Darcy was in excellent physical condition, but even he could not hope to carry the unconscious man across uneven, sodden ground. He made a valiant effort to rouse him enough to aid in the attempt and when that action appeared fruitless, he searched desperately for another person to come to his assistance. He could have left the man while he ran back out to the street, but something told him that this man was important and not to be left behind. He stood there, rain cascading in uneven sheets around him, clutching the man's arm, looking left and right for any sign of another person.

Finally, he spied a lone figure hurrying across the park and shouted for assistance. The person was unknown to him, perhaps some servant sent on a task and hurrying back to his master's destination, so Darcy hurriedly explained that his friend had stumbled and needed carrying back to Darcy house forthwith. The servant's eyes widened a bit and took in Darcy's wet but well-dressed form. With a nod and an "O' course, sir," the two of them were able to lift the unconscious man and drag him off the grass.

"You there!" Darcy called out once they hit the dirty cobbled street, shouting to a boy he saw struggling with a basket. He recognized the lad and could not place him, but the boy's confused "Mr. Darcy?" jogged his memory; the boy was an errand runner for Cook, and with relief, he ordered the boy to run ahead and seek assistance to carry the man back to the house. Without further questioning the boy did as asked and before the cold had a chance to chill his suddenly awakened mind, Darcy, the stranger, and two footmen had carried the man into a guest room inside the warm and welcome house.

"Sir, you'll catch your death," his housekeeper, Mrs. Rhodes, clucked after him once the doctor had been called for. "And who is this man that he's soaked through to the bone? I daresay he's important enough for you to be risking your life to bring him in from the rain," she grumbled as she forcefully pulled at his coat. Meekly, he shrugged out of it and allowed the woman to grumble at him; he was too cold and too unsettled to affect a superior tone with her. He gladly accepted a cup from her, much too hot to the touch and much appreciated. Hot tea, very strong and very much full of brandy. After a few sips that seared both his tongue and throat, he smiled a grim thank you and sat down.

"Not on the-! Sir, you must to change immediately. Go on, now. Go!" She pulled him up from the chair and shooed him on upstairs. He allowed her mothering and obliged her command, knowing that once he had seen to his person that the regular Master-servant dynamic would be restored. Rhodes was a good woman; he did not begrudge her commands as he knew they were given with more than a sense of duty; they had been together too long, knew each other's temperaments too well. She was merely looking out for him, and he knew without acknowledging it that she had real concern for him.

Trudging up the stairs still clutching the hot cup, Darcy grimaced. They had all been watching out for him of late. He could recall their looks of concern, their hushed voices as he sulked. He would have to endeavor to correct his deportment. To appear morose and to be short with the servants was beneath him. His behavior had changed, and only he knew why.

Well, she knew why as well.

Then suddenly she was there, her arms folded and a furious expression on her face. He could only imagine the scolding she would give, taking him to task for skulking about in a storm, getting his clothes wet and worrying the entire household. Then she would sigh and the look of anger would soften as she would reach out and-

Darcy sighed and reached the second floor. Turning a corner he saw his valet, Walsh, hurrying toward him with a horrified expression on his face. Between Rhodes and Walsh, Darcy knew not how a man could catch his death of cold in peace. The valet, ten years Darcy's senior, stopped a few steps away and said with all solemnity, "Sir. It would appear that you have been caught in a rainstorm."

"Indeed, Walsh." Darcy handed him the tea and followed the man, suddenly feeling rather like he had tried to carry a man across London in the pouring rain. He welcomed the notion of a warm bath and the distraction of puzzling out the identity of the stranger now sleeping in one of the rooms of his house.

xxxxxxxxx

"And you've no idea who this is, Darcy?" Mr. Townsend was a relative newcomer to London; the physician the Darcy family had been using since he could remember had retired, and this one had come highly recommended from Darcy's uncle, the Earl of Matlock. Mr. Townsend was young and quite knowledgeable; he did not resort to leeches at any provocation and had the radical notion that a little sunshine would do ladies more good than harm. Darcy liked him immensely and rather wished that it were more socially acceptable to call on the man.

"None whatsoever, Doctor," he said. Three days had passed, and still the stranger had not awakened. He had developed a bit of a fever that first night that worsened by the following day, but the doctor had (rather brilliantly, Darcy thought) commanded that very cold water be brought to the room, ordering several housemaids to apply cloths soaked in the water to be applied to the man's forehead, underarms, and groin. Darcy had to insist that footmen be applied to the task for propriety's sake, and the doctor had absent-mindedly murmured, "Of course, of course." After several hours of footmen dashing about and soaking the surrounding area with water, a maid had timidly knocked on the door in Darcy's study to inform him that the man's fever had, indeed, broken. He decided then and there that this doctor knew what he was about and was keen to see in what other subjects the doctor might be proficient.

That would have to wait as he had more pressing matters at hand. "He appeared to recognize me, however, but before I could ascertain the origin of our supposed acquaintance, he fainted." The men exchanged a grim look and turned in unison to study the man.

