by Iris Lim
And, when I finally wake up from this nightmare one day — will I ever look at Darcy the same way again?
Five
The past week has been familiar, at best. The twists and turns of Pemberley's passages have started to piece together better and better in my mind. Little Geoffrey recovered gradually after another three baskets of goodies. I drop by Georgiana's lessons every other day (Latin is alternately fascinating and a total snoozefest). I avoid Darcy's office — it just doesn't feel right. Otherwise, everything seems fine and dandy.
Even church was fun.
Sure, with my mom's Southern church background, I've been exposed to much more, say, spontaneous church behavior. The Anglican formal by-the-book worship seemed pretty weird at first. But hey, the people there really seemed to mean it — and it felt kinda nice to dress up pretty and have everyone greet me politely. Despite the foreign faces, it helps to know the Darcys aren't the only creatures in this dreamscape.
"Mrs. Darcy," Lilieth calls behind me. I stop — so near yet so far from the very lovely gardens.
"Yes, Lilieth?" I whip around, a little impatient. I try to ignore the nagging thought that it now seems natural to answer to that name.
"Mr. Darcy called for tea for you, madame."
Right — that.
I sigh, annoyed. Darcy's been relatively cooperative all week. Every night, after Georgiana leaves us, we'd walk up together to our 'chambers.' Lilieth would serve our snacks, and we'd hang out quietly — one or both of us reading, most of the time. The cookies get nibbled, the teacups get refilled, and I get greeted goodnight with a formal bow instead of a kiss.
Despite the fact that waking up alone is quite chilly around here — I've kinda liked this thing we got going. It's companionable, to be honest. And Darcy has stopped bugging me about what's wrong.
Well, except for this whole tea thing.
I sigh again, a little theatrically, and nod for Lilieth to take me to the sitting room. A couple of days ago, that doctor guy — Haddon, I think — had visited again. After checking my pulse (apparently, that's all he can do), he declared me needing more rest and prescribed weird tea.
So now I drink weird tea every day.
Oh well, whatever.
It's better than sleeping with Darcy.
Shrugging off that last thought, I follow Lilieth down the hallway. I know this path by now. It leads from the private gardens to the stairs to the corner to the hallway that heads to the sitting room. Along the way, we also pass by the door to Darcy's study.
I usually hustle along, avoiding him as much as possible. I mean, I can't have him complaining about not 'visiting' again (Is it just me — or is everything a euphemism around here?).
So hustling is what I usually do — what I have been doing for the past seven days. Every day, Darcy greets me good morning and feeds me everything I love on my breakfast plate. He kisses my hand and disappears to his study. I don't see him till dinner.
And I'd very much prefer to keep that pattern going.
So, when we get closer to that fateful door, I march faster. My jaw sets tighter and my legs shuffle more briskly. Lilieth doesn't mention the difference, and I'm forced to acknowledge these servants being smarter than I'd thought.
"No, that is not so," Darcy's low voice rumbles once we're within earshot. He's talking with someone — good. That probably means he won't notice that I —
"Is it not?" Another voice, a female one, replies to him.
I stop short. Lilieth goes on a few more feet before noticing, then she stops too.
"I am afraid I dare not be certain, my dear." Darcy is sighing. He sounds sad, frustrated.
Huh — 'my dear'?
"Lilieth," I bark, as quietly as I can. She looks up at me. "Go prepare the tea. I'll — come right after you."
The young girl looks uncertain — then obeys anyway.
All by myself in the hallway, I lean closer to the door.
• • •
Eavesdropping is bad, evil, rude, and wrong.
But it's also super addictive.
It wasn't a problem at home before. Mom talked loud enough to wake the neighbors, Lydia screeched constantly, and Jane never had anything to hide. That left me the only person who actually did prefer my privacy. So, when I caught Lydia listening in to my phone conversations, I'd declared revenge. I followed her, stalked her. I blurted the name of each new boyfriend she had to mom. I blamed her, guilt-tripped her.
On second thought, I was a horrible older sister.
