Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light of morning stubbornly pierced through the gap in the heavy curtains. But it was not the light that roused Elizabeth; she was dragged from a chaotic sleep by a severe, stiff discomfort. A sour, congealed rigidity sat between her shoulder blades, and from the back of her neck came clear, sharp pains of having been over-stretched. She was lying on a hard, flat surface, her spine pressed against some soft support, her entire body's weight sinking heavily onto... a chair?

Her overall discomfort made her reluctant to open her eyes just yet. Her attention was immediately seized by the scent that assailed her nostrils. It was not the familiar, tranquil aroma of her own bedroom, a blend of dried lavender and faint rose salve, but a crisp, angular cologne fragrance, carrying notes of slightly bitter herbs and clean soap.

Bewilderment and a sprouting unease prompted her to try and move. She attempted to lift an arm, and an unfamiliar heaviness immediately spread from her shoulder joint, as if the limb was no longer her familiar, slender, light one, but had been filled with lead. She instinctively tried to curl her body, but felt a markedly different resistance from her legs – longer, heavier, the pull of muscles tensing with movement was far more pronounced. And what left her most flustered was the constraint of her clothing. The rough linen of the shirt chafed against her skin, a sensation utterly different from the fine, soft chemise she was accustomed to; the broad shoulder line stretched the fabric, her chest and arms feeling strangely open and unconfined. It was all so alarmingly alien.

She was fully awake now, her heart hammering like a drum in her chest. Her gaze swept eagerly around – the dark, cold lines of walnut furniture, a large desk dominating the view ahead, piled with papers and books, a heavy leather armchair (the very one she had been sleeping on)... This was decidedly not her small, cozy bedroom at the Hunsford parsonage.

Elizabeth shot to her feet, the movement clumsy and staggering from inner panic. She looked down at herself. A pair of male hands, bony and clean, were opening and closing helplessly before her. Her eyes followed the line of solid arms down to long, powerful legs encased in well-tailored, simple breeches of good quality. She raised a hand incredibly to touch her own face, meeting taut skin, a firm, masculine jawline, and a coarse texture.

"What?..." A soundless gasp caught in her throat.

Just then, a light knock sounded at the door. She responded instinctively, and a neatly dressed valet entered, carrying a copper basin, towels, and shaving utensils. Seeing Elizabeth – or rather, seeing whoever the master of this body was – standing in the middle of the room, slightly disheveled, hair mussed, eyes wild, the valet merely raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, his face a mask of trained, imperturbable calm.

"Your morning ablutions, sir. Shall I prepare your shave now?" The valet's voice was steady.

Elizabeth's heart felt like it would leap from her throat. She opened her mouth, but no coherent sound emerged. She could only manage a stiff nod.

The valet set down the items and began his preparations with practiced efficiency. When the shining silver mirror was held up before Elizabeth, she looked into it, almost holding her breath—

The reflection held no trace of her familiar, feminine clever green eyes and curly brown hair. Instead, she saw the face of the man with whom she had just yesterday engaged in a most indignant confrontation, whom she had sternly rebuked. Deep, dark eyes were now wide with shock, the straight line of the noble nose leading down to tightly pressed lips that formed their characteristic arc of pride. 

It was the face of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy!

Horror made her jerk backward, trying to escape the absurd sight. The image in the mirror moved in sync, the Darcy-esque brows furrowing deeply. This abrupt movement interfered with the valet, who just finished the shaving soap. The edge of the sharp razor nicked her jawline, drawing a thin line of blood.

The valet immediately apologized. "I beg your pardon, sir!"

Elizabeth spoke without thinking, a deep, resonant male voice rumbling from her throat: "Not…not your fault. It's quite alright." Her mind was completely occupied by the living, breathing image of Darcy in the mirror, mirroring her every minute expression.

In a state of dazed somnambulism, she silently allowed the valet to attend to her, nodding to his first suggestion for every item of clothing. A warm, damp towel was pressed to her face, the razor carefully scraped across her skin, a starched shirt, a fine waistcoat, and a perfectly tailored coat were put on her. Each step made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She could only squeeze her eyes shut and surrender completely to the servant's proficient movements. If the valet found "Mr. Darcy" unusually silent and stiff this morning, he at least maintained perfect professional decorum, offering no comment. Elizabeth was grateful for that.

