The Looking Glass

by ymnfilter

Summary:

a 'Pride and Prejudice' sequel/reimagining in which Fitzwilliam Darcy somehow ends up five years in his future, with his counterpart taking his place in the past.

Notes:

The fancast is completely indulgent on my part, and if you don't agree or care for it, ignore it :)

Chapter 1: Preface

"We all have our time machines, don't we? Those that take us back are memories... And those that carry us forward are dreams." - H.G. Wells (The Time Machine)

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

FANCAST STARRING:

 

HENRY CAVILL as FITZWILLIAM DARCY

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

AUDREY HEPBURN as ELIZABETH BENNET DARCY

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

 

i love, i have loved, i will love you.

 

 

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

 

P R E M I S E

Pemberley, Derbyshire, 1817

Fitzwilliam Darcy was asleep next to Elizabeth Bennet, his wife of five years when he awoke to music playing. Following the sound, he found himself in a room he'd never been in before, and in front of a mirror he'd never seen. 

In the reflection of the strange looking-glass, another version of Darcy stared back at him. Younger, stiffer, spent. He reached out a hand, his reflection followed. They touched, or maybe they did not. Suddenly, there was light and darkness and then Darcy woke,

At Netherfield. Five years in the past.

Netherfield, Hertfordshire, 1811

Fitzwilliam Darcy was suffering– from a skull-splitting migraine, from Miss Bingley's increasingly pretentious pianoforte performance,  from recollections of Miss Elizabeth, whose impertinently charming ghost refused to leave him alone. When Bingley promised to make his excuses, he took the opportunity to retire for the night so that he could recuperate and get his bearings back. 

He refused to let Miss Elizabeth Bennet's charms get to him. Darcy had too many responsibilities, too many people depending on him, to follow his whims and fancies. When he entered a strange room, however, a strange reflection in a peculiar looking-glass caught his eye.

Someone who looked like him but wasn't stared back. Darcy, almost as if compelled by a force too otherworldly to understand, reached out– and was promptly enveloped in darkness. When he woke,

He was at Pemberley. Five years in the future.

 

Chapter 2: Chapter One

4th April 1817,

Pemberley, Derbyshire

 

There was music playing. 

 

Darcy perceived the oddity of that thought even as he slowly came to wakefulness in his wife’s dark bedchamber. Elizabeth was sleeping soundly next to him, his arm around her waist and her head tucked neatly under his chin. It was a starry, cloudless night with the only source of light coming from the full moon outside, bathing the room in a cool eerie glow. The worst of winter had passed them in Derbyshire and spring was blooming, and so the curtains were parted, the windows were open and there was no fire burning in the hearth that could further illuminate the chamber. 

 

In time, Darcy’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the night and landed on the bracket clock that sat on his bedside. It was only a little past three o’clock in the morning. 

 

And yet, there was music playing. 

 

Maybe, with a clearer head, he could have realised sooner how inconceivable of an idea that was. However, half-asleep as he was, all he did was frown and sit up in bed, rubbing his face in disgruntlement. Elizabeth snuffled softly in her sleep, equally discontent as her husband’s warmth left her side, but she did not wake and Darcy further tucked their shared duvet around her before getting out of bed and pulling over his robe.

 

He had no idea what was going on, but whoever was making that infernal racket in the middle of the night had better have a damned good reason for it, or heads were going to roll!

 

Feeling irate and more than a little angry, he lit a candelabra and resolved to investigate. The music only got more pronounced as he opened the door of the mistress' bedchamber and stepped out into the passageway. The corridor of the family wing was empty and devoid of footmen, as were all residential areas at night, but Darcy was surprised to note that Georgiana hadn’t awakened because of the noise either. 

 

The Darcy siblings, by their nature, were very light sleepers, unlike Elizabeth, who could sleep through a storm if she was tired enough. Perhaps it had something to do with the noise levels that they were accustomed to. With four sisters, two of whom consisted of Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, and a mother like Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth was probably quite used to noise and loud disturbances, making it easier for her conscious to ignore them. Darcy and his sister, on the other hand, had always lived in a more solemn and sometimes painfully quiet environment, and so they tended to wake up at the slightest provocation. 

 

The music Darcy was hearing was muffled and not quite distinguishable from where he was standing, but it grew clearer the deeper he walked along the corridor. It was an observation which he could not account for, for the last time he checked, there were no instruments in any of the residential wings.

