Haunting Mr. Darcy

by KaraLynne Mackrory

  The room was darkened except for the warm glow cast from the fire in the hearth, its warmth reaching almost to her as she stood in the center of the room.

  Bookshelves surrounded her from floor to ceiling, and their thick leather bindings reflected back at her like a tapestry of browns and reds. The lush carpet beneath her muffled any noise her movements might have made, and the furnishings of the room were matched perfectly to the soul of the room.

  She lowered her eyes to her gown and delighted in the soft brilliance of it. It almost seemed to glow, and yet she thought that she had never seen it before. She was once again astonished with the depths of her imagination. Her dreams were rarely this vivid, and yet what else could it be? Even now, she was detecting elements that were impossible except in the make-believe world of dreams.

  As evidence, when her slim fingers reached to touch the glowing fabric of her gown, her hand slid, sunk, and eased through the fabric as if it were but a fabrication of her mind. The glowing ivory of her gown rippled and flowed unlike any other gown she had worn. And yet, if she stepped to the side, as she did just then, it moved and lapped around her legs just as it ought.

  Elizabeth smiled in dreamlike wonder. For dreaming she must surely be, since in the realities of wakefulness such impossibilities and striking inconsistencies did not exist. For several minutes, she explored this newfound wonder, gliding her hands in and out of the side of her gown as if merely swimming her hand through still waters.

  “Beautiful wonder of wonders . . . ” she murmured as she explored the phenomenon further, her face alight with fascination. “Never have I dreamed such a dream. It is beyond belief.”

  Pausing, Elizabeth was struck with the intense desire to explore this dream further and discover any other wonders it might garner. She ventured immediately towards an inviting armchair coupled with its twin near the fire. But almost as soon as she commenced her walk across the room, she had to stop — for walking, she was not. She seemed to float, gliding without resistance across the space. Yet again, another inconsistency. She moved her limbs as if walking, and the motion propelled her as it should; nevertheless, she could tell that she was moving with a grace unknown to her wakeful self. She marveled anew at the strange sensation as she tried her paces across the rug and back; all the while, smiling to herself at this wonderful dream she was having.

  Somewhere she heard a clock strike the hour, and judging from the darkness pouring in from the windows and the chimes of the clock, it was two in the morning. She shook her head slowly at the details of this dream. She felt none of the listlessness of other reveries.

  With renewed desire to explore this dream world before she woke and it was lost to her, Elizabeth resumed her journey to the armchair. Upon reaching her destination, she extended her hand to the side of the chair, and just as she expected, her hand slipped right through. Laughing, she realized that she did not know what to expect and yet she did at the same time. It was the most bizarre experience of her life. She turned her back to the chair and held her breath as she lowered herself, hoping that, since it was her dream after all, she might be able to will herself to sit on the object. With a humphf, she landed on her backside on the floor, her head just tall enough to protrude most shockingly through the cushion of the chair, as if on display in a horridly grotesque way.

  Her face contorted in frustration as she sat there inelegantly on the floor. Her arms crossed petulantly until she realized it was only embarrassment she felt at her clumsiness. The absurdity of it all made her brows relax, and she began to laugh quietly at herself. For a second before rising, she imagined what a sight she might make: a disembodied head resting on the cushion. The thought caused further hilarity and suspended her attempts to stand. She noted still that, though she could not sit in the chair, she could almost experience its softness, comfort and luxurious construction.

  The duality of her experiences in this dream was most delightful. She could wear the dress yet not really touch it. She could walk but moved as if gliding rather. She could not recline in the chair; however, she knew with surety of its comfort. Strange and stranger still.

  Realizing this meant that she might be able to move through anything, she took a most unceremonious turn about the room, crossing through divans, side tables, and ottomans. Each time she felt the basic qualities of the object without really being able to feel it. It is almost as if I am a ghost! Elizabeth laughed to herself at the notion before the thought halted her. She froze quite awkwardly in the middle of the chaise lounge.

  “I could not have died,” whispered Elizabeth. “For, surely, I would remember such an event.” She racked her brain for any such happening and found her memory blank of any trauma.

  Elizabeth relaxed; her shoulders slumping. Her last memory was retiring to her room for a brief respite before the New Year’s Eve Meryton Assembly. So dreaming she must be. She certainly did not remember anything else. The idea triggered something in her mind though, a tickle of something that she grasped at, and yet it floated away like many thoughts tend to do during dreams. It did make her look down at herself for some reason. Again contemplating her gown, she noticed for the first time the unique pucker of the sleeves, and the stitching around her neckline. It was definitely a dress she had never known before. The thought was like a butterfly flying about in that haphazard manner they do, never quite in one place long enough for her to capture what she was missing before it floated off again.

  Unable to probe further, she decided to continue her exploration. “A dream such as this must not be wasted.”

