Haunting Mr. Darcy

by KaraLynne Mackrory

  Wishing, with a sudden desire, to rid herself of this bizarre experience even if it meant losing her many amazing new accomplishments — the book experience still her favorite — Elizabeth began pacing the rug in contemplation. She pinched herself quite determinedly to attempt to wake herself, but still she remained frustratingly fixed in the dream. Furthering the disquiet of her mind, she did not feel the pain of her pinches. In addition, she had remained awake all night in this dream and was not fatigued. Her mind spoke hesitantly of the idea that she might not actually be dreaming but stuck somehow, unbelievably and irrevocably, in Mr. Darcy’s library.

  That idea created such a panic in her breast that she immediately and resolutely forced her thoughts away from that avenue. It could not be, and so it was not.

  In her distracted state, she had not noticed that her pacing had brought her further into the room than she had previously been able to venture. When she realized that she was so near to the windows as to be able to discern the street below, her movements stilled immediately. Her new location prompted her to momentarily dispel the gloom building in her mind as she had new spaces to explore.

  To her astonishment, no imaginary force held her back from reaching the far portions of the room, and she looked on distractedly out the window as she contemplated this new variance. Perhaps, this fresh-found freedom means I am near waking. Smiling at the idea, Elizabeth watched the early morning hours bring forth servants and merchants delivering produce in the predawn discharge of their duties. As she strained to look down the length of the street before her, she began to recognize the area as Mayfair. The disquiet she felt earlier returned, evidence building for Mr. Darcy’s case that she was in his London library. But surely, if I had created this library and him inside it . . . Her thoughts drifted as she rationalized that she could still be dreaming and thus conjuring this little portion as well in order to explain the former.

  Turning from the window and from the debate within her head, Elizabeth allowed herself the distraction of reading the titles of the books on that side of the room. Her new occupation was sufficient to keep her fears at bay, and she once again lost herself in the pleasure of her fantastical way of experiencing the volumes.

  While experiencing anew in a most delightful manner the plays of Shakespeare through the touch of her fingertips, a door along the long wall opened, and a maid entered, startling her. She was laboring under the weight of a tin of coal and making her way to the hearth. Elizabeth stood frozen where she was — unable to determine whether she should make her presence known or not. The idiotic dilemma brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face as she considered the juxtaposition in which she found herself. If she were to make herself known to the maid, it would only place her presence alone with the single gentleman, sleeping not far from her, under public scrutiny; and yet, if she were dreaming, that would not matter. However, the choice was taken from her as she watched the maid finish her duties and turn right to her.

  Elizabeth knew that it was the role of the servants to act as if they were invisible. Albeit, it became clear to her that this maid behaved as if she were the invisible one. Elizabeth was about to say something when the maid spoke.

  “’E’s sleepin’ down ’ere again,” she whispered as she shook her head.

  Elizabeth answered, “Yes, I believe he had a late evening.”

  The maid tut-tutted disapprovingly and reached for a small blanket strewn across the back of the chaise lounge and spread it carefully over Mr. Darcy’s shoulders. A cool sensation settled over Elizabeth as she realized that the maid had yet to acknowledge her. The cold dread building in Elizabeth’s chest propelled her forward until she was standing directly in the maid’s path. The maid picked up her tin of coal to leave and paused only briefly to look back at her master, shaking her head again. Then, to Elizabeth’s utter astonishment and absolute panic, the woman walked clear through her!

  With a swirl of her skirts, Elizabeth spun around to see the maid shiver slightly and continue to exit the room.

  “Oh no, no, no!” Elizabeth took a few steps towards the maid and then turned back to glance at Mr. Darcy. A profound dread settled into the very fabric of her being, keeping her rooted once again in the center of the rug as she began to contemplate the implications of what she had just experienced. She had not felt a thing when the maid had passed through her. Nevertheless, even that small acknowledgement meant little when she realized that the dream she believed she was having was quite possibly, and most distressingly, not a dream at all!

