Real: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Read online

  But — since when has he held that or anything against me?

  My eyes threaten to water for a bit. I breathe in, deep. Snobby, arrogant, or a complete robot — sure, I've called him those things without an ounce of regret.

  But that was before I knew all these other sides of him — the husband who feeds me what I want, who escorts me to our rooms, who wakes me up in time for church on Sunday morning. And the more I get to know these facets, the more they start to shed light on all the other nice things he's done by omission.

  I remember the professional way he handled himself each time he walked in on me gossiping with another colleague about him. I remember the way he politely overlooked my very rowdy friends during the latest product launch. I remember his assuring text that he didn't like the timing of his date-posal either.

  "Mrs. Darcy, please, forgive me."

  I jump, transported to the present. I blink a lot.

  Then I shake my head at Lilieth. "No, no — don't worry. Uhm, thanks for — telling me."

  "Of course, Mrs. Darcy."

  • • •

  It's not surprising, really. In my lifetime, most married couples stay in the same room. They usually share the same bed. It's not abnormal. But, then again, it's not my fault that they make two rooms for the mister and missus around here.

  If anything, it's more convenient.

  For me.

  "I am so thankful for the message today," Georgiana mumbles across from me. I look up, a little surprised. The low rumble of the carriage can be soothing — a little like white noise. My supposed sister-in-law is sitting very pretty across from me. The blue dress and detailed embroidery add to her natural delicacy. It's almost as if fashion sense in this era isn't all bad. "'Tis a comfort to know all things work together so splendidly."

  Splendid, of course, is her own word choice. I smile a little. For all their formal pomp and circumstance, these people are pretty straightforward about their faith.

  "Wise words they are indeed," Darcy says beside me, also smiling. I'm reminded all over again of his proximity — and thankful for the long sleeves that cover my goose bumps. The carriage feels cramped with us sharing a bench. Thanks to that fateful company Christmas pool party (now that's a mouthful), I know exactly how much muscle he's been packing under those nicely pressed shirts.

  Or, in this case, frills and coats and frocks.

  My smile tightens.

  "Lizzy," Georgiana calls. I refocus on her. "Did you enjoy the service this morning?"

  I keep my tight smile. "Yes — I think."

  It's the safest answer.

  "That is so wonderful to know!" she exclaims, still uncannily enthusiastic in this universe. "We have been worried, Lizzy. You have not been your —"

  "Your best spirits," Darcy interrupts. Georgiana looks at him wide-eyed, as do I. He shuffles a little under the scrutiny. He always does. "Is that not what you meant, Georgiana?"

  The stress of her name seems to remind his sister sufficiently, and the young girl settles back down to her normal quieter self. "Of course."

  And, for the nth time since this out-of-body experience began, I find myself very grateful for Darcy. None of us talk again for a minute or so.

  Then I decide to be brave.

  "Georgiana." She looks up eagerly. "I did very much — enjoy the service today. I am happy to — uhm, worship with you — guys."

  I smile forcefully. That's as bad of Regency prose as I've managed in a while.

  "The message means much, does it not?" Georgiana's voice is hopeful again. I like it that way.

  "Yes, it is," I agree.

  To be fair, it was. To hear from the preacher's mouth — and, technically, from the Bible — that all things work together for good, that there's a purpose to this entire universe, switcheroo-slash-indwelling crazyness notwithstanding. That, well, that's a really comforting thought.

  Whether real or not real.

  "The preacher," I start (wait, is it parson? or clergy? pastor? priest?). I go on, "he speaks — well."

  Across from me, Georgiana nods enthusiastically. Besides me, Darcy leans closer. My lungs start to feel increasingly constricted.

  "Mr. Stanford is truly a man of God," she agrees heartily. "I like him so much more than silly Mr. Collins."

  "Georgiana!" Darcy's instantly bellowing, before I know what he's yelling about. "You must not speak so ill of Lizzy's cousin."

  His sister's hand fly to her mouth. She's gasping in the classic English heroine sort of way. You know, the way your junior-high English teacher will teach you to play Juliet. She's — flummoxed. "Oh, Lizzy, I am so very sorry! Please pardon my foolishness."

