Author's Note: I haven't edited this chapter because I was anxious to post it before my battery died. I solemnly promise to do so before I post chapter five. I also apologize for the delay. My toddler figured out how to escape her room and I sincerely thought my carefully crafted and scheduled world was coming to an end. As always, a huge thank you to those who have taken a chance on this story. Your encouragement and praise have inspired me to take it much further than I ever intended.

Chapter 4

Mr. Darcy stood in the middle of his room, unsure what to do next. If he listened hard enough, he'd hear Jones straightening his things in the dressing room or maids stoking fires and softly speaking to each other in the staircases between the walls. He waited, hoped, and eventually made his way to the bed. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he looked around and cataloged all that had changed. Naturally, the linens and drapes had been updated. The mattress felt much more comfortable than he was used to; it even favorably compared with the mattress in Elizabeth's home. As far as he could tell, his writing desk had survived, as well as the frame of his bed. He tried to make out more differences, but the light was fading fast. He doubted he'd be able to find the materials necessary to start a fire so began scanning the walls for a light switch.

"Electricity is absolutely extraordinary," he murmured while turning on a light. He sighed and continued to scan his room. "Can I still call this my room?" he wondered aloud. "The building still stands, but nothing that makes it mine has remained."

Thinking of the people who worked on the estate—his steward, gardener, stable heads, housekeeper, maids, footmen, and coachmen—made his heart and head ache with anxiety. They were dead, gone, disappeared along with the last 200 years. For perhaps the millionth time in the last week, he truly felt alone and lost. This must how Job felt. Everything I love and built has been taken from me. How do I even begin to get it back? He desperately needed a drink and hoped Elizabeth would have keys to the wine cellar.

Endeavoring to stave off his morose thoughts, he found a modicum of comfort in the fact that Pemberley seemed to be flourishing. The park was still lush and verdant. The estate still stood majestically against the peaks. His family still owned and managed the property. He slowly grinned as he realized that he was able to fulfill his duty to his family and the estate. Wasn't that the lesson his father had instilled him summer after summer? His life was one of privilege and opportunity, but it came with a price. He was tied to this land. His birth secured its continuity and how he lived his life would ensure its prosperity. Knowing that he and his children and his children's children continued the Darcy tradition of honor, responsibility, and duty filled him with profound peace. For once, he felt blessed to have undertaken this unique adventure: he saw the fulfillment of his life's work. With this feeling firmly implanted in his heart, he washed his hands, combed his hands through his hair, and moved to straighten the sleeves of his coat until he remembered he was wearing a T-shirt. When Elizabeth suggested he wear this garment today instead of a sweater or jacket, he nearly exclaimed his discomfort at feeling so exposed, but blessedly refrained from expressing his true feelings. Elizabeth had enough wit to tease him at every turn, but enough charm to lessen the sting. Nevertheless, he was beginning to grow tired at being the constant source of her amusement, as well as her vexation. After looking over his appearance once more, he left his room to make his way to the sitting room nearest the small family dining room.

This was always his favorite sitting room and the one he and Georgiana used frequently. It faced the southern gardens and never received too much sunlight in the summer months. Like his bedchamber, the rug and wallpaper had been updated, but the furniture, though newer, seemed to retain the style from his time. The furniture Elizabeth had in her apartment was extremely comfortable and luxurious, but it didn't have any of the ornamentation he came to expect. It was functional and every piece served a purpose. While appreciating the familiarity of such aesthetics, he had wonder why Elizabeth did not change the style of Pemberley to match that of her London home. As mistress, she would have been within her right to do so.

Thinking of Elizabeth reminded him that she said she would be in the kitchen. He walked to the back of the house and down a few stairs to find Elizabeth at stove, cooking something that smelled luxurious. He sat at the table in the middle of the spacious room and looked around. He didn't make it a habit to visit the kitchen when he was master; it made him supremely uncomfortable to enter what he considered to be the housekeeper's and the servants' domain. There was a massive fire that started in these kitchens the summer before he turned five and twenty. Thankfully, it was contained, but the entire house smelled of smoke for a month and the kitchen had to be completely rebuilt. This room had been modernized even since the remodel he oversaw. He recognized many of the same appliances he saw in Elizabeth's London home. The stones, however, on the walls and floors remained untouched.