Walsh had come in that very morning with one of the kitchen boys at Darcy's request and had attempted to improve the stranger's appearance; his hair was combed and the three days' worth of facial hair had been scraped clean; his dry lips were seen to, his clothing changed, his skin given a perfunctory scrub with a wet cloth. Now that he no longer had the pallor of a sick man and he was completely clean and dry, Darcy was able to re-examine his first impression that the man resembled his father.

Upon closer inspection, Darcy had to close his eyes and swallow a few mouthfuls of saliva to assuage the dryness in his throat; the man didn't merely resemble his father, he looked just as Darcy had remembered him; the same dark, wavy, and unruly hair; long lines etched into a forehead that had probably seen decades of worry; short lines radiating from eyes that had probably seen decades of laughter; cheeks gaunt, nose a little too long, giving the face an almost haughty appearance despite continued slumber. It was a handsome face, perhaps in its late forties or early fifties, its symmetry and sharp lines marred only by a faint scar, a line across the end of one eyebrow.

No, it wasn't exactly his father's face. The scar, for one, but there were other differences as well. The eyelashes, resting peacefully on the man's cheek, were far too long. The mouth was also different; his father had thin lips but a wide smile; this man's mouth was fuller and set in a somewhat grim expression. Shaking his head and smiling internally at himself, he stopped his intense perusal of another man's face.

Well aware that the doctor was waiting for Darcy to speak first, he turned to face him, choosing to ignore the inquisitive look in the man's eye. He needed not explain himself; he was used to others wondering why he stared so and had never offered anything by way of explanation. Perhaps I should regulate my intensity a little better, he thought before clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Townsend. You were saying-?"

"No need to apologize, Mr. Darcy. I was simply noticing that…" The doctor's eyes strayed to the man lying prone in the bed before continuing. "It's just that… it would appear you two are relations, else the similarities are quite astonishing. Perhaps you have an errant uncle, sir?"

Darcy laughed at that. Darcy himself resembled his father greatly. The only thing he took from his mother's side was eye color and perhaps the mouth and jaw. No, his father did not have any brothers. Or sisters. He was the last of the Darcys, the only one left to carry on the family name. One man charged with the burden of continuing the family line. Suppressing the urge to sigh, he dropped the morose thought and blinked once, fixing the doctor with a benign stare.

"None of which I am aware, Mr. Townsend." The man seemed to accept this and nodded curtly. Sensing that he wanted to ask more questions but did not wish to talk out of turn, Darcy put one hand on the doctor's shoulder and gently led him toward the door. "But I do appreciate your being here and arriving in such a tempest as the one we had several nights past. Again, I cannot thank you enough for the service you do for this household. Please, won't you join me in the study for a drink?"

After declining his invitation, the physician shook Darcy's hand and saw himself out. Darcy returned to his study with the request that he be informed in any change in the stranger's status.

If his household wondered why Darcy was seeing to this stranger's health in so devoted a manner, they never once questioned him. It was not their place. He knew he could count on their discretion as well as their obedience; in the five years since he'd become master and indeed, the three years before that, during his father's illness, Darcy had never given his staff reason to question his actions. If the master seemed a little out of sorts of late, it was of no matter to them; he was the master, and they would do his bidding.

It was not until much later, after the supper Rhodes had seen fit to send his way that had been banished to a small side table where it remained untouched that one of the chambermaids knocked at his door. Although there were many questions about this stranger, Darcy was grateful that his appearance had suffused him with a purpose. His correspondence had been ignored or rather banished to untidy piles due to his inability to comprehend their meaning, so dejected had he been in the wake of her rejection. Looking up from a letter from his steward back in Derbyshire, the maid simply said, "He's muttering, sir, but he's not awakened yet." Darcy nodded and returned to his papers.

Later, he found himself being awakened by a firm shake to the shoulder. "Sir, he's been askin' for water." It took Darcy a moment to return to reality from the dream he had been having; his neck ached and he lamented falling asleep, once again, at his desk, but not so much as he lamented waking from his dream. As he stretched his neck from side to side, groggily willing his sore muscles to cease their aching, he had a vague recollection of laughing eyes looking upon him with warmth, dark and teasing, promising something wonderful, something he so desperately wanted, though he knew not what. Standing and allowing one of the many sighs he so often had to suppress, he willed away these wondrously involuntary thoughts of her and allowed his curiosity about the strange gentlemen to push she of the laughing eyes out of his mind.

Bounding up the steps with something akin to anticipation, Darcy raced toward some answers. He was unsure what it was about the gentleman (for surely, he was a gentleman!) that unsettled him so. Perhaps he would be lucid enough for some questions? Was he, indeed, some heretofore unknown relation? And why had he recognized Darcy, but Darcy had not recognized him?

Pausing for a moment before stepping through the doorway, he allowed that the answer to his unsettling feeling was simple- he knew this gentleman. He was unsure how, but he knew in the way that your body recognizes danger a mere moment before it arrives. As a young child, he had once been exploring around the grounds at the home of his Aunt Catherine when he had come across a wall that had crumbled decades before. He had climbed atop the unsteady structure and walked across it, heel-to-toe, his arms straight out on either side for balance. The daring, the danger he had felt had been thrilling. That is, until he felt the sinking, tingling plummet that started somewhere below his navel and radiated, lightning-fast, through his legs and straight up his chest. This occurred half a second before he stumbled and fell off the wall, landing in a heap upon a pile of rough, ancient brick.