  Uhm — what?

  Confused-with-a-hint-of-awkward is fast becoming my favorite expression these days. I roll my eyes.

  "Oh, Lizzy." Georgiana's voice is cracking. I belatedly realize she must've interpreted the eye roll as something I did in response to her.

  Well, bless her little heart.

  "Georgiana, it's fine. You don't — do not have to worry." I reach over to grab her hands. I'm still a little unsure what I'm comforting her about. I recall something about — cousins. "I think it is — normal, of course, that my, uhm — cousin —"

  "He means well, I understand." Georgiana enthusiastically grips my hands in return. She's pretty strong for such a tiny girl. "He — he is unconventional, to be sure, but I have no right to dismiss his actions as silly."

  Hm, sounds like someone I know. So, let's see — male, silly, and named —

  Collins?

  Will Collins?

  I bite my lip. The carriage sways back and forth from left to right as we get nearer to the house. The serene surroundings here don't seem to imply there can be any imperfections in this alternate timeline.

  Unless there are?

  Such as — say, my forever-stalker Will Collins?

  "He is a — verbose man," I start. Darcy and Georgiana smile a little. Good — they agree. "I find it — unfortunate — to be part of his family."

  'Cause heck yes, I would.

  Georgiana is smiling again, and her brother is chuckling a little. I let go of the girl to look at the guy.

  In the blink of an eye, he's snaked his arm around me. He pulls me in and kisses my forehead. "You, my love, are the kindest soul on the planet to apply such benign words to your peculiar cousin."

  Huh, he actually liked it.

  I smile for real. "I'm glad you think so, dear."

  The last word slips out unwittingly. I freeze.

  He doesn't freeze — no. He just — looks deeply and tenderly into my eyes until I'm pretty sure he's about to kiss me right in front of his baby sister.

  Then he smiles, squeezes my shoulder, and looks out the window.

  • • •

  For the past two Sundays, I'd hidden myself in the library all afternoon. There's something comforting about the place. The books and the shelves and the chairs — they feel familiar, and happy.

  But this afternoon, I let Georgiana pull me to the music room. To be fair, she really makes a wonderful sister. We play a few pieces, Darcy claps, and soon we're tired of music and each absorbed in our own book.

  My empty teacup hits the porcelain saucer.

  "Lilieth," I call. "Lilieth!"

  It's not like I can't refill my own teapot (thank God I like tea. There's not much else to drink around here). But, you know, the kitchen can be kinda far.

  "Lilieth?" I'm getting increasingly annoyed. Isn't she a personal genie — always ready for my beck and call?

  "Can I help you, Lizzy?" Darcy says across me. He looks up from his latest book on agricultural patterns. The reading glasses make him look more sexy than old — darn him.

  I shrug, a tad sheepish. "The water."

  "I can help!" Georgiana pipes up. I look at her. The silk and sheen from her outfit doesn't exactly scream kitchen help.

  "Do not worry, I shall." Darcy is folding his book and leaving it on the side table. The
whole idea of William Darcy serving me sounds ridiculously impossible in my mind. "Do you wish for much else, Lizzy?"

  I look up at his towering form. He looks a little more severe than this morning, what with the dark clothes and matching hanky-tie-cravat. "Uhm — no, thanks?"

  He smiles, like he actually enjoys this, picks up the empty pot, and leaves. The door slides shut while my mouth hangs open.

  Did he just — did the bossy William Darcy —

  "He is so very kind, don't you think?" Georgiana's smile is obvious in her voice. I don't bother hiding my surprise. "Father started the tradition when mother passed. It has been very beneficial for the household."

  I look at her, openly uncomprehending.

  "Tradition?" I blurt without thinking. I'm always a few seconds away from slapping my stupid mouth shut around here.

  "Letting the servants rest on the Lord's day, of course." Georgiana smiles over her sewing project. I can't imagine modern rich folks doing stuff like this themselves. "Brother has been very intent to maintain the practice."

  Sundays off — can't take stuff for granted around here, it seems.