  Her hands rose to her face as her head began to throb. It cannot be. It is impossible. For all the strange and implausible things Elizabeth had experienced that evening, this was the one possibility she could not accept or allow herself to believe was happening. She knew deep down, with a conviction she could not explain, that she had not died and become an apparition in Mr. Darcy’s library. She had no memory of dying, and thus it could not be so! A part of her wanted to continue to believe that this was the most elaborate, most distressing dream she had ever experienced.

  A strong desire to leave that place took over Elizabeth then, and she quickly made for the same threshold the maid had passed through. She was nearly there when, once again, she was knocked backwards by an invisible barrier.

  “But I could reach this end of the room before,” she squeaked.

  This alarming discovery caused Elizabeth to pace the room, finding now, much to her astonishment, that she was limited from much of the room on the other side! The confusing perimeter had changed since the beginning of the dream. Contemplating what might have changed, she realized that the only difference was Darcy’s entrance into the room.

  “Oh goodness, no!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her anxiety turning into anger as she theorized that she might be tethered in some indiscernible way to Mr. Darcy! She quickly checked this new hypothesis and realized that it indeed appeared to be the case. To her utter shock and absolute fury, she was prevented from venturing further than ten paces from him. That odious, loathsome man! Who only looks upon me to find a blemish! Here Elizabeth resolutely disregarded the memory called forth to her mind of his proclaiming her beauty only that morning.

  The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness, she sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should be tied to Mr. Darcy! That this experience might in actuality, and quite frighteningly, not be a dream at all. It was not until she had recovered somewhat from her distressing recollections that she realized she was sitting, or hovering rather in a seated position above the chair into which she had collapsed. She stood then and considered the chair — the same one she had drifted through not hours before. The discordance of results from then to now only added to her list of confusions. Determining then to have one thing in which she had control, she discovered through several attempts that she could sit rather than drift through the chair if she avoided acknowledging the portion of her mind that experienced the chair — its softness and construction.

  In childlike triumph, Elizabeth shouted an exuberant, “Ah ha!”

  Her small victory was quickly washed away as her previous, distressful preoccupations resumed.

  Her cry aloud caused Mr. Darcy to stir, and as she continued in very agitating reflections thereafter, the sound of him waking further caused Elizabeth to realize how unequal she was to encounter his observation. Indeed, not wishing to see him at all, Elizabeth hurried her way around the back of the chair to stand among the drapes, making sure she noted their texture so that she could easily slip through them and disappear from view.

  * * *

  A calming lethargy was settling nicely in his arms and legs. It had been many weeks since he had slept so soundly, and yet he could tell that he had slept only a few hours. With eyes still closed, Darcy stretched and savored the remnants of languor lingering in his muscles. Slowly he opened his eyes and
, upon realizing his location, suddenly became wide-awake. Events of the previous evening flooded his consciousness.

  He sat up and, pulling his legs out in front of him, leaned his elbows against his legs. The entire evening was excruciatingly wonderful. He knew he ought to worry for his state of mind, and indeed, he would later, but for now, in the quiet moments of first recollection, he wanted only to savor the evening’s pleasures. He had to give his mind and memory credit, for although on the verge of obvious collapse, they had created her distinctly as beguiling as he knew she was in the flesh.

  He smiled at the memory; his mind had not altered her one wit to be more agreeable and compliant like the other ladies of the ton. It was a confirmation to him that this characteristic was most important to him. He wanted a wife not a mirror. In fact, he thought with some humor, I should have made her a tad more agreeable. But soon, the roguish smile Darcy wore softened as his face reflected the memory he had of her initial reaction to him. His mind had taken no pains to make it seem as if she expected him or perhaps took pleasure in his appearance. If he had a say in this denigration into lunacy, he would have conjured her up to welcome him. Shaking his head, he smiled sardonically at himself. Here he was recalling, with pleasure instead of concern, the obvious evidence of his madness — and even taking pains to make it more to his liking!