  Until this time, she had remained mostly on the thick rug that encompassed much of the center of the rectangular room. On one of the two longer walls was the large, inviting fireplace, its mantel coming to just above her head. The opposite side consisted entirely of bookshelves, interrupted only by a dark cherry wood door. She briefly wondered whether there was more beyond this library for her to explore but set that thought aside for the moment. The furniture clustered around the rug and beyond the room expanded further to the short walls on both ends. One side housed additional built-in shelves — heavy laden with their leather-bound treasures — and another door. Elizabeth imagined the large set of windows opposite this wall brought in a fair amount of light for reading. She could easily picture herself on a warm day, sitting in the sunlight with a book in her hand, and the image made the room all the more heavenly to her.

  Noises from outside the window drew her attention. Until that moment, she had made all the sounds in the dream and was utterly alone. Curiosity and wonder caused her to wish to look out beyond the windows, but as she walked in that direction, she reached the last sofa and could go no further. It was as if there was a glass wall or some overpowering force keeping her from venturing beyond that point. She attempted multiple times without success and wondered whether the laws of the dream meant she could not go beyond the rug. This idea settled a disappointment on her of no small magnitude, as that meant she could not reach any of the books either as they were all along the outsides of the room.

  Elizabeth turned around, walked to the opposite edge of the rug, and paused. She now had her back to the windows and faced the small wall of books with one door. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself to try to leave the rug on that side, fully expecting that she would be prohibited as she was before. To her astonishment and delight, no such hindrance held her, and she was able to walk all the way to the bookshelf. Stranger still! she thought as she glanced back over her shoulders toward the wall with windows and the faint sounds of carriages, horses, and even the occasional voice in the night.

  Returning her gaze to the books before her, Elizabeth began to read the titles on the shelves, her previous frustration and confusion over her prohibition from the far side of the room completely forgotten when compared to such delights! The shelves possessed a wide collection of poetry, seemingly arranged only by genre. Walking slowly, she found she moved from poetry to history. The history section did not give
way until she reached the fireplace. The tastes of the owner, she assumed, tended toward that subject, for the collection before her was expansive and all inclusive. This gave her pause, for presumably she was the owner of the library as it was her dream. Surely, she should be allowed to choose the content housed within?

  Her hands were clasped behind her as she bent and read the gold embossed titles — some from various historic wars, others detailing the lives of the English monarchs and still others being histories of numerous foreign countries. Pleased and intrigued, Elizabeth reached for a book, a history of Italy.

  Her fingers nearly touched the book when she paused, disappointment flooding through her as she remembered she could not lift the book from the shelf. To be in a library full of books and not read one sent emotions flooding into her like nothing she had before experienced. Elizabeth further noticed that, in her dream world, her emotions were intense and seemingly enhanced beyond her norm.

  She considered the book for a moment, and then her brow rose, and she whispered to herself as she stood, hand extended toward the book, “I wonder . . . ”

  She allowed her fingers to skim through the book’s spine, and suddenly she was filled with the words of the book. It was as if they were poured out of a bucket over her as her thoughts filled with vistas described in vivid detail of Venetian waterways, conquests of land, and artists of such wonder that she trembled with pleasure in all its splendor. She pulled her hand back, and it was if she had experienced the whole book without turning so much as one page.

  “Marvelous!” Elizabeth spoke with excitement, the volume of her voice for the first time reaching a conversational level.

  Immediately she walked a pace and reached toward a book that lay on a small table. It was a chronicle of Wellesley’s actions on the continent. She placed her small hand atop it, allowing her fingers to sink into the leather. Just as before, Elizabeth was washed with his account of the Battle of Vimeiro, described in graphic detail as she experienced the British defeat of the French. She pulled her hand away delighted. Although histories, particularly war histories, were not of interest to her, she found experiencing this amazing impossibility exhilarating and the topic rendered exciting for her.

  Her laugh rang out into the silence of the room and echoed off the walls. No longer able to contain herself with any form of decorum, Elizabeth rushed from book to book — touching each briefly as she experienced wave upon wave of their secrets. Of all the enchantments this dream afforded, this was beyond them all, and her happiness was immeasurable.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as her emotions overwhelmed her. The feelings were both spectacular and indescribable. Such an otherworldly marvel suited her exactly in disposition and talents.

  Her liveliness and satisfaction expressed themselves most becomingly upon her face as she explored the library, touching briefly volume after volume, hardly giving herself enough time to relish in the blanket of words from one before moving on to the next. It was a beautiful impracticality and one she wanted to experience as much as possible before she awoke.

  * * *

  Darcy’s eyes opened in an instant. Disoriented, he was motionless as he stared into the blackness above him. Slowly his surroundings settled on him again, and he remembered the ball, the visit from his cousin, and the headache that he was now happily realizing was gone. He was in his study and had obviously fallen asleep on the sofa against the wall. A sound woke him, and although he now knew where he was and how he had arrived there, he still felt disoriented — for the sound he had heard was as impossible as it was beautiful.

  There it is again! Darcy’s head jerked to the side. It seemed to come from the other side of the wall. That wall divided his study from the library, and the sound, although muted, had definitely seemed to come from the library! He slowly pulled his large hands up to his temples and rubbed them; headache or no, he was imagining things now. The night was full upon him, and he could have slept only a few hours. The house was deathly silent except for the few times he had heard the sound. Beyond his belief, he knew that sound to be the enchanting sound of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s laughter.

