Real: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Read online

  I nod thrice, throat thick. How is no one helping this boy? Why isn't he in the hospital?

  "Mrs. Darcy will fix you good, Geoff." Mrs. Reynolds smiles at her nephew while Lilieth hands off the basket to the tired, tattered man in the corner. "Heaven won't take your mother without sendin' another one."

  My chest tightens incrementally. Guess the dead mother fact might be what tapped the nurturing gene in me.

  I smile sadly, walking closer again. I'm not exactly sure what to say, so I say things that pretty much sum up to nothing. The 'drink water' and 'get rest' garden variety sort.

  I'm not a med student, okay? That's Bingley's job — at least, I thought so.

  Young Geoffrey and Mrs. Reynolds and the man in the corner nod generously, taking in all my dubious advice as if it was grand enlightenment. And suddenly, my private sarcasm doesn't feel quite as satisfactory as usual.

  "Listen to Mrs. Darcy, shall you?" I'm almost surprised when Mrs. Reynolds starts to leave her post by the pillows. Then again — how do these visits end? "The food and syrups will fix you up good."

  I smile politely when everyone starts looking at me.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Darcy," croaks little Geoffrey, and my heart aches all over again.

  What a horrible fate for such a sweet young boy!

  "I think — you will — get better," I make out at last, forced to speak by the awkward silence.

  The good thing is that everyone at the scene seems to find my comments entirely sufficient.

  In fact, Lilieth adds more, "Geoffrey, you must rest well. Mrs. Darcy will not let you suffer. She saved me just for my name! The Darcys will not have any harm come to you."

  Name?

  I look at Lilieth quizzically. She blushes. "You said my name sounded like yours, madame."

  Lilieth — Elizabeth, of course. For the first time in the last 24 hours, I'm made to consider who this woman I've replaced happens to be. Is she real? Am I indwelling her? Or is this some sort of Freaky-Friday-mix-up conundrum?

  I don't get my answer before goodbyes are said and more gratefulness is acknowledged. The carriage pulls up right on cue, and we all board it wordlessly.

  Mrs. Reynolds looks uneasy in the plush interiors. Lilieth just hangs her head quietly. And I, left to my own thoughts, try to find that elusive peace of mind.

  But, hey, at least I know what mistresses of great English estates did now.

  • • •

  "The garden was so beautiful this afternoon!" Georgiana, prim and proper in her evening wear (because they have specific outfits for everything), sighs over supper. "Sunset bathed the entire garden in such gorgeous colors!"

  Darcy smiles beside me. I keep my eyes on his sister.

  She looks between us, seemingly deciding something, before she says, "Lizzy, it was a shame you could not join me."

  Yeah, because I was cuddled up with Milton again — even if thoughts of little Geoffrey made sure I didn't read much. For a moment, I feel a little dilemma of having to decide to feel guilty or not.

  Heck, she's not even my real sister.

  I decide not to let it bother me — until I remember she's the world's best roommate in, well, the other place.

  Why is pseudo-reality such a sticky situation?

  "I am sure the sweet blossoms were wonderful rewards by themselves, Georgiana," Darcy starts talking beside me, saving my skin. I look at him, a little grateful. "Lizzy cannot always accompany you."

  Yup — for once, he's right.

  Across the table, Georgiana looks like she's fighting a pout. If my experience with little sisters counts for anything, then I declare Darcy's sister a total angel. Lydia could not have cared less.

  I feel a nudge on my elbow. I look up at its source — and frown.

  Darcy's leaning his head sideways, towards Georgiana. His face twitches in an uncomfortable, deliberate way. Is he — ill? He nods his head in the direction it's inclined — and I suddenly get it.

  Right.

  "Georgiana," I speak — benevolently, like an actual estate mistress. "I'm sorry I couldn't join you today."

  "Oh, please, do not worry yourself, Lizzy." She smiles meekly back at me. It's strange to see Gigi, albeit a blond version of her, act so shy. "You must have many matters to attend to daily."

  Do I?

  I smile back as weakly as she did. Feeling a little off-center, I add, "I — had to — visit."