  For the first time, Darcy looked up to scrutinize the room. He knew he had heretofore avoided such because half of him hoped and half of him agonized that he might see her. Indeed, upon seeing he was entirely alone, he could not shake the sense of loss he then felt. Rubbing in the proximity of his chest, Darcy studiously denied the absurd feelings and instead forced himself to imagine that he felt relieved to see he was alone. It meant that he was obviously faring better mentally.

  He stood then, straightening his wrinkled clothing as best as he could and finding in that real disgust. He was usually much more careful with his appearance and could only think this obsession that was causing such havoc in his life — and mind — had caused him to forget himself. He had seemingly cared little for his appearance for quite some time — indeed, since he had left Hertfordshire. It is a good thing last night’s illusion was not really Elizabeth. He shuddered to think of her seeing him in such a state. It would have been the height of humiliation for him. He decided then that the first part of his journey back to full reason was to see to his appearance now and in the future. He would forget Elizabeth!

  With renewed determination, Darcy stood and walked resolutely through the library door. With a silent gasp, Elizabeth dug her heels in the carpet but to no avail, for she found herself being pulled along behind him. Knowing she was unable to get away, she angrily crossed her arms and scowled at his retreating figure as she trailed unwillingly behind him. She clenched her teeth to see that, despite her disinclination to follow, she moved gracefully behind him in a stance of silent disobedience — for all the good it did.

  She had half a mind to call attention to herself, to halt his retreat. Contrarily, she was too irate to address him, however much she relished the idea of startling him. So instead, she maintained her posture and allowed his exit. Her perturbation was momentarily dispelled when she, too, exited the library only to gaze upon one of the most beautiful homes on which she had ever set her eyes. The dark cherry wood paneling contrasted serenely with the marble flooring, and the furnishings were both subdued and expensive. Elizabeth noted with grim reluctance that the home seemed to suit its master well. She smiled to herself then and thought, with a fair bit of humor, Of all this, I am to be specter!

  * * *

  Mr. Bennet acknowledged the timid knock on the door and watched as his eldest daughter’s slim shoulders and silken blonde head peeked into the room.

  “May I come in, Papa?”

  “Of course, child. I should like some company.” His tired eyes returned to their vigil over Elizabeth’s sleeping form. He looked at her hair swept around her on the pillow, creating a blanket of dark curls.

  Jane walked quietly into the room and took up the seat on the other side of Elizabeth. She reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed. With tears in her eyes, she looked upon her dearest sister. Her guilt weighed heavily on her mind as she took in the dark bruising along the side of Elizabeth’s head. Jane’s eyes then traveled to the binding around her sister’s arm, preventing it from moving from her side. She winced seeing this injury, knowing she caused it when she fell on her sister during the accident.

  Tenderly, Jane smoothed a curl from her sister’s forehead. She spoke so quietly that Mr. Bennet almost missed it. “If not for me, our Lizzy would not be like this.”

  Mr. Bennet’s furrowed brow added to his questioning tone. “What is this, Jane? What nonsense you speak.”

  Jane lifted her red-rimmed eyes to her father as the tears once again began to flow. His compassionate countenance was too much to bear, and she confessed. “I was not well. I was unhappy at the assembly . . . missing a certain gentleman. Elizabeth offered to come home with me, so that I might not have to endure more.”

  Mr. Bennet, although weary from his long night near Elizabeth’s sickbed, stood and walked resolutely around to meet Jane. He pulled her shaking shoulders up to stand and engulfed her in a father’s embrace. Her sobs grew more distinct, and he pressed his lips in a stern line to keep from exposing his own overwhelming emotions. As soon he was master under good regulation, he spoke tenderly to her.

  “My dearest Jane, do not trouble yourself over this. Let your heart be light, for you are not to blame for this. Lizzy should not like to hear you say so.”

  He held Jane back to look into her face. She did not meet his eyes, but he indicated towards the bed. “I know she is in there. She may not be alert, and she may not be healed enough to wake, but she is not lost to us, Jane.”