The torn breeches and subsequent scraped knee were but forgotten pains, but that feeling just before he'd fallen was with him now. This stranger was the wall, and just before he stepped into the room, he felt the tingling plummet below his navel.

Unaccustomed as he was to attending the sick bed of a stranger, Darcy felt very awkward, not knowing how to proceed. After standing there for several minutes, wondering whether he should try to wake the gentleman in the bed, the man opened his eyes and made several attempts to clear his throat.

"Fitzwilliam?" the man said, his voice hoarse with disuse. Darcy startled, horrified; he was plunged into a memory he did not wish to revisit- his father, a week or so before succumbing to the fluid buildup in his lungs. That same weak, rough plea, the same look of quiet desperation in his eyes.

The same exact voice saying his name.

Darcy stared for a moment before the man blinked several times and tried clearing his throat again.

"Might I bother you for some water?"

Finally, something Darcy could do. He took two steps forward to the bedside, reaching for the ewer of water left behind by his attentive staff. He poured some into a glass and held it out to the man, wondering whether he should hold the glass to his lips or allow him to do it himself. The man took the offered drink and with shaking hands brought it to his mouth. Taking several, voluble gulps, the man closed his eyes in relief.

"Perhaps- perhaps you should not drink so quickly," he quietly offered, watching with a sense of anxiety. The man stopped drinking and rested the hand holding the glass on his chest, dropping his head back until it hit the wood of the headboard with a soft thud.

After several moments of uneasy silence, he slowly opened his eyes and fixed Darcy with an intense stare. Not unfriendly, not challenging; merely searching. His eyes were dark, perhaps brown; Darcy could not ascertain their color, but they did not appear without warmth.

"You're so… young," the man finally said, and Darcy cocked his head to the side. The voice was so familiar now that it was no longer cracked with disuse. Perhaps he did, indeed, know this man.

"Sir, are you well? I can send for the doctor, he asked me to be informed if there was any change in-"

"I'm fine, Fitzwilliam."

"It would appear that we are acquainted, sir," Darcy began awkwardly. He affected his pose, the one that few knew meant he was ill-at-ease. Hands clasped at the small of his back, one foot slightly forward, a tilt of his chin. He took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm afraid I do not recognize you. Perhaps an introduction is in order? My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I hail from Derbyshire." The man continued to stare at him for a few moments and then, much to Darcy's dismay, he began to laugh.

"My, but when did we get so stuffy? This is all very amusing," he said between chuckles, and Darcy prickled in mild effrontery.

"Oh, calm down, Darcy. I daresay we know each other- quite well."

"I do not know when-"

"Hush. Listen, Darcy. Do you believe in Fate? Or perhaps the Fates. Or hell, I do not know- divine intervention? Spiritual awakening? Heaven, hell, or maybe the bloody Devil for all I know."

"Sir, there is no need for such language-"

"Darcy, Darcy." The man shook his head in amused exasperation, his eyes closed and a large, dimpled grin on his face. Darcy was beginning to regret his foul mood of late, mainly because it had put him in the path of this puzzling and exasperating man.

With a final chuckle, the man's face lost its light amusement and fell into a more serious expression. He opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, spilling water on the counterpane in the process. With a muttered oath he reached out to put the glass on the bedside table and Darcy automatically reached out to assist him. His warm hand brushed the cold fingertips of the man and he jumped back a little, startled. The man put his hand out and with hesitation, Darcy shook it. The man's voice interrupted the uneasy feeling crawling across his skin.

"My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. I hail from Derbyshire."

Darcy blinked. That was all. The man was searching his face for something, anything- anger, perhaps, or disgust, or maybe alarm.

"Fitzwilliam?" The man's voice was full of concern. "I just said-"

"I heard you quite clearly, sir."

"And?"

"I'm afraid I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Are we related?" So we are related, he thought. It would explain much, especially the unsettling resemblance to his father.

"In a manner of speaking. Listen, Darcy. What day is it?" The man dropped his hand and sat up a little straighter, drawing the sheet up under his arms and smoothing it across his chest.

"What day is… Tuesday, Mr. Darcy. Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of April."

"The year of our Lord…?" What was this man about?

"1811."

He closed his eyes and Darcy was almost certain he said, "Thank God" under his breath before slumping down. Alarmed, Darcy reached out and grabbed a wrist, sighing in relief when he felt a strong, fast heartbeat. Dropping… Darcy's… hand, Darcy called out and a maid rushed in; calmly asking her to summon the doctor once more, he left his staff to attend to the man. He felt tired, physically and emotionally. In a tumble of vague thoughts and confusion, he trudged down the hall amidst a flurry of activity and found himself in his room. He shrugged out of his coat, his waistcoat. Not bothering to remove any other articles of clothing, including his boots, he fell atop of his bed. Before he knew it, he was asleep. For the first time in ages, he did not dream of her.

what is the man about?

thank you for reading, my darlings.

all of the angst is dedicated to writeontimenumbers.