H e was a swan again. Tonight was Darcy’s final one in this form, and for the first time, he felt fully aware of himself inside the bird. It was remarkable. His movement through the water was graceful, and his wings were wide, powerful.
This wakefulness had been slowly increasing since Miss Elizabeth had urged him to concentrate on remembering.
He lowered his head into the water, tipping his body at an outrageous angle to nibble at the stems and leaves beneath the surface.
He would certainly enjoy a proper dinner once this was over.
At least he could eat something—poor Miss Elizabeth had not been able to eat or drink at all.
To finish her work in time, she did not sleep, either.
Her fairy godmother had made it unnecessary for her, she had said, but it still concerned him. How she must long to rest!
Miss Elizabeth had used her brief respite near the end of each day wisely, speaking to him of what they must do to break this .
. . spell, she called it. He had considered it a curse, but could it be when it had brought them together?
Each day, he reminded her that he would be renewing his offer.
Each day she smiled at him and demurred.
His heart flared inside his feathered breast. She loved him. She must, or she would have had no scruple in telling him to desist. They had only to get through this night and all would be well.
Darcy’s happy anticipation gave him a kind of agitated energy.
He never swam far from Miss Elizabeth, who had seated herself near the water this evening, determined not to miss the moment they were awaiting, when she could slip the shirt over his head and they would both be released.
Only when they were free would she accept the proposal he was determined to make.
Miss Elizabeth, who was very pretty by daylight, was nearly ethereal in the moonlight, its diffused glow softly illuminating both a shapely silhouette beneath a rumpled, well-worn gown and her long, dark hair, which had been for several days tied back with a single ribbon.
No duchess could be more delightfully attired. No woman could be more achingly beautiful.
It was far from a curse, this predicament of theirs. It had allowed him to spend so much time alone with Miss Elizabeth, enough to know that he would be unable to leave her behind. Even were he to return to London, she would always be with him.
The owl that followed her everywhere hooted. Perhaps his senses as a swan were more attuned, but it sounded approving.
He did wish Miss Elizabeth might have been allowed to speak more, but her silence had forced him to speak.
No, that was not true. He had wanted to speak to her of his most personal matters.
He felt able to unburden himself to Miss Elizabeth.
He had explained his insult during the few moments she had to converse with him—he had seen her acting oddly and was put off by it.
Though she had rolled her eyes, she had not been upset with him .
“Mildread!” she had cried, whirling to face the owl. “I told you this would happen. It is almost as though you do these things on purpose!”
He wished for more time to speak, but the brief minutes of speech she was given each day were enough to demonstrate anew her wit and spirit.
She had something more as well—courage. She handled herself well, even confidently, despite their circumstances.
It boded well for their life together, though he could reasonably hope to never again be placed in a situation that required quite so much bravery.
He began another circle. He cut back at the halfway mark so he could keep his eye on Miss Elizabeth and caught her shaking out her hands before once again taking up the stems.
She had been required to make many sacrifices over the past week.
Darcy had been allowed to help a little, but mostly he entertained her while she worked.
Never had he put forward more effort to distract someone, but it was very little compared to what had been required of her.
She had remained anxious, but she was concerned for him rather than herself.
It had been obvious, though she attempted to hide it.
She ought not fear for his safety—the very notion was painful to him.
Darcy was determined that in their future he would protect her as assiduously as she was protecting him.
Then a pleasing idea occurred to him—they might share each other’s burdens. They might protect one another. Miss Elizabeth was strong, so much stronger than him in the ways that truly mattered. It would be an honour to be protected by her—to be loved by her.
Darcy had never dared hope for so much. A wife who cherished neither his position nor his fortune but him . One who would, if required, do battle for him as he would for her. As Miss Elizabeth had done all week. As she was preparing to do now.
He would have smiled had he lips. But having wings was not terrible and he had always enjoyed swimming, so burying his face in the water as he searched for food was rather enjoyable. He had been so strict and proper for so long, it was a relief to shed the pretence, even briefly.