"What is that delightful smell?" he asked. As soon as he asked, he could hear his stomach rumble and mouth begin to water.

"This, my dear William, is chicken marsala," she replied. "It's my go-to comfort meal and, considering the afternoon we've had, the perfect end to a stressful day. Could you set the table? You'll find everything you need in the cupboard and drawer over there." She nodded to a corner of the kitchen.

Sitting down to eat, Darcy murmured his thanks and delight before they both succumbed to silence and delicious food.

Not being able to stand the awkward silence any longer, Liz asked, "How do you like your rooms?"

"I like them very well, thank you," he replied and continued while setting down is fork, "It's strange. Pemberley is still Pemberley. The walls and rooms are much as they were, but there is less furniture and decoration. The linens, carpets, rugs, and curtains seem to have been updated—I would expect no less after 200 years—but it's the overall sense that I get walking down the hallways that this place is no longer mine. I used to walk through these halls and feel the mantle of stewardship upon my shoulders. To me, it has only been two weeks since I was last here and I can already feel the absence of that mantle. It's both a relief and highly distressing."

"I think I know how you feel. Pemberley has never felt like home to me. Charles loved it, but our lives were in the city. When we were here, he took to me to the gallery and told me brief stories of every one of his ancestors. Every hallway and room seems to have history behind it. I'm rarely here and have never been comfortable without Charles. On paper, this should feel like home, but it's not."

Sensing an opening, he finally decided to ask, "Elizabeth, may I ask where Charles is? Shouldn't he be here with you?"

Liz froze; her fork halfway to her mouth. Carefully setting it down, she slowly used her napkin. Before she could answer, Darcy continued in a rush. "I don't mean to ask such personal questions, but it has been on my mind for some time. I wear his clothes and have accompanied his wife to his home. I noticed that you occasionally wear a wedding band, so do not be angry for my burning curiosity."

Liz could only smirk as he finished and began to fidget in his seat like an errant little boy.

"Your question is too personal," she assured him. "After all, we are family." He smiled in relief and looked at her expectantly.

Taking a deep breath, she answered, "Charles died six months ago in a motorcycle accident. His back tire was clipped and he died. The driver was on the phone or texting or doing something other than paying attention to the road. I've been able to pack and store his things from our apartment in London, but I can't bring myself to pack his clothing. Lucky for you," she quipped.

"I only take off my ring when I ride my bike," Darcy noticed that she had begun to twist the ring on her finger and was about to ask more questions and stopped himself. Liz noticed his hesitation and asked him to "spit it out."

"I don't normally like to talk about Charles, so if you have questions you better ask them now."

"Why aren't you in mourning?" he asked.

"People don't usually show their grief. Nowadays, you're expected to keep it to yourself and in your homes. I was lucky to be able to take a long sabbatical from work; it's normal not to get more than a few days off when someone close to you dies. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was still on maternity leave and I was granted more time. Though I don't show it, William, I am mourning. Quite frankly, I'm not sure I know how to stop. So, I ride. I spend my days devoted to Genny and I perform acts of heroism for poor lost souls, such as you."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.

"Don't be," she said, waving off his condolences. She was sick of hearing them. "You didn't hit him."

"All the same, I've been to more than enough funerals for people I loved. It's an experience I had rather foregone and I'm sorry it's one you've had to endure."

"Thank you," she said quietly, sincerely touched by his understanding.

"May I ask how you met?"

She laughed, "Is it so difficult for you to imagine an American in England, especially in Pemberley?"

"Not at all!" he exclaimed, hurrying to justify his questioning, "I'm just interested in knowing more about you. You don't seem to enjoy living here, so I wonder how you came to be here and why you stay."

"The answer to your first question is easy enough. Charles and I met in New York. He spent six months there working in the New York offices of Darcy Enterprises."

"Surely you joke," he interrupted. "The Darcys are not in trade."

"I promise you, they are," she countered. "And they are really good at it. If it weren't for a thriving business, Pemberley would have been lost decades ago. Anyway, Charles and I met in New York during my last year in med school. We married less than a year after we met, much to his parents' outrage. After finishing my studies, we moved here. He had to work and I could complete my residency anywhere. I stay because of Genny. She has family here. She's Charles's daughter and deserves to know where she comes from."