 

A little further down the corridor, and the instrumental melody became markedly clear and he recognized them to be notes coming from a pianoforte. A few more doors down and suddenly a voice was accompanying the music. Feminine, but deep, technically proficient and yet vacant and strangely lacking in personality, but above all, very, very familiar. Darcy froze mid step-

 

Blasted Gods! What in the world was Miss Bingley doing playing the piano at three in the morning in Pemberley's family wing?!

 

Was he dreaming? Hearing things? Hallucinating? Was this how people sleep-walked?

 

Darcy tried to shake his head clear, tried to pinch himself awake, even gave himself a firm slap on the cheek, and yet he still heard the dastard instrument! It did not make any sense! As far as he knew, Miss Bingley was currently at her brother’s establishment at Netherfield. His wife had gotten a letter only yesterday from her sister, complaining (well, as much as Mrs Bingley was capable of complaining) about her younger sister-in-law and her continued reluctance with relinquishing her title as mistress of her brother’s household. 

 

And yet! And yet, he could hear her clear as day with every step he took closer to the end of the wing. Most of the rooms in this part of the house were already designated to certain family visitors. The Earl and Lady Matlock always slept in the Emerald Rooms for they were the only rooms (other than the master/mistress chambers) on this level that were connected, Richard always stayed in the Benedict Suite (named after one of the many dignitaries that had stayed at the house in the 16th century), and Carlson preferred the Rose Chamber for its view of the gardens in the spring. 

 

Each room was assigned to one or the other member of his family, such that it was this wing, more than any other in the house, that Darcy was familiar with. He could draw the floorplans with his eyes closed and half in his cups. There were a total of fifteen rooms in the south wing of the first floor, and perhaps subconsciously, Darcy had been counting them as he walked, for he’d reached the end of the total in his head and yet there was still one extra door on his left, unaccounted for.

 

He was dreaming. There was nothing else for it.

 

The music was at its clearest here. The aria Miss Bingley was singing was familiar, but he could not quite place where he had heard her sing it before. Now that he had acknowledged to himself that he was in a dream, quite a lot of his trepidation and irritation had left him. He will, no doubt, wake up in the morning and narrate this little interval his sleep had taken to his wife, and Elizabeth will surely laugh at him- perhaps she will teasingly accuse him of subconsciously longing for Miss Bingley’s manifold accomplishments, chief of which was, of course, her masterful ability to flatter him at every turn.

 

Even this little fantasy brought a smile to his face, and Darcy shook his head a little as he walked over to the illusory room at the end of the corridor. He did not hesitate before opening it, but paused at the threshold, unsure.

 

He had expected to see Miss Bingley sitting on a piano inside the room. Instead, he was looking into an old, empty, unused bedchamber looking more than a little out of place in the otherwise pristine and elegantly furnished Pemberley. The room was decorated in a very ugly shade of green-yellow silk paper-hangings and gaudy purple draperies. His nose scrunched in distaste even as he stepped inside. Miss Bingley’s playing was almost obscenely loud in here and he inspected the room, wondering if there even was any point to this strange dream.

 

Was he meant to find something?

 

Most of the furniture in the room was covered in white sheet coverings, and the armoire sitting at the opposite end had one of its doors dangling out, the top hinge broken. The dressing table and the writing desk were collecting dust, and the hearth was empty of any sign of soot or firewood or coal. 

 

Only one piece of furniture was in impeccable condition and free of dust. A heavy mirror with a gaudy gilded frame hung from above the dressing table, its glass spotless and its golden frame shining against the light of his candelabra. Darcy stepped closer to the looking-glass where the music seemed to be coming from. The surface of the glass appeared to shimmer, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light, and Darcy walked further closer until he was standing right in front of it.

 

The man that greeted him in the reflection was him and yet not him. 

 

Darcy looked down at himself- clad as he was in nothing but his robe and a pair of house slippers, he once again looked in the mirror. The man in the reflection was attired in full evening wear and was holding only a single candle. He wondered if he truly looked as spooked and stupefied as his counterpart showed. 

 

“Hello.” He said to the mirror, his sleep-deep voice cracking with disuse.

 

His reflection’s mouth didn’t move.

