If this was some illusion of the mind, Darcy determined he would simply enjoy the time he was able to spend with Miss Elizabeth, away from everyone else who might interfere.
His own life and obligations felt increasingly distant, but for some odd reason, he did not mind it.
The anxiety that always accompanied the responsibilities he had inherited did not weigh quite so heavily when he was in her presence.
“You are making something with these. For me?” he asked, trying to grasp the memory.
Miss Elizabeth’s smile was blinding, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“There is a reason I woke out of doors,” he told her.
Again, the smile and the nod. He wished to see it again but could not think of anything else to say until they had returned indoors.
He entered her chambers, if the empty room could be called such a thing.
There was nothing but a pillow, a stack of blankets, and a basket near the fire.
“Where is your bed, Miss Elizabeth?” he inquired, dismayed.
She shrugged and moved to the basket, whereupon she withdrew from the basket an intricately constructed shirt, a little more than halfway finished. It was far too large for her.
He pointed at himself. “That is what you are making for me?”
She nodded, though her expression was uneasy.
“Are you frightened, Miss Elizabeth?” As his conversation partner could not help him along, he must resort to direct address. “Is there something I might do to allay your fears?”
She paused for a moment with her head down before she nodded a third time. Darcy heard the smallest of sniffles and reached over to tip Miss Elizabeth’s face up to his inspection. Two small tears were making their way down her cheeks.
“What must I do to stop your tears?” he asked quietly, reaching into his rumpled coat for a handkerchief and holding it out. “Please, I cannot bear them.”
She blinked at his words, shocked, no doubt, by their intimacy. She took his handkerchief and dabbed at her cheeks. Two more tears were already falling from her eyes, but no others followed. She held up the shirt slightly and pointed at him.
It was almost as if he was being asked to wear the shirt in penitence for the sin of insulting Miss Elizabeth, like a hair shirt.
He would have smiled at the strange wanderings of his mind had these events the feeling of a dream.
But while he did feel peculiar, it did not have the quality of a dream, not anymore.
“You wish me to wear it?” He reached for it.
She shook her head and waved at the roses, then indicated the missing sleeves.
“You wish me to wear it when it is finished?”
She sighed happily and indicated that she did. She was so beautiful, even with the fingers of her gloves snagged and torn.
If she wanted him to wear the shirt, he would do it.
He swallowed. Gads, he had no self-control around this woman. He shifted the bundle of roses to hide the evidence of his ardour. He took a deep breath to bring himself back under good regulation. Eventually, he was able to place the bundle down next to the basket.
Still she gazed at him with innocent, trusting eyes. Was he imagining it, or were they also admiring him?
“I shall wear it, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her. “I trust that you would not request I do such a thing without cause.”
The smile this time was smaller but somehow more intense. There had been relief in the smiles she gave him as they walked up from the lake, but this was something different.
“Must you work here?” he asked abruptly as she began to make herself comfortable on her little pillow. “Why do you not come to work in my chamber?”
Her eyes widened, but he shook his head. “I seem to recall it is rather more comfortable than this, madam. Stone floors are nearly impossible to warm, and there are no rugs here.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her head to the window. The owl he had seen out by the lake was at the window. And had it been on that branch before? Odd. Abruptly, it hooted loudly and flew away just as it had at the lake.
Miss Elizabeth began to stand then, and Darcy offered his assistance. She thanked him with a pert curtsy. He again carried the bundle, and she took up her basket in the crook of an arm.
His chamber was much warmer than her own had been. As he settled her in a comfortable chair near the fire, he noted a new rug on the floor and curtains on the window. He was certain those had not been there before, but he was grateful for them. Miss Elizabeth would not be cold in this room.
“Would it be all right if I sat with you while you work?” he asked nervously. “I could read to you.” He glanced around. Were there any books here?
She tipped her head to one side and grinned at him. She must wonder the same thing and was teasing him.
“Do you not think your fairy godmother could find one for us?” he teased back.
Her smile disappeared and Darcy’s heart sank. “What is the matter?” He frantically searched through his words until he realised. She thought him unaffected by their situation. He did not understand it, truthfully, but when faced with the evidence, he could no longer deny its implications.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said at last. “I awoke on the ground near a lake, and I suspect it was not for the first time. We are currently in a castle, though there seems to be no one else with us—no staff, no relatives, no chaperones—and you are making a shirt of wild roses which I must wear when it is complete. Is this not the situation?”
She pulled such a face that he almost laughed, but this was serious. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was about to make the most outlandish statement—and he believed every word of it.
“I believe in your fairy godmother, Miss Elizabeth.” He caught her gaze and held it. “More importantly, I believe in you .”
There was a great flapping from just outside the window, but Darcy did not move his eyes from Miss Elizabeth.
The sheer delight that radiated from her was a welcome reward for such an admission.
He would never confess he believed in fairies before anyone else, fearful they might send him to some remote country retreat where he could not embarrass the family with his madness—but in the deepest part of his heart he knew Elizabeth was his, and he knew that she was telling him the truth.
She had found a way to break whatever curse had been set upon him, and she was herself suffering to do it.
It came upon him then, like a great clap of thunder. He would marry her.
How had she ever thought Mr. Darcy taciturn? He had spoken all day without cessation, for evidently, he had a great deal to say. Elizabeth now knew nearly as much about the Darcy family as she did her own.
She knew his great-uncle was a judge despite being a wild sort of boy.
She knew his great-great-grandmother had badgered her Darcy husband into making the estate and the surrounding communities as independent as possible.
They had near a hundred beehives tended by several dedicated beekeepers, which negated the need to buy sugar.
The coppices were carefully managed so there was no reason to touch the trees in the park.