"You don't consider your family as Genny's family," he cringed. He had meant to frame it more as a question. What spewed from his mouth was more judgmental than he intended. He saw Elizabeth stiffen and he instantly regretted his confounded curiosity.

"Of course they are," she said tersely, "but they aren't around to enjoy her."

Darcy was going to apologize, but was stalled as Elizabeth abruptly stood and began clearing the table.

"I think we should make our way to the library, don't you? We may be able to figure out what happened to you and how to get you back to when you belong."

"Of course," he mumbled and stood. "Allow me to assist you. You prepared this excellent meal. I can't allow the mistress of Pemberley to clean, also."

"I'm not the mistress of Pemberley," she cried and nearly threw the dishes in the sink. "That honor belongs to my mother-in-law. Please, let me do these dishes and I'll meet you in the library."

"As you wish," he answered, stunned at the reaction his feeble and novel request to do chores had received. He looked back at her once more before exiting the kitchen. She was still grasping the sink as if she required it to stand and staring unseeing out of the window. Deciding it was probably best to give her some time and space, he climbed the stairs and made his way to the library.

Liz heard Darcy's footsteps grow fainter as he walked softly—almost cautiously—toward the library. When she couldn't hear them anymore, she turned and thought to follow him so he wouldn't get lost. Well, if he really is who he says he is, he should have no problem finding the library.

She sighed and got to work on the dishes. Menial tasks always had a way of helping her focus her thoughts and whirling emotions. When Charles died, she painted their entire London apartment and had started remodeling their kitchen until her friend and neighbor stopped by. His visit also made her stop and examine the direction her life was heading. Charles's funeral was a media frenzy. His family is part of the peerage and held in reverential, feverish fascination by the British paparazzi. All of her frustration and anger toward her in-laws, the paparazzi, possibly post-partum, and every other misfortune she had to endure during her short life was channeled into renovation. Painting proved too calm and meticulous, so she turned on her kitchen with a mallet. After banging away for more than an hour, she sat on the floor, tired and exhilarated. It was in this state that Jack found her.

"What are you doing?" he asked slowly as if approaching an armed gunman.

"I'm taking a break," she replied.

"I see that," he said. "Why are you demolishing your beautiful kitchen at two in the morning?"

"I can't sleep," she answered simply. "I can't sleep in that bed without him," she continued softly, tears rolling down her face. "I can't go outside without a thousand flashing lights greeting me and following my every move. I'm trapped in this place with Genny and these pictures and his smell and his disgusting health food and everything that reminds me that I am alone."

She stopped and finally turned to look at Jack who was now sitting beside her. "I loved my kitchen, but I don't deserve pretty things. I'm going for a rooster theme so I'll grow to hate this apartment and move."

Jack couldn't help but chuckle. "Let's hold off on major design decisions until you've rested for at least two days. Deal?"

Jack helped her replace her kitchen and convince her stay. "Where are you going to go?" he would ask. When she couldn't give an answer, she decided it'd be best for Genny to stay close to her family. Over time the paparazzi found something more interesting than a grieving widow and she was able to focus on finding a job and moving forward.

Thinking of Charles and his family always flared her temper. The Darcys were kind enough, considering she was American and very blue-blooded. They despaired at her desire to pursue her career instead of being involved with various charitable causes and "happenings" around town. They loved Genny, and that was all Liz required of them. She had loved Charles. He made her feel alive and connected to people and places. He was like pure sunshine, and then he died. She was lost until she wasn't. It bothered her that she wasn't grieving. Darcy's question about her mourning ignited her guilt and made her wonder when she had become so cold. Had she ever really loved Charles? She didn't want to answer that question tonight.

Finishing up the dishes, she climbed the stairs and began the trek to the library.