  Smooth, Lizzie, horrifically smooth. I resist rolling my eyes or biting my cheek.

  "Yes, of course," Darcy is talking again. I wonder whether or not to be happy he's agreeing. "How does Geoffrey fare?"

  I look at him, surprised. The creased brow, the squinted eyes — he looks — sincerely worried.

  Didn't rich masters used to all be horrible people?

  "He — he's still coughing." I belatedly realize how hard it is to describe a patient's current condition without really knowing anything of his past. "We brought him — food."

  I try to expect the unexpected, but Darcy's gentle smile still surprises me. His eyes warm while he reaches a hand over to cover mine. He seems to like doing that.

  "Thank you, Lizzy — you are truly Pemberley's best mistress."

  Pemberley?

  I try to piece things together, destined to play catch-up in this awkward dream. Given the family ties among Pemberley Inc.'s board members, the young company has got to be named after something agreeable to all of the founders.

  A place in England, maybe? A family heritage site?

  I rack my brain for memories of the last company anniversary. They always show that video — the one with the British-accent female narrator.

  But of course.

  "Lizzy?"

  Darcy's pressing my hand. I snap out of it.

  "Are you well?"

  "Yes — I am — of course." I smile sheepishly, then tone it down immediately. "I was thinking of, uhm — Geoffrey!"

  If he calls me out for sounding so chippy, I wouldn't have blamed him one bit.

  But he doesn't. Because, apparently, doing that would have only half the shock value. No — one-fourth the shock value.

  Instead, he says, "You tend to tenants and servants alike with such tenderness of heart."

  Yes, big words. I smile hesitantly. He looks like he's not done.

  "Your kindness," he continues, definitely not done, and lifts my hand to his chest. I feel his heartbeat despite all the layers. It's deep and constant, warm and strong. "Your kindness spurs me to ever love you more."

  He kisses my knuckles, freaking me out — as if his words hadn't already.

  In the background, I hear Georgiana sigh happily. I'm too lost in a pair of blue-grey eyes, and that deep, steady heartbeat, to bother responding.

  • • •

  After a few hours of piano-playing, Milton-reading, and avoiding Darcy's gaze, we all 'retire to our chambers.' Lilieth helps me change into the ugly white sleep-dress thing before she dutifully brings her tray of snacks and tea without my asking — and I start to realize that maybe this is some sort of routine around here. Whoever said midnight snacks were a modern invention, right?

  But sitting all by myself in this flimsy excuse for a dress in the living space between my room and Darcy's — the situation doesn't feel familiar at all.

  Or maybe it does. I look at the bandage on my free hand. Darcy made sure that the dressing was changed before every meal today. Can't say he doesn't care.

  I put down my teacup, sighing.

  He cares, yes — but if he tries to do anything more than kissing my forehead tonight, then I might as well drop another piece of household china. Bandages are preferable to sexual assault, after all.

  I hear footsteps coming from Darcy's room. I wonder briefly if it would be rude to disappear to my room and lock the door — avoiding the audience altogether.

  But before I can conclude anything, Darcy appears — and my nerves shift to overdrive.

  It's not that he's not attractive. Modern Darc
y was hot — I'd always admitted that. Period drama dream Darcy was very hot, hiding under all those layers and all. Period drama dream Darcy in a loose sleep-dress thing, however, is just plain confusing.

  "Lizzy." He smiles at me as he walks over. I garner a tentative one in return, hands reaching for my cup and clutching it for dear life. "Thank you."

  He drops a quick kiss on my forehead before taking the chair beside me. I ignore the warmth the contact spreads through me. It's almost criminal to be enjoying something I should be seriously avoiding. But hey — England's a drafty place. Warmth is welcome.

  My mind comes back from its distracted musing and I suddenly note the lack of context for his words. "For what?"

  He looks — casual — pouring tea into his cup and lifting it for a sip. It's a little unnerving to see him so at ease, calm and smiling. "I do not know how I ever managed to run the place without you, darling. You bring heart to Pemberley."

  He looks straight at me after another sip — and my brain almost malfunctions. Kind, tender, and appreciative — is this even the Darcy I knew?

