Chapter 2

Elizabeth Bennet stood silently looking at a mirror, seemingly contemplating something beyond it. She was in her nightgown with a wrap covering her shoulders, and her dark hair was tied into a loose braid. It was late in the evening, and the room was warmed by a fire.

Darcy blinked repeatedly. He was standing in the opposite corner of the room. How he had arrived there, he did not know. It was as if he, or perhaps she, had materialized out of thin air. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his chambers in London.

She didn't seem to sense his presence, but he had the distinct feeling that if he spoke to her, she would look at him. He watched her reflection in the mirror. A lump formed in his throat, as he slowly recognized the scene. As if on cue, the door to the parsonage opened. Darcy's eyes widened as he saw himself stop in the doorway, holding the letter in his hand that he had hoped would provide him absolution.

His other self gazed intently at Elizabeth. She defiantly refused to turn to face him directly.

"I came to leave you this," the Darcy in the doorframe said as he placed the letter on the window ledge. "I'm not going to renew the sentiments which were so disgusting to you, but to address the two offenses you have laid against me."

Darcy winced as he watched himself wait for her response; he could easily read on his own face what he had been thinking. He had been hoping beyond hope that Elizabeth would turn to face him, that she would apologize for the words she had said, creating an opportunity for him to better explain himself. At the very least, he had hoped she would agree to read his letter. It was the least she could do. When Elizabeth did not move, the Darcy in the doorframe walked out, shutting the parsonage door quietly behind him.

Am I dreaming? Darcy thought to himself. The vision before him was so well-defined; he could feel the wood floor beneath him, hear the clock quietly ticking, and Elizabeth was clearer than in any dream he had in the past months. It felt more like a vibrant memory than a dream.

A memory. Is this what the apothecary had meant when he said I would need to live it all again in order to forget you? Darcy tightened his fists at his sides as he tried to comprehend the sight before him. This is the last time I saw you.

Abruptly, Elizabeth knocked herself out of her stupor, gasping as she turned around. It was as if she excepted to still see him in the doorframe. Darcy held his breath, feeling a need to watch her undisturbed as long as he could. His felt some dizziness of the incongruity of the situation.

It hardly made sense. If this was indeed a memory of his, how he could still see the scene before him, when in reality he had not lingered this long in the parsonage? He didn't understand, but then again, every element of this supposed remedy was beyond compression. As he pondered these thoughts, Elizabeth grabbed the letter on the table, and unfurled it, reading it by the light of the fire.

Could this drink provide such a gift as being privy to her reactions as she read his letter, when he had not born witness to this in reality? Perhaps he had been rash in choosing to remove her from his memories before knowing what her reaction to the letter had been.

No, he thought to himself. It had been weeks since he had delivered the letter to her at the parsonage. She had not made any attempt to reconcile with him. She had not given any indication to him that her feelings had changed. He decided adamantly that this was not a rash decision. This was the only action he could take to spare himself of this suffering of his own making. Still, he wondered if he could see what she thought about the letter. Determined not to interrupt this chain of events, he continued to not move.

As Elizabeth read, her breathing became more audible. Her hand went up to her mouth on more than one occasion, and the fire's light caused the stray tears that had escaped her eyes to glisten. Her sensibilities were impacted. Perhaps the letter had been more effective than he had assumed. A creek of the floorboard interrupted his staring. Darcy looked at Mrs. Collins, seeing her before Elizabeth did.

"Lizzy?"

Elizabeth turned and hid the letter behind her back, as if caught.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Collins said, clearly concerned for her friend.

In a hoarse voice, Elizabeth replied "I hardly know."

She was moved by his words. She was moved. Could this be the truth of what had happened after he left the parsonage or was this his own wishful thinking? There was no way to know for sure, but he felt the urge to believe it so. So captivated was he by Elizabeth and Mrs. Collins' exchange, that Darcy didn't notice the walls begin to fade around him. The clock was no longer ticking, and the crackle of the fire became faint. As if he had blinked Elizabeth away, she and Mrs. Collins were suddenly gone from the room. The parsonage dissolved around him, and he found himself surrounded by emptiness.

"Miss Elizabeth?" he whispered into the darkness. With these words, his surroundings began to rematerialize. He heard the rain first, then felt it washing over him. It was lucky he had his coat on. Whether he had his count before, he could not recall. Looking up, instead of the ceiling of the parsonage, he could see grey sky, and all around him greenery lush from recent spring rains. He was outdoors. A round, Grecian-inspired temple, stood on top of a small hill in front of him. He could barely make out Elizabeth's drenched figure running towards it for shelter. Mr. Darcy followed slowly, unbothered by the rain, but dreading what was to come.