Darcy stopped at the entry of the library and took a large, filling breath. The room was exactly as he remembered it, save for the chairs and sofas, which had been replaced by more modern and plush versions than he was used to. The dark mahogany gleamed and the shelves were full of beautiful tomes. He wandered the length of the room; many of the books he recognized while some near entrance seemed newer, though beautifully bound. As with his thoughts of the estate, he was gratified to know that a love of books within the Darcy family hadn't diminished. He made his way up the stairs where the older tomes were kept. His fingers glided over first editions and paused at a few that he had purchased. It was only slightly discomfiting to see that they now looked old and aged, reminding him that he was a man out of place and time. He sighed and walked back down the stairs toward the end of the library. Assuming that the cataloging system hadn't been changed, the bookcase in the corner was where his family histories were kept. This bookcase held journals, memoirs, the family Bible, and other historical documents pertaining to the family. It always thrilled him to stand in front of the bookcase and see the records of hundreds of years of family history before him. It filled with pride and anxiety as he prayed that he wouldn't be the one to cause his legacy to crumble.

Darcy skimmed the spines of the books before him, looking for a date or name that could help him unravel the mystery of his adventure. He jumped when Elizabeth spoke behind him, "I'm glad to know you weren't lost. I only know how to get to five rooms in this place and really wouldn't be qualified to come and find you."

He turned to smile at her and say, "You need not worry on my account. I can find way around any place in Pemberley without the aid of a candle."

"Is there a particular book you're looking for?" she asked.

"This bookcase contains my family history. I was hoping to find one of my journals or some record around my time that may tell me if I find my way back and, I hope, how I did it."

"It's not a terrible idea. What year are we looking for?"

"1814. I completed the harvest in September and was spending a few weeks in London on business. I had just hosted a small dinner party in honor of my birthday when—I'm afraid to admit to you—I imbibed a bit more than is my want and fell asleep in my study on the night of October the fourteenth."

"That's it? You got drunk and fell asleep in your office? If you are a time traveler, I'd expect you to have a run-in with gypsies or meet a crazy professor in a futuristic car. What did you drink? Absinthe and vodka?"

"I believe it was just cognac my cousin had procured from the mainland," he said while a blush crept up his neck."

"I don't really have experience drinking, but from this little story I would say you're a lightweight, which is surprising given your height and weight."

Darcy said nothing, but his blush deepened and Liz decided to move the scavenger hunt along. She started to systemically scan the bookcase and ask, "So, do you keep a journal?"

"I did," he answered, eager to change the topic. "I'm afraid my entries won't be very revealing. I primarily discussed the goings-on of the estate, my concerns for Georgiana, and potential investments."

"Do you know why most, normal people keep a journal?"

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me even if I answer in the affirmative," he drolly replied.

"To record their thoughts, fears, hopes, dreams, and basic concerns of their souls," she exclaimed. "Look, we've already established that you may be emotionally stunted, but I'd like for you to follow my logic. If you actually fell asleep drunk in your study and magically ended up 200 years in the future, I highly doubt we'll find some secret serum or equation that will send you back. For someone with as much pent-up as you, dear William, I hypothesize that your misadventure is tied to some conflict from within."

"Yes, well, that's an interesting theory. I'd rather examine all likely avenues before delving into the darkest recesses of my soul."

"As you wish."

Silently they scanned the centuries-old journals, ledgers, and other Darcy records. Liz had to admit that, aside from the bizarre and unbelievable circumstances that brought them to this moment, she couldn't help but feel a connection with these books. As a general rule, everything that defined Charles's world overwhelmed her. Everything was grand and longstanding and she had constantly felt like an intruder. Seeing the handwriting of Genny's ancestors made them seem much more human and real than any portrait. She hoped to return to Pemberley and spend some time reading the inner thoughts of ancient Darcys. She idly wondered if she should consider keeping her own journal. She was a Darcy after all.

Her musings were interrupted by Darcy's soft exclamation, "Georgie!"

"You found something?"

"Yes," he whispered, slowly opening a leather journal with yellowed pages. "I found one of Georgie's, my sister's, journals. She started it when she was first married and it continues through 1818."

"Why is it here if she married?"

"I'm not sure, but I hope these pages will tell me. Please excuse me, Elizabeth. I would like to retire now and read my sister's journal."

"Of course, William. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Darcy gently held his sister's journal as he made his way to his room. While anxious to hear what happened after his birthday, he feared what he would learn from his sister's writings, all the while praying Georgie's journals would be more illuminating than his own.