Page 42 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

ELIZABETH

W e had been travelling for more than a week—nine days, to be precise.

I was only certain of this because we had spent two nights at one inn rather than the usual single evening.

My body ached with the fatigue of constant motion, and the passing days had begun to blur together.

Each stop was brief, only long enough to rest the horses or take a meal, and always under close supervision.

I was permitted short walks, but never unaccompanied.

Other than the brief moments when I was allowed to use the necessary, I was never alone.

They had not stripped me of my belongings.

I still had my journal where I had poured my thoughts into unsent letters addressed to my aunt and uncle in London, my sisters, Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—and even his sister, Miss Darcy.

Those letters remained folded within the journal’s pages, a poor substitute for true communication, but they offered some solace and allowed me to pretend as though I were speaking to them.

By the third day, I had persuaded my captors to purchase a small supply of pencils from a shop near Doncaster.

I retrieved my sketchpad and crayons from my trunk and began to sketch whilst we travelled.

In between rereading the few books I had brought, writing letters I could not send, and stitching small bits of embroidery, I tried again and again to capture Fitzwilliam’s likeness from memory.

I had drawn his face dozens of times, attempting to recall the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, the tension in his jaw when he was deep in thought, and the expression of hope and vulnerability he wore when he asked me to be his wife.

Yet none of my attempts quite succeeded in capturing him as well as I would have liked.

None could fully reflect that moment. Still, the likeness was good enough that I treasured this small connexion to him.

Refusing to give in to despair, at each inn where we stopped, I made a point of giving the innkeeper my name—my full and proper name—and I spoke to as many people as I could.

I told them I was from Hertfordshire, travelling north to assist relatives.

I prayed that, should any be seeking me, as I most fervently hoped, my trail might not be so easily concealed.

My captors had, thus far, treated me with kindness; yet I hesitated to provoke them, lest they devise some other means of ensuring my compliance.

On the ninth day—Wednesday—we arrived at what I assumed must be my final destination.

The house was modest, somewhat larger than a cottage but far from grand.

The grounds were neat, if unremarkable, nestled deep within a wooded area and removed from any town or village.

It felt utterly isolated, and that sense of seclusion settled heavily upon me as I entered my new home.

A housekeeper met us at the door with a cautious glance, flanked by a stout cook, a red-faced maid of all work, and a tall, broad-shouldered manservant who looked more like a retired soldier than a domestic.

It quickly became apparent that I was now in Scotland.

All the new servants spoke with thick Scottish burrs, their speech filled with clipped vowels and words I had never heard before.

Of them all, the housekeeper, Mrs. Mackenzie, was the most intelligible—likely the best educated or at least the most used to dealing with “southern” visitors.

Still, even she occasionally lapsed into rapid Scots that left me scrambling to decipher her meaning .

The two servants who had travelled with me disembarked only long enough to pass me and my trunk into the housekeeper’s care.

They exchanged no farewells and offered no explanations.

Moments later, they reboarded the carriage and departed without ceremony, leaving me standing in the entryway with no idea of what to expect.

Before long, I was shown to a bedchamber on the upper floor.

It was neither lavish nor cold—furnished with a small hearth, a soft bed, a washstand, and a narrow window that overlooked a hedged garden beyond.

Although plainly appointed, the room held enough comfort to suggest that I was not meant to suffer.

Later, during a careful exploration of the house, I discovered a library.

It was not vast, but it held a respectable number of volumes—some familiar, many not—and I was grateful for the distraction.

I also came across writing supplies tucked neatly into a drawer and a collection of cloth and thread in a basket beside the parlour hearth.

These modest comforts lifted my spirits slightly, although they offered no clue as to who had sent me here, nor how long I would be expected to remain.

Still, I remained vigilant, searching for opportunities to get word to Fitzwilliam, my sisters, or my relations in London.

The servants treated me with a cautious politeness—they were never unkind, but neither were they warm towards me.

The manservant rarely spoke to me at all, whilst the maid appeared almost wary of me.

Only Mrs. Mackenzie was even a little welcoming towards me, but most of our conversations related to the household, and we did not remark on anything personal.

Since I received no letters, I did not know for what purpose I had been sent here, but I clung to my memories of home and those who loved me.

I tried to remind myself daily that I was Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, beloved of Fitzwilliam Darcy, and no circumstance—not even this strange exile—could take that from me.

Unlike the journey north, during which I had been watched closely at every turn, the servants here paid me far less attention.

It was not out of trust, I quickly realised, but necessity.

The cottage was remote, set amidst moorland and rough hills, and there was little risk of my encountering anyone who might aid me.

