" exploded Mark; Darcy appeared to realise his mistake at once.

"I only meant: did she realise the bed was the key to returning?" he said, his eyes on Mark.

"No!" she said. "I mean, I didn't know, and I thought I was stuck there, and…"

Mark was glowering. "Bridget," he said. "I think we should speak about this privately."

"If it is," said Darcy, "then I shall need to return to your abode."

"You shall not be sharing a bed with my fiancée," said Mark sternly.

"Mark, darling," she said. "There'll be no bed-sharing. Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened," Mark began, "or nothing had a chance to happen because you vanished?"

"I can assure you that nothing happened," Darcy said.

Bridget pursed her lips. "I told you I thought I was stuck there. I may have got caught up in the moment."

"That doesn't really reassure me." Mark strode to the window, looking out. She knew what his posture said: I'm not angry—I'm disappointed.

She thought it better than to try to talk this through with him when he was in this mood, and certainly not about the details of their relationship in front of another person. "Later, then," she said quietly; Mark nodded. Then she turned to Darcy, who also looked at a loss. "Why don't I show you around the house? I'm sure there's a lot here to baffle you."

"If there is no objection, I would very much like to see the house."

"There's no objection," Mark murmured. He did not join them.

First she showed him the kitchen. He looked around in wonder at the wall of stainless steel behind the gas hob, the stack of ovens (both microwave and convection), the counters upon which sat electric appliances. "And…" he began unsurely. "How many kitchen servants are employed?"

Bridget furrowed her brow. "Well, Mark's got a housekeeper, and I think she sometimes cooks…"

"No cook? No butler? And how does he get by without a valet?"

She smiled, her thoughts flashing to period dramas of every stripe. "No, he doesn't have anything like that. Most people do not. They do their own cooking, cleaning, and so on. He's only got a housekeeper because he's well-off and works long hours."

"You said he is a barrister, if I remember correctly."

She nodded. "Good memory."

"From my perspective," he said, "it has not been that long since we parted."

"How long for you?" she asked; she counted about seven months since their September minibreak.

"About a fortnight."

"Oh," she said; it must have all still been so fresh for him. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing for which you must apologise," Darcy said. He somehow managed to retain his almost aristocratic bearing even in Mark's mundane clothing. "Now, about the rest of the house?"

She smiled. He was such a gentleman; it must have been hereditary. "Yes," she said. "You'll get a huge kick out of the telly."

"The what?"

She grinned. "Oh, just wait."

…

Mark could hear the pair of them return to the ground floor; he was torn between staying put and joining them. He was still feeling a bit too raw after the revelation that Bridget had been… well, if not unfaithful in actual fact, at least in her own thoughts. After all, that blasted man, or at least the character, had been her fantasy since before he'd known her.

From the other room, he heard her laugh—throaty, genuine, spontaneous, and sexy—and he felt a surge of jealousy well with in him. He trusted her, though—didn't he? It would not do to be a smothering mother hen. On the other hand, he did not want her to slip into habits that were also older than their relationship.

Mark decided to join the house tour, despite it seeming jealous or controlling… if for no other reason than to see the two of them interact. He followed the sound of her voice; the two of them were in the library.