  Maybe it isn't, I realize, a little sadly. This is Darcy in old English history. This is Darcy based on my imagination. The real Darcy is arrogant, rude, and cool. He —

  I lose my train of thought at the feel of Darcy's fingertips brushing my forearm. I almost drop the cup.

  He's humming, low and seductive. I feel my eyes widen, my body stays still. The pads on his fingers — calloused and manly — trace up, up, up to my wrist, and then down, down, down to my elbow. Then he repeats it again — and again.

  I gulp, bewildered. He fixes his eyes on mine — unaffected.

  Help, help — help!

  How does a wife convince her husband it's not the right time for sex?

  "Lizzy," he whispers.

  I practically jump up and away. "I am — tired."

  'Cause that always works — right? Right?

  I cross my fingers behind me. Mrs. Reynolds sang his praises all morning, calling him 'the best landlord, and the best master.' I can only hope that also makes him the best husband — understanding and considerate.

  "Of course," he says, after a while, the heat in his eyes still burning. "You must rest."

  "Yes," I squeak.

  He finishes his tea before standing up. Then he walks over to me; my fingers cross tighter.

  "Goodnight, Lizzy," he states simply.

  "Goodnight, Darcy," I reply, soft and timid.

  He leans down. From his height, that gives me plenty of time to panic.

  But he doesn't aim for the lips, no. Instead, he lowers his face beside mine, his breath on my neck (can't say that isn't sexy) — and he turns to place a soft, gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek.

  On complete autopilot, I kiss him in return, my lips on his stubbled jaw.

  He pulls away slowly, as if enjoying the sensation. My brain starts to catch up with my actions. What on earth compelled me to do that?

  He smiles sadly at me. "Goodnight."

  But he doesn't move. He just stands there — looking at me like he needs me, like a thirsty man gazing at a rejuvenating source of fresh water.

  "Goodnight."

  I run.

  • • •

  My bedroom door slams shut with a bang, and I fall back against it, heart racing in speeds it has no business reaching. Hands against my chest, I drop down — all the way until my butt hits the wooden floor.

  I blink — a lot. I pant, fast. What was that all about?

  Old houses didn't exactly have good soundproofing, so I could hear Darcy's door drawing shut loud and clear. At least he's gone — away — to bed.

  I look at my bed — its rose-colored comforts beckoning me to sleep. But I wasn't in the mood for sleeping, not one bit.

  I've never been in this mood before — and I don't have a single clue on what to do next.

  Having finished Milton's third book before dinner, I'd wavered between riveting tales of round-table knights and edifying stories on the way to Canterbury. Feeling like something calmer, I'd opted for the Chaucer copy now lying on my nightstand. So now, having nothing better to do than fret about this sudden and confusing marriage to Darcy, I push myself off the floor and on to the bed, book in tow.

  It's a blessing that Darcy's a gentleman — even to his own wife. I can vividly recall the times when historical novels (bathroom reading, don't judge me) refer to sex as 'marital duty.' I mean, seriously, what a horrible choice of words!

  A nagging thought at the back of my mind insists that it wasn't just about word choice. This really is what people used to think — and I was darn lucky Darcy didn't think so too.

  I pull my knees to my chin, sighing. Is sleeping with Darcy part of the test I have to pass before I'm allowed to slip out of this nightmare? I vaguely remember Gigi saying something about trying it out. Is this still her? Inceptioning me?

  I can pretend, of course. I can act the part of a wife, pretend to be doting and loving. No one needs to know what happens once we're alone at night. But that, somehow, feels like cheating. And I don't think dream deities are that easy to fool.

  I try to read a page or two, but Chaucer, rhyme and all, doesn't latch on to my imagination. Why imagine England when I'm already in it? I'm placing the copy back on the night stand when I see the second book beneath it.

  I'd told Lilieth to put Chaucer in my room this afternoon. Guess she put it where she thinks I keep all my books.

  I pick up the bound text, its cover and edges frayed with regular use. Realizing how much imaginary Mrs. Darcy must've loved this book, I flip it carefully to the title page. Right — of course, what else would she read so often except the Bible? Without the internet, that was probably people's only source of advice.