  “The carriage” — Jane hiccupped — “When it fell . . . I landed on Lizzy.”

  Mr. Bennet helped his daughter to sit again and stood this time behind her, his hands on her shoulders as they watched Elizabeth’s sleeping form. “I cannot say how, Janey, but I feel it, indeed I know it: she will be well.”

  Jane, leaning against the strength of her father both physically and in spirit and faith, nodded numbly. She reached her hand up to cover his on her shoulder and clasped it. She smiled weakly at the childhood endearment he used with her just then. Together, they offered silent prayers for Elizabeth’s recovery.

  Chapter 5

  Unwittingly, Darcy took Elizabeth on an abbreviated tour of the house as he made his way. Upon exiting the library, he entered into a wide passageway that led to what seemed to be the front entryway. If she had wished to make herself known to him, she was unable, for at that moment she was struck quite mute at the beautiful paintings that lined the vestibule and corridors through which he travelled. She nearly called out to him to stop as she wished to gaze a little longer at many of the paintings, but the gentleman seemed quite determined to reach his destination and at the earliest instance.

  Her unguided tour concluded when he came to the end of a passageway, entered through a doorway, and closed it behind him. Until this time, Elizabeth had been absolutely fixated on the rich colors and muted elegance of the residence through which she glided. Not once, she noted, did Darcy look back at her, and though she half expected it at any point along the route, she found she was glad for it. She was certain she would not wish for him to see the awe that was surely on her face as she admired his home.

  The invisible pull that compelled her forward momentum halted just as she reached the closed door. Grateful for the momentary break to feel as if she were once again mistress of her own destiny, Elizabeth took the time to prepare herself for what she was certain would be a bizarre and troubling encounter. However, much to her annoyance, before she would declare herself quite ready, the tug of her person once again propelled her through the solid door.

  She entered just in time to witness the gentleman — to her horror, embarrassment and shock �
�� pull his shirt over his head and stride into another room, exposing her eyes to the breadth and strength of his back. It was then that Elizabeth realized, in the most alarming manner, that she stood in what appeared to be his bedchamber. Panic seized her as she turned and struggled against the boundary line. Her thoughts were a jumble of panic and maidenly shame. Elizabeth’s fists pounded on the unseen wall as her eyes squeezed shut and a blush scorched her face. Pray, God, have mercy on me! Let me but disappear!

  Her pleas had at least the benefit of easing her panic as, without hope, her shoulders slumped, and she realized she was already invisible except to the one person for whom she wished to be. Her cheeks still blooming with the deepest of blushes, Elizabeth travelled the boundary line in a mortified state, for soon she recognized the sounds of water splashing in a tub from the other side of the door. Never in her life had she felt so exposed and uncomfortable.

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” she bleakly cried to herself. Her hands ran through her hair, dislodging its careful coiffeur. The feel of her hair tumbling to her shoulders seized her anxious movements. She quickly re-pinned her hair, feeling absurdly calmed by the mindless process. She could not add to the impropriety of being in the gentleman’s chamber by having her hair unbound. Laughing without humor, Elizabeth settled into hopeless pacing across the rug, constantly testing the invisible border and praying it would move.

  * * *

  Darcy felt new resolve settle upon him as he finished his bath and allowed his valet, Rogers, to begin his shave. Leaning back to allow the man access, Darcy closed his eyes and contemplated a list of rules he must follow if he were to successfully extinguish his admiration of the most unsuitable Miss Elizabeth Bennet. First, I must not think of her. The early morning hours of lunacy, although quite possibly the most candid experience of his life, was indeed facilitated by his constant mental fixation on her. Darcy vowed then to think of her no more. He would not think of her soft curls, her dark eyes, or most especially about how the firelight danced in them. He would not think of the charming way she tilted her head to the side when she contemplated something or the intriguing habit she had of troubling one of the sweet curls near her ear.