Finally, the valet gathered the things and quietly withdrew. The moment the door closed, Elizabeth nearly sagged with relief, only to be immediately lost in a wave of overwhelming absurdity.

She fumbled a heavy gold watch from her waistcoat pocket and snapped it open – not yet 10 o'clock. Carefully put away the pocket watch, for she had no intention of damaging Mr. Darcy's property at all. She began to pace the room, Darcy's bedroom, like a wild animal trapped in a cage.

She went repeatedly to the mirror above the fireplace, staring fixedly at the reflection. She attempted to twist her lips; the Darcy in the mirror produced a strange, almost mocking curve. She frowned; the furrow between the brows deepened, appearing more severe. This incomprehensible reality tied her mind in knots.

She turned to exploring the room, searching for any clue that might explain the situation. It was not hard to observe that Darcy's belongings were packed with meticulous order. A few books lay casually by the bed – a heavy tome on estate management stood beside a volume of poetry and a novel. Elizabeth's fingers traced the spines; she had to admit, setting aside his character, his literary taste was at least respectable. A stack of sealed letters sat on a corner of the desk; a natural instinct against prying into others' privacy prevented her from opening them, of course.

She moved about the room, feeling the strangeness of this body. Darcy's body (a fact she could neither comprehend nor deny) was tall, made her perspective novel, and his stride far longer than her own, each step carrying a powerful strength she had never experienced. As her arms swung, she could feel the smooth movement of muscle beneath the fabric, a latent, controlled physical power that made her acutely aware once more: this was a strong, capable male body. Mr. Darcy was clearly not the kind of person like Mr. Hurst who indulged in idleness. She thought absently.

Her gaze finally fell back upon the desk where she had awoken. On it, a candle had clearly burned for a long time, a pile of solidified wax at its base. The desktop was slightly disordered, scattered with a few sheets of writing paper, a quill laid carelessly by the inkpot. And amidst this minor chaos lay a sealed letter.

An idle glance was caught by the name written on the envelope in Darcy's clear, forceful hand. Her breath caught as "Miss Elizabeth Bennet" met her eye. A letter to her?

A strong wave of hesitation washed over her. It was wrong to pry into private correspondence, especially a letter from a man she had so vehemently rejected just yesterday. But... this letter was addressed to her. A mixture of curiosity, residual anger, and profound confusion drove her on.

She picked up the letter; it felt heavy in her hand. Her fingers trembling slightly, Elizabeth, without expecting pleasure, but with the keenest curiosity, carefully broke the seal and unfolded the pages. It was an envelope containing two sheets, written quite through, in very close lines—the envelope itself was pretty well filled. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning. 

So, an hour ago, 'I' wasn't here yet.

Darcy's neat script spread out before her eyes:

"Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation, and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice..."

Elizabeth's heartbeat quickened. She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to read on. The contents of the letter began to unfold. Darcy did not defend himself excessively, but went directly to the reasons for his role in separating Mr. Bingley from Jane. He frankly stated his observations of the behaviour of certain members of the Bennet family, and his belief that Jane's affection was not sufficient to secure his friend's future happiness.

He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment; -- and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been. -- Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. -- She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, these statements pierced Elizabeth like cold needles, yet she could not deny they contained hints of truths she was reluctant to acknowledge but had keenly sensed. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family; -- and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she had ever known before.

However, what truly made her blood run cold, her fingers clenching the letter so tightly they nearly crumpled it, was the section that followed. Darcy's pen turned to Mr. Wickham.

"...I shall now, in a more particular manner, proceed to relate the circumstances of my acquaintance with Mr. George Wickham, to whose character you have so warmly appealed. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity..."

He detailed how Wickham had rejected the living intended for him by his father's will, accepting instead a considerable sum of money, which he soon squandered. Subsequently, Wickham, having exhausted his funds, returned seeking further support, and after the death of the elder Mrs. Darcy, had set his sights on the then fifteen-year-old Miss Darcy.

