Mr Darcy had thought he would spend his last night at Rosings in blissful sleep, full of dreams about his engagement and future married life. Instead, she had rejected him in such terms that had forced him to stay awake all night, writing a rebuttal to her accusations.

That letter was now clenched in his hands as he rushed through Rosings' woods. In his exhaustion, he had not noticed the hour until it was perhaps too late to cross paths with Elizabeth— no, he must stop thinking of her as Elizabeth. That was a privilege he would never allow himself again.

The cold air of the early morning felt like yet another harsh punishment for his wrongdoings. He had walked on those same paths with her hand on his arm so many times in the past few weeks, and yet it already felt like a lifetime before.

Suddenly, there she was, on the other side of the gate that led to the the parsonage.

"Miss Bennet!"

She hesitated on her steps and then turned towards him, allowing him to get closer.

Mr Darcy forced a look of collectedness on his face and handed her the letter with a small bow. "I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?"

For a moment, he looked fixedly at her, striving to memorize every trait of the face he had believed would greet him every morning for the rest of his life. But he could feel his composure slipping. Without waiting for an answer, he forced himself to retreat out of her sight, into the woods again.

He had been so certain that she was encouraging his attentions. Or was at least aware of them. He laughed bitterly and rubbed the space between his eyes. After such a tormented night, he was deeply in need of sleep. Yet the fact that the wretched affair was over and he could rest did not bring him any comfort: that had been the last time he would ever see her.

He would have gladly gone back to that past September and choked the arrogance out of his old body, until that fool could see clearly for the first time in his life. Perhaps then, he wouldn't be feeling this torment.

But one could not look at the past. One could only look at the future. She had made him realize what an injudicious life he had been living, hiding his behavior behind his name and wealth.

Mr Darcy's cheeks were now coloured not by the cold but by his self-loathing. His clothes were suddenly too warm and restricting to bear. He took off his hat and then his tailcoat in quick succession, then wondered if she had already opened the letter. Was she reading it right at that moment? What was she thinking? Had he made his thoughts clear or had the anger transpired through the pages? Would it change her opinion of him — make it fairer, at least just a little?

It was impossible to please her and yet he still wanted to. He still wanted to be a man she could esteem, even if they never laid eyes on each other again. If they did meet each other again, he prayed that he would be able to show her, through his behaviour, that he had changed and her reproofs had been attended to.

Birds chirping brought Mr Darcy away from his oppressive thoughts and back to the woods for a moment. He looked around the path for the first time since delivering the letter. The weather had taken a turn for the better: the grey clouds that had covered the sky until a few minutes before had left the place to a scorching sun. It was decidedly too warm now and every color looked more vibrant, from the blue sky itself to the trees. They had more leaves than he remembered from his morning walks with— with her. The landscape almost reminded him of Derbyshire.

He wished himself back at Pemberley. The pain would be more bearable if he could just shut himself in his study and not have to answer to anyone. What would his aunt say if he took to his bed now? What would his aunt say in seeing him in shirtsleeves? Mr Darcy decided that he did not give a damn about that, so he also undid his cravat and then the first button on his shirt.

Mr Darcy did not remember Rosings House being this hot in April, or so far away from the edge of the parsonage. He could not say how long he had been walking and his pocket watch had chosen right that occasion to stop working. He shook it twice but the little hands didn't resume ticking.

He stopped and looked around himself. Had he lost his way? No, the path felt familiar even if he could not place it. He kept walking. There was something bothering him at the back of his mind until he came to a stream and realized it had been the sound of water rushing through: there were no streams at Rosings Park. But he did recognize that stream.

His blood ran cold. The scenery seemed more and more familiar, the bridge he was walking across more and more similar to the one he had supervised the construction of after a flooding. But it was impossible! Had he fallen asleep while walking? He pinched himself and flinched. It was not a dream.

Above the rough coppice-wood tops, in the distance, he could see the roof of a building. That view only made him walk faster, in a panic. The stream pooled into a pond and finally he was at the stable. One of the boys working there rushed out to him.

"Welcome back, sir. Did you come by horse?"

"What day is it, Nathan?"

The boy scratched his forehead. "6th of August 1812, I think, sir. But we weren't expecting you until tomorrow, right?"

Darcy shook his head but otherwise completely ignored him. In a state of more and more heightened stupor, he kept walking on the path that would lead him to the lawn, and thus to the front of the house, ready to face the implausible truth.

But just as he turned that corner, he suddenly found himself upon Elizabeth!

They both absolutely started. He was immovable from surprise. Then tentatively advanced in her direction, heartened at find her a companion in such strange circumstances.

But his steps faltered as his eyes revealed that was not the Elizabeth he had just left at Rosings Park: gone was the warm cloak that he had a secret fondness for, replaced by a light spencer, and, even with her cheeks overwhelmed by the deepest blush, it was impossible not to notice that she had tanned.

He only needed one last confirmation. Almost dreading it, he turned towards the building. He recognized it. And then he turned to her again.

It was summer. Elizabeth was at Pemberley and, inexplicably, so was he.