  I rifle through the pages, trying to find, I dunno, a clue, maybe. If this is the good old book as people claim it to be — then something from my Sunday-school stories must have had at least some relevance. I look for familiar names: Jonah, maybe; or Daniel. Noah — I think I remember him.

  Then, ah, right — the girl.

  The book falls open in my lap, splitting at the book of Esther. The effortless way the pages fall open indicates this was one of the most-visited spreads. I have an amusing but horrific time reading about a king banishing his wife for refusing to attend his party. Is this what Mrs. Darcy does? Warn herself from disobeying her husband?

  I shudder.

  I remember snippets of the story from every time Mom made us attend Sunday school whenever her mom was in town. The teachers had these felt figures they put on a felt board — or was it flannel?

  I remember quite a bit from those days, actually. We did crafts on the horse Mordecai rode. We laughed about Haman, the practically comical villain. We talked about how Esther was this epitome of Hebrew beauty.

  Then came the next line: "Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?"

  That's it.

  I sigh — or groan, more likely. What's with this universe conspiring against me? I close the book and pop it back on the night stand, its thick pages on top of Chaucer. Then I slump down against the pillows.

  I'd asked this morning, yes, about what mistresses of English estates did — and, yeah, Reynolds kinda helped me figure that one out. But is that all? Am I supposed to have 'come to the kingdom' just to do that? There can't be that many sick people lying around here. As for Pemberley itself — well, the library is divine, sure, but that's gonna run out sooner or later, too.

  What else could I do around here?

  I close my eyes, willfully ignoring every mental suggestion that included William Darcy in any way, shape, or form. I'm not here for Darcy. Sure, he's in this bizarre nightmare because I was probably thinking about him one way or another when I fell asleep. But that doesn't mean I'm here for him. I'm not here to interact with him, to help him, or in any way fall in love with him.

  No.

  Just — no.

  I scoff, crossing my
hands fitfully. But that nagging line from Esther surfaces again, and I sigh.

  Is this what the universe had in mind for Groundhog Day?

  Is this — would I — will this —

  I sigh, with my eyes closed.

  Okay, fine.

  If I have to do something for the Darcy family — have to prove my worth in this ridiculous place, then I'll start with the Darcy I actually like.

  I smile a little at the irony of it all. Gigi the roommate had always complained about not having the sisters I did. Now, this time, maybe I'll get to be the one to act the part of a sister to her.

  Four

  "Mrs. Darcy." Lilieth walks up the moment I swallow my last bite. I turn. "The modiste waits, madame."

  Modiste?

  I fight my frown for various reasons — incomprehension, among others. Across from me, Georgiana's already gasping.

  "Oh Lizzy! The new gowns will be made just in time for Christmas."

  "Christmas — right," I mutter, gaze alternating between the two young women. From what I can tell, it's only summer. What date is it anyway?

  "Mrs. Darcy," Lilieth repeats, hands folded in front of her small frame.

  I nod, preoccupied.

  "Lizzy, shall we go?" Georgiana, completely ditching breakfast, is already standing up.

  I hesitate, still trying very hard to deny the real reason I'm still seated instead of Googling (oh gosh, I miss the internet) what a 'modiste' is.

  Then again, I just realize, I do know what a modiste is.

  "Lizzy, shall we go?" Georgiana's already by the door.

  I smile tentatively, hands clasped on my lap. It's not like me to be this shy.

  "Lizzy?"

  "Go ahead, Georgiana. I'll — catch up." I see a face confused. "I mean — I'll join you later."

  I smile at her, and she good-naturedly smiles back before slipping into the hallway. I look at the other girl.

  "Lilieth — go, uhm, assist Georgiana." Another confused look. "I'll go soon. Help — Miss Darcy."

  The young maid nods and scurries away.

  I sit alone at the table, every kind of European food at my fingertips. The windows, long and inviting, let in generous floods of sunshine. The table setting, intricate and luxurious, manages to perfectly highlight the solitude of it all.