"...he designed to elope with her. He doubtless aimed at her fortune of thirty thousand pounds, and perhaps also hoped to revenge himself on me. Thankfully, I arrived a day earlier and thwarted his scheme. Georgiana, after an internal struggle, confessed all to me. She knew well that I, as her brother, would never countenance her union with such a man. I believe Mr. Wickham's chief motive was her fortune, but I cannot help suspecting that a wish to revenge himself on me was also a strong inducement..."

Wickham? That charming, witty, universally well-regarded Wickham? The one whom she, and everyone around her, firmly believed had been ill-used and treated with meanness by Darcy? Was he actually such a despicable, calculating scoundrel? A profligate not only given to dissipation, but one who would attempt to elope with a young girl?

How could this be?

Shock, like a bucket of ice water, drenched her, leaving her rigid. Reading and re-reading the passage, she perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. And she, Elizabeth Bennet, who prided herself on her powers of observation and discernment, had so readily accepted his story in its entirety.

Shame, a burning shame, began to spread from the core of her being, scalding her cheeks—though they now belonged to Darcy, she could feel the heat rising beneath the skin. Her accusations against Darcy yesterday, her vehement words regarding his ill-treatment of Wickham, now boomeranged back, striking her own self. What right had she to such confidence? 

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. -- Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I acted!" she cried, though it was a very low sound, worried about alerting the servants. - "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! - I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blameable distrust. - How humiliating is this discovery! - Yet, how just a humiliation! - Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. - Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."

Her eyes fell again to the final lines of the letter:

"I will only add, God bless you.

Fitzwilliam Darcy."

Elizabeth, or rather, the soul that now occupied Darcy's body, collapsed wearily into that leather armchair. Outside, the sky was already bright, but the sunlight couldn't penetrate the chaotic turmoil within her heart. 

Chapter Text

A profound, bone-deep weariness enveloped Darcy, its weight undiminished even as consciousness slowly returned. He had scarcely slept a wink last night, only succumbing to an uneasy slumber at his desk as the first grey light of dawn tinged the sky. Logically, having fallen asleep in such an awkward position, he should be feeling aches and stiffness all over, but… that didn't seem to be the case.

He shifted lazily within the softness, the sensation unusually comfortable. Beneath him was the perfect support of a mattress, over him the lightness of fine linen sheets. It was pleasant… subtly different from the ostensibly luxurious but rather firm bed in his guest room at Rosings. And had he even made it to his bed last night? His last memory was of bending over the desk in the flickering candlelight, the scratching of his pen on paper until his energy was utterly spent. After sealing the letter, his final conscious thought, watching the sunrise, had been to wonder how things had come to this.

The air held a soft, fresh fragrance, not the crisp, woody notes of his usual cologne, but… a floral scent, clean like morning dew. It was unfamiliar, yet held a vague, teasing familiarity, something he seemed to recall smelling about Miss Elizabeth Bennet…

The thought of Elizabeth instantly cast a pall over his mood, like a cold, damp cloth smothering his chest. A sharp surge of emotion—a mixture of hurt and anger—rose uncontrollably. Who did she think she was? To reject him—Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—with such unsparing contempt, with such scathing disdain! She had accused him of pride, of ruining Bingley's chances with her sister, and had believed the lies of that scoundrel Wickham!

Leaving the parsonage last night, rage and a pain akin to humiliation had scorched his reason. His initial impulse had been to quit Rosings immediately, to flee this place of his greatest defeat. But no, he could not bear the thought of her departing with such a complete misunderstanding of him. His honour, his very character, would not allow it to be so sullied. He had to clarify, had to make her see Wickham for what he was. After enduring the exacting inquiries of his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Catherine, he had shut himself in his bedroom, spread out the paper, and begun that long letter of explanation. Every stroke of the pen felt like peeling back a wound, but he had written on, stubbornly. Perhaps, deep down, an inability to tolerate her obstinate belief in his utter baseness had also been a driving force, though he deliberately ignored this hidden ache.

His plan was to find her first thing this morning, deliver the letter, then immediately take his leave of Lady Catherine under the pretext of urgent business in London, departing the very same day.

