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A dull, throbbing pain spread through her skull, slow at first, then insistently sharp, as though some unseen force was determined to pull her back from the depths of unconsciousness.

She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips, though the effort felt curiously foreign, as though she were inhabiting a body not entirely her own.

The sheets beneath her were cool, the familiar scent of lavender filling the air. Her lashes fluttered, and she became aware of the weight of a coverlet draped over her, of the slight indentation of a pillow beneath her head. This was not Pemberley.

She inhaled sharply. A memory surged—fragmented, sunlit, and vivid.

She had been riding. The morning air had been crisp, the golden hues of dawn stretching over the hills.

Fitzwilliam had been at her side—ever solicitous, ever cautious—reminding her, no, warning her to take care.

He had insisted she wait a while longer before returning to the saddle, but she had laughed, certain of her own strength.

They had taken off together, leaving young James in the care of his nurse, his bright blue eyes watching them from the nursery window. And then—

"Fitzwilliam?" Her voice, weak and uncertain, carried into the silence.

“Lizzy! Dearest, you are awake.”

It was Jane. Her sister’s fair face was drawn with worry, her usual serenity marred by the evident distress in her fine features. Her hands, gentle yet firm, cradled Elizabeth’s own, squeezing them with palpable relief. “Oh, Papa! She has woken!”

Elizabeth turned her head sharply, and the motion sent a fresh wave of pain spiraling through her skull.

She pressed a hand to her temple, wincing.

Jane’s use of Papa registered dimly, but her mind was in tumult, reeling against a truth too disorienting to grasp.

She should be in her chambers at Pemberley; Fitzwilliam should be at her side.

Her father should be at Longbourn—over one hundred and fifty miles distant.

Yet here she was, in her old bedroom: familiar, and yet entirely wrong—for it had not looked thus since she left it three years before.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice was hesitant now, wary. “What is it, dearest? Are you in much pain? ”

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, her breath quickening. She had fallen. She had struck her head. She had—what? Slipped into some terrible dream? Or had she awakened into one? Her eyes darted to Jane, slender as ever, her willowy frame unmarked by the bloom of impending motherhood, but she should be....

"Jane?" Her sister sat beside her, eyes shining with relief, hands clasped together as if in silent prayer.

Jane, still holding Elizabeth’s hand, spoke gently.

"You had an accident, Lizzy. You were out walking and took a terrible fall.

You struck your head, and we have been quite anxious.

You have been unconscious since yesterday.

We feared—" Jane faltered, swallowing against the emotion that threatened her usual composure.

"But you are awake now, and all shall be well. "

Elizabeth frowned, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with what she knew—what she remembered. "Yesterday? But—I was riding. Fitzwilliam was with me." She looked about the room as if expecting her husband to appear at any moment. "James—where is he? He was with the nurse, was he not?"

Jane's expression froze, her eyes widening. "Lizzy… Fitzwilliam? James? I—I do not understand. Who—who are you speaking of?"

Mr. Bennet stood at the foot of the bed, his brows raised in mild amusement, though his keen eyes studied her carefully. "Perhaps, my dear, you might enlighten us. Who is this Fitzwilliam? And this James?" His humor faded into concern. "Do you know where you are?"

Elizabeth swallowed, her thoughts whirling. "When are we?"

Jane blinked, confusion clouding her expression. "A fortnight before Michaelmas."

Elizabeth shook her head, gripping the bedcovers as if to steady herself. "No, Jane. What year?"

Jane hesitated, then answered slowly, "It is the year eighteen-eleven, Lizzy. Whatever do you mean by such a question?"

A chill coursed through Elizabeth. Eighteen-eleven. Not Fourteen. Not the life she had known, the life she had built. The weight of it settled upon her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Mr. Bennet, who had observed the exchange with growing concern, now stepped closer, his sharp gaze studying her intently. "Well, now, this is unexpected. My dear Lizzy, you have always been fond of puzzles, but I confess this one eludes me." "

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. The truth pressed against her lips, but how could she explain it? How could she tell them that she was married, that she had a child, that years had passed since she last dwelled within these walls as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn?

She swallowed hard. "I… must have been dreaming. It seemed so real."

Jane exchanged a worried glance with their father. "You were fevered through the night. Perhaps—perhaps it was a fevered dream."

"Perhaps," Elizabeth murmured, though uncertainty coiled deep within her.

Mr. Bennet exhaled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I believe we had best summon Mr. Jones. If my daughter is speaking of unknown gentlemen and infants that do not exist, I daresay her head injury may be more troubling than we first believed."

Before another word could be spoken, the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber burst open with an unceremonious crash, and Mrs. Bennet, in all her flustered glory, hurried inside. Her cap was askew, her ribbons trailing as she wrung her hands in exaggerated distress.

"Oh, my poor, dear Lizzy! What a dreadful turn of events!

My nerves can scarce bear it! To think, my very own daughter could have been lost!

What a trial for a mother! I have been saying for years that walking so early in the morning is unnatural and dangerous, and now see what has come of it!

Oh, Mr. Bennet, how could you allow such a thing?

What if she had cracked her skull? We should have been ruined! "

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temple, the pressure doing little to soothe the pounding ache in her head. Her mother’s voice, as shrill and lamenting as ever, rang in her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up. This must be a dream. It had to be.

She remembered this moment. Not exactly, but something very like it.

The fall, her mother’s dramatic wailing, the stifled giggles of her younger sisters just beyond the threshold—yes, she could hear them now, Lydia and Kitty whispering and laughing in the hallway.

This was her past, a memory playing out before her eyes.