It was incredible how Miss Elizabeth had transformed him. She had him seeing the best parts of a terrible situation. No one who knew him would recognize the man he was now.
Well, of course they would not. For he was not a man at all, was he? But even from the viewpoint of a swan, it was cheering to see the world as Miss Elizabeth did. He could not reproach himself for it.
He watched Miss Elizabeth on the shore, working feverishly to complete the final lines of the garment, a blanket tucked around her shoulders.
He swam across the lake as she shivered, in part to work off the frustration that he could do nothing to warm her.
Just as he reached the far edge of the small lake, she at last rose to stretch and waved at him.
When she saw she had his attention, she held up the shirt.
The sleeves were completed and the hem of it fell to her knees.
It was done, and just in time—the grey sky was brightening, streaks of weak light reaching out to touch the treetops, signaling the impending dawn.
The owl, as it had before, lifted from its perch and flew away with great haste. He moved to the far side of the lake in its wake, fearing some threat.
But his attention was drawn back to Miss Elizabeth when a shower of light began to flicker and then rain over them both, as though they were in the tail of a comet—it glimmered off the surface of the water and lit up the air.
It was time.
His wings unfurled, propelling him out of the water and into flight.
He remained low over the lake’s surface and aimed for the place he had last seen Miss Elizabeth.
At the final moment, the sparks faded to reveal her holding out the shirt so that he could dive right through.
He concentrated, pushed hard, felt the sting of the shirt against his back . . .
There was a scream. An impact. Two bodies tumbled down while the shirt, the shirt, was yanked away. He spread his wings and turned back in a wide arc.
The sun lit up the lake as he watched the shirt float down onto the grass. He landed nearby, waddled over, and tried to nudge it over his head, but even as he succeeded, he knew.
It was too late.
He walked through the shirt, just to be sure, but any magic it might have possessed was gone.
Miss Elizabeth was flat on her back, but she turned onto her stomach hurriedly, desperate to see behind her. Darcy met her anguished gaze.
Her lips moved, and he heard her “No,” as clearly as though she had actually spoken.
Their intruder rose from the ground, dusting herself off. “You Bennets do always seem to be underfoot,” she said sneeringly. “Whatever are you doing on Netherfield’s lands so early in the morning, Miss Elizabeth? All alone? And without an invitation?”
Mildread was back. Her scorn rang out in a string of cant. “Trust this nipcheese, bracket-faced, bird-witted . . .”
Elizabeth’s head swam as she stared at Mr. Darcy. Still a swan. After all that work and hope. All the pain. Still a swan . Something very close to despair dampened her spirits.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Mildread appeared abashed. “Push her in the lake, Elizabeth,” the fairy cried. “She deserves it, wandering in to ruin everything despite being told over and over to stay away!”
Elizabeth sat up slowly, numbly.
“No one could have done more,” Mildread said softly.
“But what of Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked, holding back her tears. What did she care that she could speak when Mr. Darcy could not?
Miss Bingley straightened. “What of Mr. Darcy?” she asked harshly, her head swinging from one side to another in search of him. Her slightly pointed nose lifted in disdain. “He is certainly nothing to one such as you.”
All was lost, and Elizabeth could not care whether Miss Bingley believed her mad. “Mildread,” she sobbed.
Mr. Darcy waddled over to her and pressed himself into her side. She threw her arms around him and wept unabated.
“Miss Elizabeth, are you hard of hearing?” Miss Bingley asked impatiently. “Whatever are you doing here?” A smirk stretched her lips. “That is, besides speaking to an owl and making love to a swan?”
“How did she . . .?” Elizabeth asked in gasps between sobs.
Miss Bingley shook her head, unable to comprehend that she was being ignored.
“There were no authentic castle ruins nearby, so I was forced to use the folly,” Mildread said contritely.
“Miss Bingley wanted to learn the way to the folly so she might convince Mr. Darcy to walk here with her. She came early to avoid being questioned by her brother and sister. All week she has been seeking him.” The fairy shrugged.
“The spell apparently had a hole or two.”