 

Slowly, he raised his free hand and his image followed his actions. He reached towards the surface of the glass at the same time as the man on the other side and touched it.

 

The world lit up around him for one glorious instant, and then the dream was over.

 

29th October 1811,

Netherfield, Hertfordshire

 

His megrim was getting worse. 

 

Darcy could feel it pounding against the base of his skull to the rhythm of Miss Bingley’s playing. Truly, she was not an inept musician, for her fingering was all that was right and her voice was quite pleasant. And yet, Darcy was sleep deprived, socially exhausted, and feeling less masterful over his own mind and thoughts than ever before. Miss Bingley’s playing carried with it such an air of self-satisfaction and condescension and her voice was so smug as to render any comfort or enjoyment one could garner from a good performance null. 

 

It did not help that her inferior playing only served to remind him of a much more preferable one he’d had the pleasure to hear just last night at Lucas Lodge. 

 

And there she was again. Elizabeth Bennet had quite made herself at home in his thoughts, and this, more than any other ailment, was driving him to madness!

 

She was an obsession! Her voice, her eyes, her smile, her figure! Every inch of her was a study in the fascinating. He could not get her out of his head! Every resolution he made to give her no further consequence would only go as far as till their next meeting, when she would once again lure him in with her glittering eyes and her untempered wit. With every encounter, she rendered him a fool! He was a tongue-tied school boy in her presence and though every lick of good sense in his body reprimanded him for his idiocy (for was he not the master of Pemberley? Guardian to a young woman and patron to a thousand or so people?), his heart would not listen. No, his heart would only further yearn for crumbs of her attention.

 

Miss Bingley’s playing reached a crescendo and she very purposely met his eyes though he stood inconveniently far from her on the other side of the room. Then, she closed them, not in passion for the music or in a bid for concentration, but to let her audience know that she played from memory and did not require the sheets Mrs Hurst had been turning for her. It was a tactic Darcy had seen plenty of times before in London ballrooms, employed by young women in an effort to impress. 

 

(Darcy recalled Elizabeth’s playing from the night before. How though she hadn’t chosen a very complicated piece, her playing had been artless and genuine, her voice light and clear. She hadn’t needed the sheets either, but instead of closing her eyes in artifice, she had looked about the room with such cheerfulness in a wordless proposal for others to join her in her merriment, that by the second half of her performance, the entire room was accompanying her vocals.)

 

He scowled. Truly, the woman was a plague on his equanimity! He could scarcely go two seconds without recalling either her words, or her behaviour, or her candid expressions. How a person could look charming while sneezing, he would never understand!

 

“Darcy, you look like you want to hit something.” Bingley whispered so as to not interrupt his sister’s performance. He walked closer to his friend, “Are you well?”

 

“Yes, forgive me.” Darcy sighed, then pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to quell the pain spreading out to his temples, “I am just-”

 

“Suffering one of your migraines?” His friend gave him a sympathetic look, “You truly look wretched, my friend, and the music can’t be helping. Retire for the night, Darce. I shall make your excuses.” 

 

Thanking his friend, Darcy did as he bid, though he knew going to his chambers would not be much of an escape. Netherfield was a large house, and considering Bingley had taken over the estate’s lease quite spontaneously, the family presently did not have enough servants required to run it efficiently. But Bingley’s lease was short, and his party even smaller, so instead of hiring more help, he had simply decided to not open the upper floors altogether. Everyone was housed on the main floor, with the residential wing beginning where the public rooms ended. It was a practical choice, for there were enough rooms to accommodate them all, and Darcy had commended his friend on making it, though he now wished he had not, for he could do with a more substantial distance from Miss Bingley’s evening entertainment.

 

Darcy bypassed his chamber, then Bingley’s, then Hurst’s. All the while the sound of the music dimmed only slightly. He passed two more empty chambers before pausing at the last one, his brows furrowed in confusion,

 

Were there six rooms or five alongside this corridor? Darcy could’ve sworn there were only five, but perhaps his addled head was muddling even the accuracy of his recollections. He opened the doors and stepped inside, only to pause uncertainly at the threshold.

 

Unlike all the rest of the rooms on the floor, this one certainly hadn’t been readied for use. White coverings protected the furniture, the gaudy wallpaper and draperies were cloaked in dust. One of the doors of the armoire was hanging off its hinges in disrepair. It was a wonder how the room had evaded Miss Bingley’s detection. Darcy could not believe she would be sanguine about its condition as the estate’s hostess.