If her mind was collating the two falls, if this was all some fevered vision, then soon she would wake, nestled in the grand bed at Pemberley, with Fitzwilliam at her side and James sleeping soundly in his cradle.

Any moment now.

But the sensation of the linen beneath her fingers was too real, the ache in her head too persistent. The scent of Longbourn, a mix of lavender and old wood, surrounded her, grounding her in the present—or rather, the past .

"Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Bennet interrupted sharply, having evidently reached the end of his patience. "Your lamentations are hardly conducive to Lizzy’s recovery. If you wish to faint from nerves, I suggest you do so elsewhere. For now, you are of no use to anyone."

Mrs. Bennet gasped, one hand flying to her chest in wounded indignation.

"No use! Mr. Bennet, how can you speak so cruelly? A mother’s concern is never of no use!

Why, I have been near senseless with worry!

But do I not have cause? Lizzy, my dear, you must promise me you shall never be so careless again. "

Elizabeth could only nod weakly, knowing no response would ever satisfy her mother. Mrs. Bennet huffed but, seeing no further attention given to her distress, gathered her skirts and flounced out of the room in a flurry of murmured complaints.

Just as the door swung shut behind her, the distant chime of the front doorbell rang through the house.

"Ah," Mr. Bennet said with some satisfaction. "That, I expect, will be Mr. Jones. Let us hope he can make better sense of all this than we can."

A few moments later, Mr. Jones was shown into the room, his presence bringing a hush of expectation. The physician, a middle-aged man with a composed demeanor, approached Elizabeth’s bedside and began his examination with a practiced efficiency.

"Miss Bennet, can you tell me your name?" he asked gently.

Elizabeth opened her mouth, the response automatic. "Elizabeth Antigone Bennet—" she nearly continued, "Darcy," but bit her tongue just in time. Her heart thudded as she saw the briefest flicker of surprise cross Mr. Jones’ face before he nodded.

"And the year?" he prompted.

Elizabeth hesitated, her mind rebelling against the truth she did not wish to accept. "Eighteen fo—" she caught herself, pressing her lips together before forcing the correction. "Eighteen-eleven."

A long pause followed. She did not need to look at Jane or her father to know they were troubled. Mr. Jones' pen scratched lightly against his notebook before he continued.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, raising his hand.

She exhaled in relief at the simple question. "Three."

"Good. Now, do you recall what happened? How did you come to be injured? "

Elizabeth frowned, trying to sort through the memories colliding in her mind. She had fallen—yes, but which fall? Fitzwilliam had warned her about her overconfidence, and she had disregarded him. She had been riding. But that could not be right, not if she were here.

Then it struck her. The horse. Not her own mount, but the one that had startled, bolting past her with wild eyes, its hooves pounding the earth. She had turned too quickly, lost her footing, and then—

"A horse," she murmured, grasping onto the truth that fit this time and place. "A horse ran past me, startled by something, and I… I must have fallen."

"Yes, my dear, that is what we were told," Jane soothed, though her eyes were still clouded with concern.

Mr. Jones nodded again, studying her carefully. "Well, Miss Bennet, you seem to be in possession of your faculties, though there were a few… curious moments. I shall recommend several days of bed rest and observation."

Elizabeth accepted the pronouncement with a docile nod, though inside, her mind reeled.

She prayed she would not have to endure again the pain of misunderstanding, the weight of not being believed.

She had lived that once—she had no desire to relive it.

What she needed, more than anything, was Fitzwilliam.

Her Fitzwilliam. The one who understood her, who held her hand through every trial, who loved her beyond reason.

But if this truly was 1811, he was not yet her Fitzwilliam. Not yet.

Each night, she lay in her bed at Longbourn, closing her eyes with a whispered prayer to wake in her true life, to open her eyes and find herself beside her husband, with James safe in the nursery.

Each morning, she awoke in 1811, and disappointment weighed heavier upon her soul.

Just as the weight of sorrow threatened to press upon her once more, her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried Mrs. Bennet as she bustled into the sitting room one morning, fanning herself with evident delight, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Elizabeth froze. The words sent a jolt through her, striking like the toll of a great bell. The moment had come.

Mr. Bennet, seated in his usual chair with a book in hand, merely turned a page. “I have not,” he replied without interest .

“But it is,” Mrs. Bennet continued eagerly, undeterred by her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. “For Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Bennet remained silent, though Elizabeth thought she caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” his wife pressed impatiently.

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. The words—this moment—she knew it. She had heard it before. This was the beginning. The beginning of everything.

Netherfield.

Fitzwilliam was coming.

The room swayed around her as memories—faint but undeniable—came rushing forth. She remembered this conversation, this very day. But in that other life, she had not known what was to come. Then, it had been a future unwritten. Now… now she knew the path that lay ahead.

Would he remember?

Her heart pounded. If this was truly happening—if she was truly here—then was it possible? Would Fitzwilliam look upon her at the Meryton assembly and remember the life they had shared? The love that had bound them? Or would he be as he had been then—reserved, proud, indifferent?

If he did not remember, should she tell him? Should she try to change things?

The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

Could they find happiness sooner? Could she spare Jane the heartache of Mr. Bingley’s departure, prevent Lydia from eloping with Wickham? If she altered even the smallest thing, would it unravel everything?

Or—dear God—what if she had already changed something?

Her hands clenched in her lap. Her mother was still speaking, detailing every known fact about Mr. Bingley, but Elizabeth barely heard her. So many questions, so many worries—her mind swirled with possibilities, with doubts.

One thing was certain.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was coming to Meryton .

And whatever this strange fate had in store for her, she would soon discover if she was truly alone in remembering.