by Iris Lim
"Of course!" I drop Darcy's hand like it's on fire — and prance (read: dash) over to Gi-orgiana as fast as I can.
I don't read sheet music, but how hard can it be to pick from titles?
"Oh, this one!" Georgiana exclaims before I actually look at anything. She waves the papers in the air triumphantly. "We should play a duet!"
I don't have time to react before she's planted me on the piano bench beside her. She spreads out the papers in front of us — their black dots and lines making me dizzy. She puts her hands on the piano, and I limply follow suit.
When she starts playing, I freeze. I stare at the sheets, at the complex black notches — and I then, all of a sudden, I realize, to my forever surprise, that I do understand them. In this duet, her part starts first. Then my part starts in five, six, seven —
I start playing, my hands taking on a mind of their own. The piece sounds — nice. It doesn't have drums or dance-worthy rhythm like my music usually does. But, somehow, in this dated, elaborate sitting room, where people use chaises instead of Lazy-boys, the flowing sounds of chords on piano sound particularly pleasant. They're not awesome, but they are actually sincerely good.
"Bravo," Darcy remarks calmly when the song finally ends. I turn to see that he's smiling and clapping — the only audience in this family gathering. And I can't help feeling a little bit proud.
The way he looks at me and Gigi — I mean, Georgiana. It's not fake or sarcastic. It's not my mom's effusive praises or my dad's dismissive affirmation. This is someone who sincerely enjoyed the musical performance he's just been given.
It's not what I expected — and that's oddly endearing in its own way.
Darcy starts walking over, and I find myself standing up when Georgiana does. She's probably going to hug her brother. Then I can follow it up with a polite —
"I am very tired, Lizzy," she says instead, grabbing my arm. I turn around to look at her. "I shall see you two in the morning!"
Then just like that, she scurries out the room.
The room — the very empty room that now only has two people in it. Two people — me and Darcy.
I gulp.
I can hear him walking closer behind me. I've memorized the sound of his footfalls a long time ago (so as not to be surprised at work, of course). And if I had been nervous that real Darcy was gonna kiss me at work yesterday — then it terrifies me that dream Darcy might try to do even more in the privacy of his own house.
"Lizzy," he says my name softly, reverently. I find goose bumps racing down every inch of my body. He touches my elbow from behind. I know this move — his hands will be on my waist in no time. Then he'll —
"Darcy." I turn around, putting space between us. The hand that had been on my elbow hovers in the air. I keep my voice under control. "I — I'm very tired too. I'll — see you tomorrow?"
He looks — puzzled. He doesn't frown. No, he's way too calm for that. He just looks at me, studies me — making me feel like he's lighting my clothes on fire.
"Very well," he says at last. I feel bubbles of relief getting ready to burst all over me. "You should rest. Come, let us go."
He walks over and silently takes my hand before putting it on his arm. He escorts me — like a groomsman would a bridesmaid — out the room, down the hallway, and up the stairs. I would find the entire thing really funny, if I weren't this caught up in an uproar of nerves. Every step feels as heavy as if we were walking underwater.
Maybe my mom was right — nerves are a character of their own. Their job is to make surviving life just that much more of an obstacle course.
When we enter a door — note, one door — into a sitting area, I notice that I remember it from the morning. This dream is weirdly consistent.
"Goodnight, Lizzy," he says, letting go of my hand. Relief is washing over me like a waterfall.
But then he looks at me — eyes warm and intense. And I really, really want to wake up — like, right now.
"I shall see you in an hour." He kisses my cheek and walks away to his side of the room. His door shuts.
I'm left alone, standing in the middle of this vast space.
My cheeks are warm, particularly the one he kissed. I start praying — that the ground will swallow me whole.
• • •
I'll probably never know what Darcy's planning to do when he 'sees me' again after an hour. Is that euphemism for sex? Not that I have anything against sex — especially for a married couple. But the thing is — I'm pretty sure we're not a couple. At most, we are one in this dream — but we aren't one for real.
Does dream-sex count as cheating?