I sigh. Why would my conscience choose now to act up?
I try to shut it off, focusing instead on the muffled noises. Whoever's talking to Darcy, she's good at being discreet.
"I am afraid the situation is fraught," Darcy's saying.
"Has there been no sign at all?" The girl replies.
"None whatsoever." Darcy sighs. "It is as if I fell asleep with one woman and roused with another."
Oh.
"Come, Brother, I am sure that she is not so entirely altered."
Oh again.
In the span of three seconds, I've learned that he's talking to Georgiana, not a strange mistress. Then, unhappily, I also happen to know they're talking about me. My chest feels tighter than the effect of three corsets.
"Perhaps." Darcy's talking again. I listen carefully; my palms sweat. "You have seen her, Georgiana — her words and actions. Do you not worry?"
"For certain, I do," Georgiana is quick to assure him. I frown harder. "She — Lizzy has not been herself, has she? She speaks strangely, with — aberrant words and meanings."
"She has drawn away," Darcy's bemoaning. I hear him sit down, his large body hitting the wooden chair. "I cannot speak to her, of even her greatest joys. There are no gardens or teasings that can engage her."
"She has not played with me for many nights," adds Georgiana.
"Yes, indeed."
The siblings stop talking for a while. I am severely torn between barging in to blame them for talking behind my back and packing up to leave this house forever. Have I really been that weird? I shrug a little at the whole idea, chest heaving. If they're super weird to me, then I guess I must have been at least a little weird to them.
"Does Dr. Haddon say much?" Georgiana's asking this time.
Darcy scoffs. "He calls for tea — herbs and honey. He thinks it merely a result of fright."
"Fright could not transform her so. She remembers nothing from the se'nnight past."
"Indeed. Yet Haddon does not share her company for the course of hours a day. He cannot see the length of her alteration."
"She has not smiled for days," laments Georgiana.
"It pains me gravely."
The fact that Darcy actually sounds sad surprises me. Add that to the reality that he's speaking his mind to someone else, not me, shows that maybe I'm not the only one who hasn't been completely honest either.
"Brother, have you asked her?"
"Ask her — of what?"
"Of why her actions contrast so dearly?"
"I have attempted, of course." In my mind, I picture him closing his eyes the way he always does when confronted with unlikely reality. Department meetings, Gigi's birthday parties — I've seen it all. "She denies all anxiety. She frequently feigns fatigue to avert my inquiries. She is disturbed — yet would not confide as to the reasons for her distress. Oh, Georgiana, what shall I do?"
The genuine helplessness in his voice makes my breath latch. I start considering barging into the room for entirely different reasons.
"She would not speak?" Georgiana's statement is more summary than query.
The quietness implies big bad Darcy shaking his head.
Except now, he doesn't seem quite as big or bad to me.
"You force upon yourself undue remorse," Georgiana whispers gently, a true guardian angel.
I start to have this odd feeling that unlike when I'm with the Bennet household, maybe I'm the troublemaker here. They obviously — or obvs, as
Lydia would say — already have a kind sister and a level-headed older sibling.
"How can I not, my dear?" Darcy's replying to her. I listen absent-mindedly. "To see the woman I love — so tortured by her own mind. I have never been more destitute. Georgiana, she is life itself to me."
My mind shifts back to wide awake. Did Darcy just — did he call me — did he say that I was —
I breathe heavily — shocked, confused, completely weirded out. I know he thinks that I'm his wife. But to hear him speak like that, to say he worries, to —
"Lizzy?"
I turn around, caught completely by surprise. He's right in front of me, hand holding the open door. I know he knows I've heard everything.
He clears his throat. "Lizzy?"
I pick up my skirts and run.
• • •
I don't stop to wonder if he follows me — if Lilieth follows me, if anyone does. The back of my hand wipes my face to wipe the falling tear. And I run — I run faster, farther — I run past the corner and down the stairs. I run down the length of the hallway. The satin shoes they make me wear feel particularly inept today. Gosh, I miss my Nikes.