  His body tense, Darcy strained to listen to the darkness around him. For a while, there were no more sounds, and he began to relax back into the cushions of the sofa. Its shorter length was not comfortable for his tall frame, but nevertheless his fatigue gave way. Darcy rubbed his face and expelled a heavy breath through his fingers. He was obviously weary and needed more sleep. Having come home from the ball frustrated, still beholden to his memory and infatuation with Miss Bennet, it was no wonder he had fallen asleep thinking of her and no strange thing still that he would imagine her laughter like the remnants of a dream drifting away as he woke.

  Darcy turned on his side, trying to make better purchase of the small space. He considered that he ought to go to his chambers but was too drowsy to make the effort. His muscles were just beginning to melt against the comfort of the sofa when he heard the sound again, louder this time and distinctly realistic. His eyes snapped open, and he sat up immediately. The disconcerted gentleman rubbed his hands through his hair and then against his ears as if to dislodge the frantic feelings coursing through him. Darcy stood then and walked directly to the door leading to the library.

  He knew it was foolish, ridiculous and insane, but he also knew he had heard that sound this time. He looked down at his naked feet and detected no other light coming through the gap beneath the door. The library would be empty, the hot coals of the fire likely on their last hour of warmth. There was no way Miss Elizabeth Bennet could be on the other side. And yet idiotically he yearned. He leaned his forehead against the door and breathed deeply. He needed to govern himself and his silly obsession. His overtired state, too, was surely to blame, and yet he could not help feeling a profound disappointment in himself as he found his hand reaching for the doorknob anyway.

  And then it happened; the sound — the most bewitching, delicious sound he knew — wafted through the door once again to reach his ears as he sighed in contentment. Insane or not, it was a sound distinctly created to pull at his heart, addle his mind, and in the immediate case, propel him through the door.

  His eyes were drawn immediately to the glow before him. His Elizabeth, swathed in ethereal glory, stood facing him. His eyes devoured her beauty, breathing in her delicate features and settling it all with contentment inside him. She looked as she ever did except for the radiance of her person. Her hair was pulled up in a magnificent pile of curls straining for escape, and its brilliance against her alabaster skin made his breath catch. She stood next to a bookshelf, her hand extended towards it. It was not until his eyes drifted up to behold her fine eyes — eyes as familiar as the heart beating in his chest — that he allowed himself to contemplate the truth of the matter before him. He was imagining her in perfect detail, and his infatuation with her had surely reached proportions beyond sanity.

  He watched as she immediately lowered her eyes, breaking their gaze, and with confusion written all over her face, dipped into a perfect curtsey. He smiled at it all. His muddled state did not forgo the details, it would seem. Belatedly, he performed his own bow when he saw that she seemed to expect it. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity.

  His heart beat faster, and although a fear was beginning to assert itself in his mind that he was headed to Bedlam, he could not but be pleased with his source of insanity. He laughed aloud, causing Elizabeth to startle from her frozen state and speak. I am surely attics to let! For her voice sounds just as I remembered!

  * * *

  “Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth exclaimed; equal parts confusion, chagrin, and disappointment battling for precedence within her breast.

  This was her dream, for heaven’s sake, and who is to show up and ruin it? One Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley! It was just too much. Like everything else in her dream so far, it was a mixture of the impossible and astounding. Out of habit she had curtseyed, and after he finished what seemed to be an exagger
ated and prolonged perusal of her person — Odious man! — he returned a bow. Now she had spoken, and he seemed rooted in place, hand on the doorknob, and in complete dishabille.

  Elizabeth was angry that his state of dress — or rather undress — caused her cheeks to heat, more angry still that she was dreaming of him in such a state, and even more still that his handsome features were distracting her from her anger. It made no sense, and she threw up her hands in exasperation.

  This seemed to awaken her unwanted guest who blinked a few times and said, “I cannot believe it. I should fear for my state of mind, and yet I find myself quite charmed.”

  Elizabeth, surprised, raised a brow and looked upon him with the same degree of astonishment. “It is I who should fear for my sanity, sir. For I was having the most marvelous dream, and then somehow I have stumbled upon a means of stealing its allure.”

  He seemed to delight in hearing her speak but paid no attention to her words. Instead, he walked directly to her, much too close for propriety, his stare boring into her. She took an automatic step backwards but to no avail. He would come closer. She watched his eyes roam over her face and settle on her lips, and once again, she experienced the exasperating flush in her cheeks. Could she not have some control over this dream? Was she to be humiliated in her own wonderland? She could stand it no more and turned her head away. Her eyes went wide when she heard his next words.

  “You are every whit as beautiful as I remembered,” he whispered, much to her further astonishment, causing her to gasp at his declaration.

  “Sir! I . . . ” she fumbled. What is happening? Mr. Darcy complimenting me and, not only that, in a most discomposing manner. As if she needed further proof that she was dreaming.