 

He shook his head, and almost walked back out into the corridor when something shimmered in the corner of his eyes. He turned, even more confused when he noticed the pristine mirror that was hanging on the dirty wall above the dusty dressing table. The looking-glass was impeccable, the heavy gilded frame polished to perfection. The fixture did not belong anywhere near the old, unused bedchamber. Darcy walked closer to the mirror and then almost dropped his candle in shock when he saw his reflection.

 

Was he… naked?

 

Very nearly so. Though he himself was dressed perfectly in black breeches, waist coat, tailcoat, and a snowy white shirt and cravat, all his reflection wore was a loosely tied night robe. What in the world?

 

Then, as if just this in and of itself was not fantastical enough, the man inside the mirror very clearly said,

 

“Hello?”

 

Darcy could not comprehend it. Had his megrim given way to insanity? Was he for bedlam? What would become of Georgiana? Of Pemberley? 

 

He would have run away in that moment if his reflection had not started reaching out. As if compelled, all Darcy could do was copy his movements. The glass under his fingertips was disconcertingly warm, and he had only barely formed that thought in his head when suddenly, the world lit up around him all at once from everywhere, and then, there was darkness.

Chapter 3: Chapter Two

5th April, 1817

Pemberley, Derbyshire

 

Darcy had heard of dreams within dreams before.

 

Strange accounts of people who would wake up from a dream only to be dreaming still, from which they would once again wake up only to still be in yet another dream. Each dream felt like reality and would only reveal itself to be an illusion of the tired mind when the person would wake up into a different scenario. 

 

Darcy could only venture that this was what was happening to him.

 

He woke up in Pemberley. He could see the view of familiar peaks and hills out from the open French windows even as he wondered what room he was in. It was not the master’s chamber, for the decor and furnishings were altogether too feminine for anything he might choose for himself, but it was neither Georgiana’s chamber, for he was somewhat familiar with her rooms, and neither was he in any of the guest’s chambers, for the room was much too large and fine to not belong to family. 

 

Powder blue silk paper hangings with white flock patterns adorned the walls and sheer white drapes danced lightly in the soft breeze that was coming in from the open windows. The furnishings too, were done in light, airy colours that complemented the rest of the room and produced an all-together calm and refreshing ambiance. The size of the chamber and the connecting door on the opposite side of the bed suggested he was in the mistress's chambers, but that made little sense, for the last time he had entered those rooms, they were unaired and unused and decorated as garishly as any room at Rosings.

 

Darcy loved his mother dearly, but Lady Anne Darcy had had an awful taste in decor.

 

 Still lying in bed, he took in his surroundings, wondering how he’d ended up here when the last thing he remembered was that peculiar looking-glass in one of the rooms at Netherfield. The remembrance of that almost-celestial light that had enveloped him when he had touched the mirror sent a shiver down his spine.

 

Had he somehow… died?

 

As if in response to his confusion, the door that he knew led into the mistress’s sitting room opened and Miss Elizabeth Bennet entered, dressed in a light cream and very revealing Grecian nightgown with her hair long, loose and freshly brushed. She looked ethereal with the morning light reflecting against her dark, glossy tresses and setting her sunkissed skin aglow.

 

Well, he supposed, that answered that question.

 

“Am I in heaven?”

 

Miss Elizabeth laughed at his very genuine query, giving him a look so openly affectionate as to render any other explanation invalid. His dreams, though they often featured her these days, could not yet produce such accuracy. Surely, the most reasonable explanation was that he had died and gone to heaven and God had taken pity on him and allowed him to have his heart’s desire. 

 

She walked closer to him, coming over to sit beside him on the bed. She ran one of her hands through his hair and cupped his cheek in her soft, small, palm,

 

“You must be feeling well enough if you are flirting, my dear.” She said teasingly, “And here I was worried because I had woken up before you. How did you sleep last night, Fitzwilliam?”

 

His christian name on her tongue was almost too much to bear. Her concern, her tone, her affection, all of it was so much more intimate than even this- the two of them lounging on the same bed, both in their nightclothes.

 

Darcy paused.

 

Nightclothes.