Not that I have anyone I could be considered cheating with. I don't think I've ever told Gigi about my one-week relationship with her unsavory ex-husband back in tennis camp, but some things are better off forgotten.
Of course, there's also the bigger problem: I don't want to have sex with William Darcy — dream universe or otherwise.
But no matter how hard I pray (I don't think prayers work in dreams), the ground definitely doesn't swallow me whole. Lilieth shows up, armed with snacks and sleeping gowns, and she takes me into the temporary respite that is the room I woke up in. But, given whom I had woken up with, the respite doesn't last for long.
"Shall I braid your hair, Mrs. Darcy?" Lilieth sounds far more confident than she did this morning. Then again, maybe I'm the one more comfortable in this strange place by now.
That's a very discomfiting thought.
"Ma'am?"
Right — the whole permission thing again.
"Anything works." I shrug, still adjusting to my reflection in the mirror. Thick, untamed locks with a boring white skirt-coverall — is this what people used to find attractive?
The thought that Darcy might want to find his 'wife' attractive directs me towards a rabbit hole I'd much rather ignore.
"You are ready, Mrs. Darcy." Lilieth steps away after brushing my hair with the hand-stitched hairbrush.
Ready — for what?
I gulp, trying to hide my discomfort. I really, really, really need to wake up as soon as possible. How did Inception do it again? A jerk of some sort, I remember, a tough, surprising motion — a Kick.
I start looking frantically for something. Would falling off a chair be enough?
"Shall you have your tea, madame?" Lilieth, bless her soul, is being the light in my little tunnel again.
"Of course."
She escorts me — this is so ridiculous — to the sitting room between my room and what must be Darcy's room. She prepares the tea wordlessly, like she knows exactly how I like it (she happens to be right, too).
Then she leaves me — all alone with the mechanical clicking of the clock above the fireplace. The fire's burning brightly, but I feel dead cold. My hands cling to my teacup like a lifeline. I'm sitting here, all alone, in this flimsy excuse of a dress — and I'm shivering more from fear than chill.
What do married people say when they don't want sex? 'Sorry, hon, I'm tired'? Does that even work in pre-feminism England?
I've decided right after dinner that my dream has placed me in Regency England. Anyone less than a nerd would have said Victorian, but they'd be wrong.
"Lizzy." Darcy, well, growls when he appears at his door. I look at him, trembling.
The white shirt hangs loosely around him. I try not to think about how equally naked he must be underneath all the folds and creases. He starts walking over. I freeze.
"Lizzy, you look positively frightened. Do you —"
I cut off his husbandly speech by standing up abruptly and dropping the cup — tea, saucer, and all — right off my hands. It plunges to the ground, crashing violently all over the floor. I wait for the Kick — the moment of regained consciousness.
The only thing that comes is a sharp, glaring pain.
I look down at the gash on my palm, and it looks as ghastly as it feels. I brace it with my other hand as I sit back down. The sting from the wound is chasing away a
ny other sentiments and thoughts. I groan. It hurts like hell.
Almost immediately, Darcy is cradling my hand, kneeling carefully in the middle of all the debris. He's wrapping my wound with something — a handkerchief, probably — and pressing it firmly to stop the bleeding. He's yelling for Lilieth, for Mrs. Reynolds, for anyone. All the fussing feels detached, surreal.
I feel the scorching pain. I hear the muffled sounds as everyone except Darcy blends into a strange blur of action. I wait for everything to clear — for the relieving sight of my bedroom ceiling.
"Get the turmeric! The laudanum!" Darcy is barking orders, harsh with the servants and gentle with me.
My eyes start to blur from the pain.
"Lizzy, please — stay awake — a little longer." He shakes my shoulder with one hand, the other still holding mine.
I nod, distracted.
Soon, the requested supplies arrive — they examine, clean, and dress my hand. The gash is covered by generous amounts of cloth. For a moment, I miss Jane and her healing hands.
Then, as quickly as it all started, everyone's gone except for Darcy. He stays, brushing his lips over my wrapped hand. I feel strange — tired and woozy. I think I'm waking up.
But I don't.