“Oh, Mildread,” Elizabeth moaned, but there was no sense in indulging her grief further. What was done was done. She removed a handkerchief and dried her eyes.
“Where did you get that?” Miss Bingley cried and lunged forward. Elizabeth instinctively pulled away. Only then did she realise that she was holding one of Mr. Darcy’s handkerchiefs, for his initials were sewn into one corner.
Miss Bingley had the advantage, as she had been standing while Elizabeth was still seated. She shoved Elizabeth’s shoulders back and pinned her to the ground as she reached with one long arm for the cloth clutched tightly in Elizabeth’s hand.
Mr. Darcy hissed and spat as his large wings beat the air. He flew up into Miss Bingley, knocking her backward, then propelled himself at her again in a flurry of feathers as Miss Bingley scrambled away.
“Call him off, Miss Eliza!” she screeched, but Elizabeth did not. She raised herself into a seated position, then stood.
“Miss Bingley,” she said brokenly as she shook out her skirt, “go home.”
The woman gave her a look that was no less than incredulous. “You do not have any standing on Netherfield land, Miss Eliza.”
Mr. Darcy flapped his wings, and Miss Bingley took another step back. Still she would not yield. “It is not for you to tell me what to do or where to go.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Mr. Darcy enjoys watching the sun rise at Pemberley. I expect him here any moment so that we may watch it together.”
The words wounded her. “The sun,” Elizabeth said woodenly as she rose to her feet, “is already risen. Were he coming, he would be here.”
Mr. Darcy waddled back to Elizabeth and stood beside her. After a moment, he leaned against her legs.
She bent to gently stroke his feathers. Mr. Darcy preened, and she laughed a little, knowing he must wish to cheer her. He honked.
“You must remove yourself this instant, Miss Eliza,” Miss Bingley insisted. “You are not welcome here.”
“There is a way to bring Mr. Darcy back, Elizabeth,” Mildread said hesitatingly.
“What is that?” Elizabeth asked eagerly.
Miss Bingley put her hands on her hips, irritated. “I said . . .”
Mr. Darcy honked twice and extended his wings as he waddled between her and the other woman. Elizabeth blinked. Miss Bingley’s hands were changing, narrowing until her fingers were thin, tapered, and not quite human.
As they watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, Miss Bingley’s eyes rounded, her body was covered in a fine greyish-brown hair, and she shrank. And shrank.
And shrank.
Before them, in the grass, was a common house mouse. It stood on its back paws and continued to squeak at them.
The hooting behind them quickly drowned out the squeaks. In a rustling of wings and a blur of brown feathers, the owl shot past, dipping to the earth and then rising, a small mouse clutched in its talons.
Elizabeth’s mouth had dropped open, but she shut it and swallowed.
“Mildread will take her back to Netherfield,” she assured the swan, who simply cocked his head to one side.
“She will not hurt her.” Miss Bingley could not have known what she was doing when she blundered into the middle of their spell.
She dropped to her knees and held the swan close. “Mildread says there is another way,” she whispered. “Please do not give up hope. We will break this spell, Mr. Darcy. We will.”
Mr. Darcy made a sawing sound, like a snore. He made it several times before Mildread dropped back down before, still in her owl form. “I daresay Miss Bingley will cause no other problems.”
The snoring continued.
Mildread giggled.
“What?” Elizabeth asked.
The fairy smiled. “That is the sound of a swan’s mating song, my dear.”
What good was a flirtation when Mr. Darcy would be a swan forever? She struggled not to give way to her tears again.
“How did she even remember that Mr. Darcy was staying with them?” Elizabeth asked. “You said . . .”
“I also said the magic was not as strong as it should be—and, unfortunately, Miss Bingley’s delusions of grandeur were stronger. She has been nosing around for days, but until now she had not wandered so near the lake.”
Elizabeth nodded. What she truly wanted to know had nothing to do with Miss Caroline Bingley. “You said there was another way to restore Mr. Darcy to himself?”
“There is,” Mildread said slowly. “But you will not like it.”