 

For the first time, he realised he was completely bare from waist-up and clad only in his drawers. Acute embarrassment gripped him even as he inconspicuously tried to pull the blanket further up his uncovered shoulders. Elizabeth frowned at his behaviour,

 

“Are you cold, my love?” She went to stand, “Shall I close the windows?”

 

He took hold of her hand before she could leave, then pulled her back to sit beside him.

 

“I am well.” He said. 

 

By all means, he should let her go. Neither of them were dressed appropriately, but at least she was more covered than him. But her words echoed in his mind; my dear, my love, Fitzwilliam, and he supposed that in heaven at least, they were on intimate enough terms that there was no need for such modesty.

 

“Are you sure? It is not like you to miss your morning appointments with Mr Harrison. Especially not with spring planting right around the corner.”

 

Mr Harrison? Darcy’s steward was in his afterlife? Was he expected to work still after he’d gone and died?

 

His confusion must have showed, for Elizabeth’s concern for him was now plainly writ on her features,

 

“Fitzwilliam, perhaps we should call for Doctor Talbot. It will not hurt to have him take a look at you-”

 

“No,” Darcy sat up, more worried than confused now. This was no afterlife. His steward and his physician had no place in his paradise. “No, I am well. See? I am perfectly fine.” 

 

He made to stand, and Elizabeth, still looking at him worriedly, stood too. The two of them looked at eachother, his gaze just as intense as hers was troubled. Darcy endeavoured to ignore his disassembled state, though it was a little more difficult to do when Elizabeth stepped closer to him to press a hand against his forehead and the silk of her gown brushed against his bare torso.

 

“You are not warm.” She mumbled.

 

“I am not. Indeed, I am in perfect physical health.” 

 

His mental state, however, was another matter altogether.

 

She could not hear his thoughts, and mollified by his reassurances, gave him one of her brilliantly bright smiles. And yet, there was something a little different about this one. More coy, perhaps, more wicked-

 

“Maybe, last night was a little more tiring than usual, hmm?”

 

Her fingers glided flirtatiously down his chest in a manner so tantalising as to leave a heated trail of their path. There was such insinuation in her voice, such allure in the darkness of her eyes as to make a sailor blush. Darcy was a mere mortal, and Elizabeth was divine and if this was not a dream, nor was it afterlife, then he had no idea what it was but he did not want it to end.

 

Very deliberately, he encased the hand on his chest in his own, and then brought it up to his mouth to press a kiss against her fingertips. Their eyes locked on each other, he saw the exact moment when her cheeks pinked, and her breath hitched. She gave him a tremulous smile, 

 

“That look in your eyes-” She whispered. He was looking at her with that dark hunger that often consumed him in her presence, that insatiable need to make her his, “I understand it better now. When we first met, I thought you were glaring at me in disapproval.”

 

Darcy’s brows scrunched in confusion, “What could I have possibly found in you to disapprove of?”

 

“My tolerable beauty? My impertinence? My station in life or the vulgarity of my relations?” She listed all her self-perceived flaws with a lightness in her tone, and yet each utterance felt like a strike to his head. She was absolutely wrong on the first two counts, for he had never met a woman so beautiful as her and her wit and the liveliness of her mind were her chief attractions for him. In the case of the last two, he could not defend himself, for he did consider them flaws. Not her flaws exactly, but certainly they were impediments large enough to cause him to fight tooth and nail against this attraction he felt for her. 

 

He had congratulated himself on his sound judgement when he had deemed her unsuitable because of her family. Those same sentiments now expressed by her with such frankness, as if of course, this is what he thought of her, made him feel like the world’s biggest prig.

 

She noticed his darkening mood, and her smile fell,

 

“Fitzwilliam? I’m only teasing, darling.” She cajoled, coming closer to wrap her arms around his waist. Her scent- sweet and powdery with just a hint of his own cologne- was almost overpoweringly heady with such little distance between them, and Darcy’s heart spasmed, “You really must implement my philosophy on life, to only think of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.” 

 

The past, she said. Was that what it was? Was he somehow, some way, in his future? Again, he remembered the looking-glass and the reflection he had seen in it. Him, only he had looked different, worn different clothes and had greeted him unprompted. Was it not just an inaccurate reflection but a version of him from the future?

 

A future where he lived in Pemberley with Miss Elizabeth Bennet?