  I smirk to myself. At least the Darcys are nice.

  But, even then, the thoughts are a little unsettling. I try in vain to blink the unpleasant possibilities away.

  I mean, any little twist could have placed me in the servants' quarters instead of the master bedroom, right? I could just have easily woken up one day in Lilieth's shoes instead of mine.

  It's a sobering thought, for sure.

  "I come bearing gifts." Darcy appears in person as his voice hit my ears. I look at him, smiling. He walks — glides — over. He walks so sleekly that all the heist movies should film him as a model catwalker. You know, the wind-in-the-hair, dark clothes, marching-as-a-team scene.

  He stops in front of me and dutifully fills my cup. "I hope the tea agrees with you, my love."

  I can smell it from my seat — minty with a touch of rose, and it smells really, really good. I try very hard to ignore how handsome he looks attending to me like this. It's not good, not healthy. Despite what he might believe, I'm not his wife. I'm not 'his love'.

  I look around, eyes landing for a bit on Georgiana. I don't know if this Gigi is in any way connected to the other one. They do look and act alike. But, hey, at best, she's just my roommate, my friend. She's not my sister or sister-in-law in any sort of way.

  I feel Darcy sitting down beside me on the small chaise. I shift a little, as far as I can. I'm not exactly ready to be doing more cuddling in front of his sister yet.

  I mean —

  I breathe in sharply.

  Yet?

  His free hand lands around me. I hide my sigh. Is it even right to be doing this? To actually enjoy the comfort of his presence?

  I look sideways at him. He looks up from his page, smiles at me, and goes back to his reading. He obviously thinks I'm his spouse and lover. He has no reason to think otherwise, obviously. It's not his fault he thinks I'm his wife.

  The question is —

  Am I?

  • • •

  "Does the fire warm you sufficiently?"

  I look up from Chaucer to see Darcy crouched beside the fireplace. The ruffled hair, the white sleep-dress, and now the unexpected squat — the guy never stops surprising me. I smile. "I'm fine. Thank you."

  He smiles in return, nods, and resumes his spot beside me. I get cold pretty easily, to be honest, and the only thing keeping me warm today has been his constant physical presence.

  But hey, he doesn't need to know that.

  I fight the urge to snuggle closer. Thank God for the tray of food between us — it's protection from start to finish, that's for sure.

  I squirm a little at the recollection of how easily Darcy had maneuvered around it the other day. I had no idea how he'd been suddenly on top of me — with the tray completely undisturbed, too. Sure, I've played tennis and all. But, even then, I'm not that coordinated.

  "Lizzy," he calls me.

  I finish reading the last sentence and turn. "Yes?"

  He's smiling casually, like it's perfectly normal for us to be talking over books and snacks tonight. Then again, maybe it is.

  "I — I found your dress very lovely today," he says, to my very genuine surprise.

  "Oh." I smile a little. It's a compliment, after all, expected or not. "Uhm — thanks?"

  "The modiste does well."

  The modiste — right. I grin a little at the memory of young Georgiana flitting around with all those dated fashion pegs. Old-fashioned way of dressing-up doesn't mean bad quality, I suppose.

  I look at Darcy, feeling a little flattered. "Thanks."

  "I speak but the truth." He smiles — and the dimples and the eyes will be the death of me yet.

  Theoretically, the weather's only gotten colder and colder around here. But, right now, the room feels like a freakin' stifling furnace.

  I clear my throat for no apparent reason. "You looked — uhm, nice, too."

  My bumbling comment has him smiling — with teeth. "I believe that has been my unfortunate lot in life. To look nice is to be above decent yet below handsome."

  "What? No," I protest. I push the familiarity of the wording to the back of my brain. I lean over the side table, tray and all. "You're not just nice. I mean — you are. I meant, your clothes — your outfit, okay? That was nice. You — your yourself — you're more than just nice."

  He doesn't move; he usually doesn't. But his eyes grow brighter, like they're actually twinkling. I see the corners of his mouth almost lifting. "Are you saying what I believe you to be saying, Lizzy?"