"Lizzy!"
There's no question who's behind me. I keep dashing forward.
"Lizzy!"
His footsteps play the stairway steps like a well-tuned instrument, and, suddenly, he's on level ground with me. I keep running, racing towards the door at the end.
I shove the door open as hard as I can, nearly tumbling into the private garden. The flowers display their best colors in the late morning sun. The birds and bees — no double entendre there — bring the pocket of nature to life. The chiseled bench calls at me, and I stagger towards it.
By the time I sit down, I know I only have minutes before Darcy shows up. His far longer legs make him as fast as a speed skater. Soon, he'll be here — confronting me. He'll want to know what I heard, what I think, what I know.
I sniff.
Honesty is the best policy, people say. But those people have obviously never had to tackle this kind of moral dilemma.
"Lizzy?" His voice is mere feet from the door. I close my eyes.
If Darcy wants to talk about this — then, sure, heck, whatever. I'm not the type to mince my words, anyway. If he really wants to know what I think about him, why I'm acting this strange — then fine, I'll tell him. Leave it to him to figure it out.
I'll tell him I'm not Mrs. Darcy, not his wife — and that I have zero intention to ever become that. I'll tell him he's fake while I'm real — so this will never work out. I'll give him a piece of my mind, let him know that it pays to mess with Lizzie Bennet. I'll —
"Lizzy." He's already beside me.
I sigh, then slowly open my eyes. I look up, making no effort whatsoever to look happy. "Darcy."
He nods, probably thinking. I wait him out.
He gestures at the seat beside me, but he doesn't take it until I give him a nod. His hands fly to his knees when he sits down. He leans forward, frowning.
I wait for him to start talking, because I'm not about to lay out my cards first. As long as we're around here, the ball's in his court, not mine.
The thing is — he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, leaning and frowning. I successfully keep myself from blubbering. But now I'm full of something else — confusion, anxiety.
I wait for him to call me, to say 'Lizzie' in that signature way of his. But he doesn't. He just waits.
I regulate my breathing. I fight the panic.
Does he know? Has he figured it out?
If I tell him the truth, would he believe me?
I look down at my hands — hands that I'm wringing like a Brontë heroine.
If I tell him the truth, then there'll be more questions — more uncertainties. Because if I'm not Mrs. Darcy — then who am I?
I bite my lower lip and fight the urge to cry.
If I'm not Mrs. Darcy — is this a vision? A curse? A result of strange voodoo magic?
Then, there's the other possibility. If, let's say, they do believe me — then what?
I breathe in, filing my lungs with empty courage.
If Darcy and Georgiana actually believe I'm not Mrs. Darcy, then will they hate me? Kick me out? Lock me up?
Is there a real Mrs. Darcy out there? Someone I've switched places with?
"Lizzy," Darcy says at last.
I look at him, forcing myself to be ready for whatever onslaught of questions he wants to send my way.
"Have you had tea?" he asks instead.
"Tea?" It sounds borderline incredulous coming out of my own mouth.
"Dr. Haddon has prescribed them for you, darling," he's speaking, normally, like he's informing the staff to fetch him dinner. But then he reaches for my hand, holding it softly before pulling it up for a kiss. He looks at me, eyes searing. "Rest well, my love. I shall see you at supper."
He leans over to kiss my cheek — and leaves me alone.
• • •
And he's every bit just as polite at supper — and after supper.
I try to act normal as I sit on the couch. I try hard to keep my hands from plucking away at the embroidery (that's probably as clear a sign as any for them). I agree to everything Georgiana wants to play on the piano. I wish for a short moment that I can pick up my relationships with this Georgiana and Darcy as easily as I've picked up the instrument.
Then again — is that what I want?
And what really constitutes 'normal' around here anyway?
"Oh, Lizzy, that was wonderful!" Georgiana exclaims when I finish the latest piece. She clasps her hands dramatically. I'd be saying something sarcastic already if I hadn't actually enjoyed the piece — or been too preoccupied with observing Darcy.