 

Someone knocked on their door, and Darcy, lost in his thoughts, almost jumped in surprise. Elizabeth walked over to the door of her dressing room and opened it just enough to address the maid standing on the other side,

 

“Yes, Lucy?”

 

“Good morning, Mrs Darcy. I have your morning dress pressed and ready for the day.”

 

“Thank you, Lucy. I will be with you in a moment.” 

 

Mrs Darcy. 

 

He must have been looking at her strangely because once again, Elizabeth returned to his side, concerned and troubled for him. He wished he could allay her worries but he was having a difficult time trying to curb his own tempest of emotions. 

 

Mrs Darcy. 

 

Of course, she was his wife. He was in her rooms. In the mistress' chambers at Pemberley, and they had spent the last however long since he’d woken in their undresses, and she called him dear and love and darling but best of all, she called him Fitzwilliam and somewhere in the middle of it all, she had clearly insinuated that they had spent the night together and so of course she was his wife! There was no other explanation! And yet-

 

Mrs Darcy. 

 

He grinned like an absolute loon. Elizabeth looked like she wanted to cut open his head and examine the workings of his brain herself. He cupped her cheek before she could say a word. His wife. His Elizabeth. 

 

Something had happened last night in that old, dirty chamber at Netherfield, something tremendously fantastic that had somehow transported him in time so that he was now in the future. Whatever it was that had happened had made it so that he was now Elizabeth’s husband.

 

It had given him the right to do this-

 

He leaned down, and in a movement that was so practised, it was almost instinctive, Elizabeth stretched up on her toes. Their lips met somewhere in the middle in a kiss that was long and slow and managed to light his soul on fire. He smiled against her mouth, unable to help himself and in response, Elizabeth gifted him with a giggle before pulling away.

 

“Good morning, Mr Darcy.” She bit her lip in an effort to curb her grin. Darcy did not bother. He smiled gloriously,

 

“Good morning, Mrs Darcy.”

 

30th October 1811,

Netherfield, Hertfordshire

 

It was not unusual for Darcy to wake up in a bed that was not his own. In fact, ever since the day of his wedding, he had spent most nights in his wife’s chambers, and had woken up the next morning with Elizabeth beside him, her soft, pliant body burrowed against his side. 

 

So, that he had woken up alone, in itself should have been the first sign that something was wrong. Even before he opened his eyes, Darcy could feel the lack of warmth on his side. His dear wife was like a furnace- always warm to touch- like his own personal little sun that brought life to the winterland around him. She also had a habit of sleeping late into the mornings, or perhaps it was just that Darcy himself woke too early, but the point was that Darcy had essentially forgotten what it was like to wake up in a cold and otherwise empty bed.

 

He decidedly did not like the reminder.

 

Frowning as he blinked open his eyes, he was further confused when the canopy above him was an unusual and unfamiliar mahogany colour. Had Elizabeth redecorated and he had managed to completely block it from his mind? Also, had she taken her new inspiration from what she had seen of Rosings's gaudy guest chambers last spring?

 

It was a nonsensical thought he could only credit to his still sleep-addled brain. Getting up from his bed, Darcy tried to make sense of where he was. Last night, he'd dreamt he had awoken from the bed he'd shared with Elizabeth because of Miss Bingley’s playing of the pianoforte, but when he'd followed the music, he had instead entered an old, and abandoned room with a disconcertingly clean mirror hanging from one of it's walls. 

 

When he'd touched its surface, a bright light coming from the looking glass had enveloped him.

 

After that… after that, Darcy had woken up.

 

Had that not been a dream? Or was he perhaps dreaming still? The longer he observed them, the more familiar his surroundings seemed to get. He had stayed in this room before. He just could not put his finger on when or where. Darcy slowly turned on his heel, taking in the golden-papered walls and the complimentary dark wood and crimson furniture. He was just about to walk over to the large window and pull open the curtains when a knock on his door stopped him in his tracks. Before he could answer, the door opened and Bingley, of all the people in the world, entered into his chamber.

 

And Darcy suddenly remembered. 

 

He was in Netherfield.

 

How? It had been months since the Darcys had visited the Bingleys at their estate. Bingley had been tentatively considering giving up the lease, but for perhaps the first time in his life, he was taking his time before making a decision. How in the world had Darcy woken up a hundred and thirty or so miles away from his own home? And where the hell was his wife?!