  "And what do you believe?" I smile, anticipating.

  "That I am above your definition of an average man." The teasing lilt in his voice is undeniable now, and it's doing strange things to my chest.

  "Of course you are," I say — gush, really. I smile again. "You're — you're really, really good, Darcy. You look good, for one, and you're also a very admirable man."

  Again, he doesn't move. But his face does redden. The fact that my words fluster him makes him particularly cute.

  "You're a good man, Darcy," I say, almost to myself. I blink very fast. "I'm sorry I haven't said that a lot."

  His lips slowly curl into a grateful smile. "It means much to hear you say so, darling."

  This time, I don't let the endearment throw me off.

  "Of course," I mutter and quickly turn away before I do something stupid like kiss him or — "Oh!"

  The hot, searing tea soaks my nightgown instantly. I jump off the chair in panic.

  "Lizzy!" He springs from his seat too. His right hand rights the tilted teapot. His left hand reaches out. He catches my arm just when I arch myself in an awkward semicircle to keep the wet, hot front of my dripping shirt away from my body.

  I suck in air, shocked and a little burnt.

  "Lilieth! Mrs. Reynolds!" Darcy commands. His voice — that CEO voice — perfectly balances authority and calm. He escorts me farther away from the scene of the accident. I feel a little embarrassed at my second tea-related accident since arriving here.

  Then again, the first time kinda wasn't an accident.

  "Lilieth!" Darcy orders again. I hazily picture him as the inevitable CEO of Pemberley Inc. one day.

  Why did I ever think I had a chance at that promotion?

  "Mr. Darcy! Mrs. Darcy!" The servants arrive all at once, tumbling into our suite.

  "Mrs. Reynolds, please oversee the circumstance." He gestures towards the mess I've made, his other hand secure around my arm. "Lilieth, assist Mrs. Darcy."

  "Yes, sir."

  I'm whisked away before I even process the 'circumstance.'

  • • •

  "Mrs. Darcy. Do your injuries hurt?"

  I start, suddenly remembering it's the second time Lilieth's dressed me for bed tonight.

  "Oh, uhm." I look down at my newly-replaced-yet-exactly-alike nightgown. Strange enough, the burns don't hu
rt — unless it really was more shock than pain. I look at her reflection in the metal mirror. "They don't — thank you."

  Lilieth curtsies. "I apologize for the tea, madame."

  "The tea?" I frown.

  "If I had not boiled the water so hot —"

  "Oh no, not at all. Don't worry." I smile at her. "It didn't hurt — really. I mean, besides, I like it really warm."

  She curtsies again. Despite her hanging her head, I can see the huge eye bags.

  "Hey, get some rest, okay?" I put on my motherly/sisterly tone. "I'm fine. Just — leave me be."

  She curtsies, nods, and backs away.

  Seated alone on my vanity table, I sigh. My hands play absent-mindedly on a few locks of hair. Was the accident a sign — a wake-up call that something very dangerous was about to happen? Or was, I dunno, a sign — a reminder that this, everything here, is my life now — and I might as well make the most out of it?

  I sigh again when I stand up, leaning forward against the table top. After that scene, am I suddenly more attractive, or less attractive, to him?

  Does it even matter?

  "Lizzy." The low rumble of his voice echoes behind me, and I'm suddenly aware that he's very, very close. I breathe deeply; my eyelids drop. His hands — warm, large, and soothing — land on both my shoulders. I feel small and delicate and treasured.

  "Lizzy, are you well?" They're the first words this Darcy has ever said to me. That time, I was too preoccupied with scrambling out of the bed to care. This time, with his breath on my neck and his chest to my back, I'm confronted with the fact that the simple words represent a far deeper concern and love.

  His hands slide down from my shoulders to my arms. The thin white fabric doesn't really shield me from his electrifying touch. His fingers leave a trail of goosebumps on tight, charged skin. My chest starts heaving. This means something, something bigger than anything we've had between us before.

  His lips kiss the crown of my head, and I lean back slight against his chest. He catches me willingly, and his hands roam down to hug me across the waist.