I stay drowsy, barely understanding a word Darcy's saying. I use my free fingers to graze over the wound. It's almost sad that I had to create a Kick for myself like this — an unnecessary pain, a —
Wait.
An unnecessary —
I feel my breath shorten. No — no — no, no, no, no. It's pain — I feel pain.
I gasp just when Darcy scoops me up in his arms, carrying me to my bedroom. I don't bother panicking at the intimacy. My mind is otherwise occupied.
Pain — pain means — pain means reality.
I look down at my bandaged hand, now so much closer thanks to how he's lifting me.
I'm wounded, I'm hurt, I'm hurting — because this isn't a dream.
The last, desperate thought comes just before I pass out.
This is real.
Three
I wake up with a gasp — that Kick I've been grasping for all night. I look around right away, cataloging my surroundings — the bed, the floor, the ceiling.
Then I slump back down with a sigh. The pillows barely support my back and broken spirit.
"Lizzy," that male voice mumbles beside me, vocal chords just warming up. I resign myself to its owner. At least passing out last night meant no threat of sexual assault.
I mean, he wouldn't — would he? Hm.
"Lizzy," he calls again, now pushing himself up to meet my eye. I look at him warily, still weirded out by the close proximity. The mattress moves as he sits up. "How is your hand, darling?"
My hand?
It starts hurting, right on cue, and I lift it up to see. The red streaks in the bandage, bright crimson yesterday, are now a dull maroon. I reach to touch it, but Darcy beats me to it. I try not to cringe when he takes my palm between his.
Can't scare him away until I figure this out.
"You have stopped bleeding," he observes, and presses a short kiss to the cut. I stay still, silent. "We must dress it once more. I will have Lilieth bring the bandage."
I nod feebly — which I never am — and he leaves to summon Lilieth, but only after throwing on a robe. I cradle the hand that's he's just freed. He's right — the bleeding stopped long ago. I'm supposedly okay now.
Except I'm not.
I sigh, leaning back again, tears forming in my eyes.
How do I get out of this horrible place? If these deluded people really think I'm Mrs. Darcy — then they'll expect me to do Mrs. Darcy stuff. That means, of course, sleeping with Darcy — which is a terrifying thought.
But that must also mean other things. People can't be having sex 24/7.
So — other things.
But what?
I frown. What did the mistress of a great English estate do anyway?
"Mrs. Darcy, shall you dress?" Lilieth, small and lithe, is at my doorway. Darcy is probably off to dress in his own room. I'm still not used to — but absolutely grateful — for the two-room architectural arrangement.
I smile at Lilieth. At least I have her, a young sidekick assistant who gives me hints on what to do. "Yes, Lilieth. Thank you."
I walk over to the vanity table, sitting down a lot more calmly than I did the day before. Lilieth brushes my hair. I look at my reflection — flustered, confused. If this is all real, and it sure seems like it is, then I gotta figure out how to run this life as soon as possible.
• • •
"Miss Grayson must be horribly cruel to keep me studying on such a wonderful day!" Georgiana exclaims over breakfast. I look at where she's looking. The gardens look particularly nice in the sunshine. Living in big cities all my life has given me only rare occasions for views like this.
"Do not judge her for merely doing what she must, Georgiana." There's a bit of a smile in the way Darcy says that — and it's very off-putting. I steal a glance while he's focused on Georgiana. "You speak as if you are imprisoned."
"Oh, but I am — am I not?" Georgiana whispers back meekly. She's a fascinating blend of real Gigi and shy young English mistress. Her eyes sparkle with an energy that appears seldom in her gestures. "I am imprisoned by Latin and French and Rhetoric."
I can't help smiling a little at the normalcy of it all. Who doesn't complain about homework? Life is full of inevitabilities.
In fact, I'm stuck in one right now.
"It would be much too unreasonable to keep within doors when it is so very glorious outside," Georgiana continues her persuasive efforts. "I am certain Lizzy would agree — do not you, Lizzy?"
Huh?
I find both siblings staring at me — Georgiana with quiet anticipation, Darcy with amused curiosity. When did I become the tiebreaker?