 

“Bingley-”

 

“Darcy! I am glad to see you up and awake. We were beginning to worry. ‘Tis almost noon. Damned unusual of you to sleep in so late. That headache last night must have been the Devil, eh?”

 

Last night? Headache?

 

Darcy had no idea what Bingley was talking about. In fact, Darcy had no idea what he was doing in Bingley’s house. He was about to ask, more than a little confused, when another little bit of detail from last night's maybe-dream appeared in the front of his mind.

 

His reflection. His reflection in that blasted mirror had been different. Dressed in full evening wear, he'd looked more like he'd been in the middle of attending a social engagement and less like he'd just rolled out of bed.

 

Had they, in some fantastical way he could not wrap his brain around, swapped places? Had that Darcy been visiting Bingley?

 

But no- if he woke up here, in that other Darcy's place, did that mean that that other Darcy woke in his? 

 

Next to Elizabeth?

 

“Woah, what is with that face you are making, ol’ boy? You're looking more than a little terrifying.” Bingley tried to keep his tone light and joking, but a little of his nervousness at his friend's sudden, unexpected anger seeped through. 

 

“Bingley, what date is it today?” Darcy had only ever stayed at Netherfield twice before he'd married Elizabeth, after which they'd shared one chamber even in his brother-in-law's home.

 

If those dates coincided with the one his friend answered with, Darcy could deduce that he had, somehow, travelled in time. If not, he supposed he had travelled through dimensions into an alternate universe.

 

Time travel. Alternate universes. 

 

Darcy had attended a couple of scientific seminars while he was in Cambridge on theoretical physics and quantum mechanics. Not because he was particularly interested in the metaphysical questions about the nature of reality, but because lecture halls and chess club meetings were some of the few places where Darcy could escape Wickham and his group of degenerate friends. 

 

He'd never thought then that what he'd considered to be gibberish at best and ludicrous at worst would now become principles he would have to abide by.

 

Bingley blinked, “ ‘Tis the thirtieth of October.”

 

“What about the year?”

 

Giving his friend a funny look, Bingley answered nonetheless, “Eighteen hundred and eleven.”

 

Darcy closed his eyes. The past then.

 

Somehow, despite knowing he had travelled through time, he felt closer to home than if he had travelled across realities.

 

Not that the consolation was of any help whatsoever. He still had no idea how he would go back to the present.

 

Bingley still looked terribly concerned for his obviously ill friend, “Are you sure you are alright, Darcy? You have been in a bit of a mood ever since you came to Hertfordshire, but whatever seems to be ailing you has only aggravated since last night. Perhaps we should postpone the dinner with the officers tonight. Nothing is more important than your health.”

 

Darcy froze in the middle of what he considered to be an existential crisis. Dinner with the officers. The Bingley sisters would be inviting Jane for tea this evening while the men are out. Jane would ride out on a horse, get soaked in the incoming rain, and fall ill.

 

Her sister will then come the next morning to take care of her.

 

Elizabeth will come.

 

Darcy considered the situation before him. He knew nothing of time travel. He had no idea how to even start looking for a way back to his time. Was there even a way back? What Darcy needed to do, was what he did best.

 

He needed to study.

 

In the meantime, his wife, before she became his wife, was coming to stay under the same roof as him. Unlike before, Darcy now knew she did not have the best impression of him. She did not yet hate him as much as she had done when she had first discovered how crucial of a role he had played in splitting Bingley from her dearest sister, but his disagreeable attitude and unwarranted snobbery had not appealed to her nonetheless.

 

Here was the perfect opportunity before him to change the past. Some romantics may proclaim they would never change anything about their courtships- be it the painful uncertainties, or the hopeless days filled with endless yearning. 

 

Darcy was not one of them. He would give anything to have never hurt her either through his words or his actions. Anything to have never said any of those insultingly ridiculous statements he had uttered about his most precious person while still a pompous buffoon. Now here he was, six years in the past, almost five of which he'd spent as the closest person to Elizabeth. He could say it now with utter confidence that it was him who knew her best. Her likes and dislikes, her moods and her expressions, her mind and her body. 

 

He decided right then and there- he would look for a way to return to his time. And until he found a solution, he was going to be the most perfect suitor Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn had ever seen.