Based on the Darcy I know, I'd expected him to throw a righteous tantrum at my eavesdropping. Or, at least deliver a well-deserved lecture.
I try to smile when the siblings look at me weird. My mind threatens with the thought that maybe real Darcy isn't as stern as I'd believed him to be in the first place. If I hadn't been so hurt by his rejection of Matlock's instructions to dance with me — would I have interpreted his every subsequent action as something horrid and intentional?
What's so bad about asking a girl on a date for her birthday?
"It was very sweet music, my love." Old Darcy — or dream Darcy, or fake Darcy — whatever — claps his hands solemnly. I look at him and offer up a peace-offering of a smile.
"Thank you." I take care to sound British. "Georgiana chooses so wonderfully!"
Considering the frowns propped on both their faces — I probably sounded like a murderous Australian more than anything.
"Lizzy, you chose to play that song," Georgiana reminds me. Then I'm embarrassed all over again for thinking it was my accent.
"Yes, but you — bought it," I still try to save face. Thank God for the 'ought' syllable being so easy to make sound European.
"No, I did not." Georgiana smiles. Then she looks at her brother. "Did you not bring the sheet from London?"
"Yes." Darcy looks so — calm here. Despite the ridiculous layers and awkward hemline of his tops (it's like they want you to look at men's crotches), he looks comfortable and happy.
That's more than I can say about myself.
"Alas, I hold no claim over its beauties," he goes on, still sounding very, very pleasant. "I am afraid it was Richard who had procured the piece for you."
"Richard?" I blurt out — way stupidly. Like, big time stupid.
They both look at me right away. Now they're really frowning at my words, not just my accent.
"Our cousin, Lizzy," Georgiana starts first, hesitating. Her voice is sweet in this universe, young and gentle. The Gigi I know is young, but not gentle, especially on the tennis court. "Colonel Fitzwilliam."
Ah, so Fitz the office-party king is their cousin — and a — Colonel? Like, a real army officer — or someone who cooks fried chicken?
I try the safe rou
te. "Right, of course. Is he — doing — well?"
At this, Georgiana start frowning — crying, almost. I feel like I've accidentally pressed a wrong button again.
"Take heart, my dear." Darcy stands up, walks over. I feel glued to the piano bench, helpless and uncertain. He wraps his arms around his sister. She willingly rests against his chest. "Wars, dangerous though they be, must be fought that freedom may reign. God shall watch over him. Do not fret."
"But France is so very heartless." Georgiana sobs. "Shall the army not let Richard rest?"
Darcy smiles. It's like they've forgotten all about me being here. "He had urged me not to tell — but perhaps its revelation shall be your relief. Richard has been granted a fortnight's leave. While the army may need him, he needs also the rest Pemberley provides."
"Richard is to visit?" Georgiana pulls back, suddenly glowing.
"In mere days." Darcy smiles at her. He pats her head benevolently. "Perhaps you can forgive the armies of France for a moment, then."
France and England at war — of course. I confirm further where in history I just happen to be. I wonder if this means that there's a new William Darcy popping up every hundred years — 1810s, 1910s, then 2010s. Who knows.
"Oh, Lizzy, do you not miss him?" Georgiana's suddenly talking to me.
"Huh?" I am somehow dumb enough to blurt out.
"Richard is so very lively, is he not?" She goes on.
As two-dimensional stereotypes go — I guess he counts as 'lively' on the human interaction scale. But hey, again, what do I know? I used to think I had Darcy's personality down.
"He is friendly," I start slowly. I feel Darcy's eyes on me. It's like he's analyzing, criticizing — trying to see through who I really am. I gulp. "I just haven't seen him in a while — I mean, for a time."
I smile sheepishly.
"Oh, of course! You have not encountered him since the wedding, have you?" Georgiana flies to my side. I shift to give her room. "Oh what a blissful reunion this shall be!"
"Right — of course."
Georgiana's still glowing, Darcy's still staring, and I'm still unsure if they'll throw me out by the end of the night. Where did strong, single women go to work in Georgian England?