The few crofters I passed during my brief walks spoke in a thick, unfamiliar dialect, their words difficult to decipher.

We struggled to understand one another, and none would accept a letter from me—not even when I discreetly offered a coin.

There was a visible wariness in their eyes, and more than once I heard the words coigreach and Sassenach muttered in my direction.

With some coaxing, Mrs. Mackenzie eventually explained that both terms referred to outsiders—foreigners, especially those from England.

Distrust of such people ran deep in this part of the country, and no one would risk speaking to me, let alone do me a favour.

It was not cruelty that kept them distant, but centuries of suspicion, and I, a solitary Englishwoman in an unfamiliar land, represented all they had learnt to fear.

Soon, the days fell into some sort of a pattern.

I still rose early even though the days were shorter here this far north.

After breaking my fast, usually with some sort of porridge or pastries that were different from what I was used to at home, I would spend a few hours writing and reading.

Around noon, when it was the warmest, I would take a walk in the garden outside.

If it was warm enough, I would go further afield, but for the most part, I remained nearby.

After my walk, I would sit in the window and sew.

Mrs. Mackenzie had made me aware of a few of the needs of the nearby crofters, and I sewed items that I hoped would prove beneficial, similar to what my sisters and I did at home.

Occasionally, Mrs. Mackenzie would join me as I sewed, even telling me brief stories about the people nearby.

It was not personal, but it was better than being ignored, and I took joy in these simple conversations.

I tried to mark the passing days as best I could, but they blurred together with the sameness of routine.

Eventually, I began to count the weeks instead—each one marked by the servants taking turns attending church on Sundays.

I was not permitted to join them, no matter how often or how politely I asked.

I never raised my voice, for I knew there would be no use in protest. I had no one to appeal to, no means of sending word.

And yet, I refused to give in to despair.

The weather turned colder as the days grew shorter.

We were far enough north that I soon had to shorten my daily walks, and after I remarked on the chill, a warmer cloak appeared in my room, along with thick woollen petticoats and flannel nightgowns.

It was a strange kind of care, but care nonetheless.

I could only assume that the staff had been paid well to keep me safe and comfortable—if not free.

Even so, I kept writing. I filled pages with letters—letters to my family, to Fitzwilliam, to anyone I thought might one day search for me.

I sketched when I had the strength, embroidered to pass the hours, but never allowed myself to surrender hope.

If the opportunity ever arose to send a message, I would be ready.

I had not been forgotten by those I loved.

I would not be forgotten. I would find a way away from here.

More than once, as I sat alone in my room, I thought I heard the familiar admonition whispered through my mind. “Be patient, child.”

After several weeks in that place, one evening, the words came more clearly than ever before, so distinctly that I started. With my hands clenched tightly in my lap, I cried out into the silence.

“Patience! You admonished me to be patient long enough, Grandmama. Is there truly nothing I can do but wait while my spirit withers within these walls?”

The air stirred, though no window was open, and the voice returned, calm and measured. “Patience is not idleness, my dearest girl. It is strength concealed beneath restraint.”

For a moment I was silent, stunned. I had imagined my grandmother’s voice often enough, but never had it sounded so clear, so near.

“How can you say that?” I whispered into the darkness of my room. “My family is lost to me, my love is lost to me. I did nothing wrong, save falling in love with a man who is my equal in every way. Why must I suffer so?”

“Be patient,” she repeated.

“I have had enough of patience, Grandmama,” I cried again. “Why am I here? What am I to do? I pray that Fitzwilliam is searching for me, but why have we been separated?”

Her reply was gentle, yet unyielding. “Trust that all will work out as it is meant to, my beautiful Elizabeth. The path is hard, but it is the better way.”

I scoffed, my heart aching. “I can scarcely believe that.”

“When the time is right, all will be as it should be,” she said once more.

I huffed, folding my arms. “Easy for you to say,” I muttered bitterly.

Her voice softened, almost coaxing. “Do you trust me, my dear?”

“I do,” I answered at last, though my tone faltered. Perhaps I was losing my senses, imagining spirits where there were none, yet the comfort of her presence was undeniable.

“Then be patient,” she said. “You will be here a little longer, but things will work out. That I promise you.”

Sighing, I bowed my head. I still raged at times, the fury growing sharper with every day of my confinement, but I clung to her words, to the letters I wrote for Fitzwilliam, to the sketches I drew of his face. These small acts became my solace.

Still, Christmas came and went, as did the New Year, and I remained where I was. Each night I prayed that, with the spring, a way of escape would at last be revealed—a path back to the family and the man I so dearly loved.