They even produced their own silk, which was why there was a small community of highly skilled Flemish and French silk weavers employed near Kympton.
He wondered if her father had ever taken her fishing and whether she might enjoy learning, for there were many trout in the river at Pemberley.
His mother had enjoyed the pastime, he told her quietly.
When he concluded his speech about his estate, he began to weave humourous stories about his boyhood exploits.
There had been epic wars fought with toy soldiers, pirate ships, tree climbing, and foot races, learning to ride and discovering the joy in the freedom it gave him to travel to the far ends of his father’s lands.
He had been much in the company of his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam, who was two years older, and the steward’s son, George Wickham, who was a year younger.
Eventually, he explained that while Richard and he had remained very close, George Wickham had become a man of whom he could not approve.
At the end of the summer just past, Mr. Wickham had returned to Mr. Darcy’s notice in the most awful way—he had attempted to seduce Mr. Darcy’s much younger sister Georgiana, no doubt for her substantial fortune.
Poor girl, to be tricked into believing a man truly loved her only to discover he had never loved her at all.
A man she had known as a small girl, too! It was such a betrayal.
Elizabeth was appalled. She was not so far removed from her tender years that she could not comprehend how deeply such perfidy would wound, and she hoped that she would meet Miss Darcy one day so that she might offer the girl her friendship.
It begged the question, of course, why Mr. Darcy would be so forthcoming about his family’s private matters.
Her heart swelled with pride and happiness when she considered the trust in her he must have, to tell her these things.
Perhaps it meant . . . but no. It could not.
In his right mind, he would never admit to believing in Mildread, nor would he make overtures to her.
The difference in their stations . . . it only showed him to be under Mildread’s influence.
The day passed in this way until the light in the window began to fade, and Elizabeth waited eagerly to have her voice return to her.
He was still talking when the moment came. “Mr. Darcy,” she said. She could not speak with much strength—it was beginning to wear on her, all the hours of silence. For days, Mr. Darcy had believed himself in a dream, but today he seemed to be waking up at last, and she could only whisper!
“Mr. Darcy,” she said again, but he had his back to her as he added another log to the fire. It made her heart melt a little more, even when he was exasperating her. He was so attentive to her comfort.
“Sir?” Now she wished he would a bit more attentive to her words. Her time was draining away.
Mr. Darcy straightened and turned in her direction, still attempting to entertain her with a funny story about how he and Mr. Bingley had become lost while hunting.
They had never been near the ruins at all.
She would normally await the conclusion of this tale, but there was not enough time to remain polite.
She stepped up on the seat of the chair next to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. Right on the lips. Her desperation dissipated at the touch of her lips on his. It felt almost as good as when he had kissed her.
Then Mr. Darcy encircled her with his arms—grabbed her, really, so quick was the motion—and deepened the kiss.
When Elizabeth last visited her aunt and uncle in London, they had taken her to see the fireworks. The loud “pop” and then the brilliant colours illuminating the dark sky—she was not only hearing and seeing them now, she was experiencing them. She lost herself in the sensation.
A hooting came from out of doors at the window, and Elizabeth’s mind cleared. “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” she gasped. “No, you must listen. I do not have much time. Do you recall what happens now?”
Mr. Darcy’s flush had travelled down his bare neck. Elizabeth had grown used to it, seeing him without a cravat. He had removed it that first day and never bothered to don it again.
“Elizabeth,” he groaned, placing his head on her shoulder.
“No, Mr. Darcy,” she begged. “The sun is going down. Do you recall what happens now—to you?”
His head shot up. “You are speaking,” he said wonderingly before his face paled. “Which means that . . .”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said in a rush. “Which means that you will shortly transform into a swan. You must try to remember who you are even when that happens, sir. I need you to remember what we must do in three days, and I have been so fearful that you will not. You can fly no farther than the boundaries of the lake, or you will be beyond my reach when the time comes. Do you understand?”
He closed his eyes, impressing those thoughts into his mind. “I will try, Elizabeth. For you.”
She released a relieved breath. “For yourself as well, sir—and your sister and cousin.”
He touched her cheek gently. “We have not much time,” he said.
“I know,” she said, sadness dripping from the words.
“Please, you must know I would not have regaled you with tales of my family and myself if I did not desire to share every part of my life with you. Elizabeth, before we are parted again, I must know that when all this is over you will consent to marry me.”
“I cannot accept,” she said unhappily, cupping his cheek. “You know I cannot.”
“Whyever not?” he asked harshly, drawing back.
Elizabeth despised herself for the pain in his eyes.
She wanted to say yes—oh, how she wished to accept his offer!
But she would not wish for him to engage his honour only to resent being coerced by whatever spell he had been under.
“You said yourself that you would not wish to have a wife foisted upon you by magic. It would not be right for me to consent. Not while we remain under Mildread’s spell.
” Marriage to a man she loved but who resented her—the misery of both husband and wife would be acute.
“When it is over and you are yourself again—ask me then, if you still desire it.”
“I will always desire it,” he growled. “I will always desire you . My wishes and affections will not change.” He pressed his lips to her hand and tried to speak again, but feathers erupted from his hands, then his arms. The wings formed, the beak extended from his lips, and his words were twisted into a muffled trumpet blare.
Elizabeth witnessed it all with a mixture of chagrin and hope. Would he still want her when all of this was through?
Elizabeth sighed. They ought to have walked out before he changed, for she hated carrying him. He was heavy, and he beat his wings against her in protest at being handled in such a way.
She beckoned him to follow her but did not speak. He would be more comfortable at the lake. Swans did not mind the cold.
The swan honked and turned his head to one side, then the other as though he was considering her request. Then he waddled out the door, but he did not follow her. Instead, he waited to take his place next to her, and together, they headed to the stairs.