"I — think." I gauge reactions. They both stay the same, so I go with my gut. "I think — studying is very good, Gi-orgiana. I would love to visit the library myself."
The sister sighs disappointedly. The brother smiles. I wonder if I answered right.
"Come, Georgiana — do not fret," Darcy speaks warmly. "Proper mastery of your lessons might have you earning your freedom faster than protesting might. The sun shall not set so soon."
The advice seems to cheer Georgiana up a bit — and it cheers me too.
Because if this is some kind of Groundhog Day scenario, where I'm stuck in an infinite, inescapable loop until I make myself better — then maybe being the perfect mistress is all it's gonna take to break the spell.
I seem to be doing okay so far with the latter.
"I shall leave you to your indecision, my dearest women." Darcy stands up from the table. We both look. He's smirking — actually smirking. "I shall see you all at supper."
He leaves with the perfunctory kiss to my head. It's a little better now that I expect it. Then he's gone.
Georgiana moves to leave too, and I'm already picturing myself snuggled up with Milton and Keats.
"Mrs. Darcy." The older lady servant — Mrs. Reynolds, I think — is suddenly beside me.
"Yes?"
"Geoffrey — he coughs still, madame." She's trembling, teary.
I stand up, hovering closer instinctively. "Who's — I mean — uhm — who's — taking care of — him?"
"His father, ma'am." She's growing sobbier by the second, if that's even a word.
And here I am — mistress at a loss. I clear my throat. "Uhm, you — we — can we — help him?"
Whoever he is.
Mrs. Reynolds looks up with eyes like saucers, wide and hopeful. "Will you, Mrs. Darcy?"
"I — sure."
"Mrs. Atkins has prepared the basket. We are heartened so very dearly by the Darcy generosity. I thought to ask leave to visit, to bring it myself, madame. My brother tires."
Brother — they're related, I think fast.
"Right." I think faster. "Do you think — you need help?"<
br />
Her eyes grow even larger. Didn't know that was possible.
"Thank you, Mrs. Darcy!" She looks like she's holding back from hugging me. "I shall call for the carriage."
Carriage? O—kay.
"Mrs. Atkins." Reynolds has turned away from me, calling towards the kitchen. "Mrs. Darcy shall come."
Guess I shall.
• • •
How rich people in Regency England (what with all these servants, we have got to be rich) managed to survive traveling anywhere in these rattling contraptions will baffle me forever.
I arrive at the cottage — Mrs. Reynolds' brother-in-law's cottage, I gathered on the way — a wispy, flimsy SkyDancer-mess of nausea. I almost crumble on the spot.
Thanks to Reynolds and Lilieth's patience, nevermind a nephew at death's door, I manage to get indoors in one piece.
Not that the smell indoors helps any with the nausea.
"Geoffrey!" Reynolds flies into the other room. I look at Lilieth's nod before I follow suit. "Mrs. Darcy 'ere to see you, son. The basket'll cheer you up."
The basket — right. I look down at the load Lilieth's carrying. It definitely baffles me a bit that bear-shaped cookies and butter bits are supposed to be considered gifts. But hey, what do I know?
Lilieth helps me into the tiny bedroom, I look at the bed — and suddenly, I feel like I know a lot better.
"Look, Geoffrey boy — isn't she the kindest creature you'll ever know?" Mrs. Reynolds is sitting by his head, hand soothing the child's brow.
Child — yes, definitely a child. The feeble creature can't be more than ten-years-old. I inhale carefully, still adjusting to the horrid stench, and take a step closer.
"Geoffrey, hi." I scramble for something, cautious. "How — do you feel?"
"Not so good, ma'am," the kid says politely, his voice hardly louder than a cricket's chirp. He coughs a little. "Thanks for asking."
I have never felt more like a mother than at that very moment. I blink, fast. Then I remember the basket.
"Here, Geoffrey." The bears now make so much more sense. "I hope these make you feel better."
"Thank you, Mrs. Darcy." Reynolds and her nephew say simultaneously.