What time was it now? Darcy wondered lazily, his mind not yet fully clear. He turned over, burying his face in the soft pillow.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

His body, while still conveying a sense of healthy strength, felt… exceptionally soft overall. The sensation of his arm pillowing his head felt different too, lacking the familiar firmness of his male musculature and the slight roughness of stubble. The most prominent discomfort came from his chest—a distinct, heavy, foreign pressure, as if he had laid some weight upon it?

Puzzled, he reached to rub the spot, his fingertips encountering only the soft sheet and… beneath the thin fabric, an abnormally full, soft swell. He froze, his hand darting tentatively to his chest—his touch met warm, smooth skin, and the unmistakable, yielding fullness of a female breast, compressed by his side-lying posture.

Darcy shot up in bed as if scalded! The movement was so violent it made his head spin. He threw back the thin coverlet and stared down at his body—

A simple, soft white nightgown enveloped his form. The neckline gaped slightly, revealing a smooth, feminine collarbone and the curving swell of a chest. He looked unbelievably at his own hands—they seemed smaller, the knuckles more slender, the skin fair and fine, sheathing lean, energetic muscle. Trembling, he moved a hand to his chest. The strange, heavy feeling was undeniably real. He jerked his head around, and two long, dark brown braids slipped over his shoulders, their ends tickling the bare skin of his (or rather, her) arm, sending a shivering tremor through him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy had never, in his entire life, experienced such utter bewilderment.

What… what kind of horrific nightmare was this? Or was it some tasteless, exceedingly ill-conceived prank orchestrated by his perpetually energetic cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam?

He practically stumbled out of bed, his heart lurching again as his feet met the floor and he registered a significant drop in his eye level—the furniture around him seemed much taller. He cast an anxious gaze around the room. It was decorated tastefully and comfortably, in light colours and floral patterns, a world away from his own sombre-toned bedroom. His eyes finally fixed on a pink wooden dressing table against the wall, bearing a clear oval mirror.

Darcy approached the mirror with something akin to terror, each step accompanied by a heavy thud of his heart against his ribs. Finally, he stood before it and lifted his head.

The image reflected back rendered his mind a complete blank.

He knew this face. He was familiar with this face. The owner of this face, with those lively eyes that always seemed to hold either scrutiny or laughter, often intruded upon his sleep unbidden. Under any other circumstances, seeing Elizabeth Bennet in her nightgown, hair dishevelled, in such a state of intimate relaxation, would likely be the ultimate test of his self-control.

But not like this.

Not when he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, appeared to be, possibly… become Elizabeth Bennet!

The "Elizabeth" in the mirror stared back with wide eyes, those eyes he found so fascinating now filled with horror, locked on him. Her lips were slightly parted, as if wanting to scream but unable to make a sound. That expressive face, which so easily stirred his emotions, was now a show of colossal shock and incomprehensible absurdity. Had he seen such an expression on her under any other circumstances, he would have been on his knees beside her, begging to know what pained her, pleading for the chance to set everything right for her.

He subconsciously raised a hand to touch his own face—the Elizabeth in the mirror mimicked the gesture, her fingertips brushing a smooth cheek. He tried to speak, and a familiar, clear, slightly husky feminine voice, tinged with sleep, escaped his throat: "…impossible…"

The sound, clear in the silent room, shattered any last vestige of hope that this was a dream.

Just then, brisk footsteps sounded outside the door, followed by a knock and a young female voice: "Miss Bennet? Are you awake? Breakfast is ready."

Elizabeth's maid? No, she didn't have a personal maid. A servant from the parsonage?

Darcy froze solid, his blood seeming to turn to ice. What was he to do? Imitate Elizabeth's manners and bearing? He knew nothing of them! Speak?

The maid outside, receiving no response, seemed puzzled and knocked again. "Miss Bennet?"

In his panic, Darcy could only try to vaguely mimic the cadence of Elizabeth's speech as he remembered it, mumbling a response: "...I'm coming."

The maid outside seemed to accept this. "Very good, Miss. I shall return shortly to help you tidy up." The footsteps retreated.

Darcy let out a long, silent sigh, feeling a fine layer of cold sweat on his back. He turned his gaze back to the face of Elizabeth Bennet in the mirror, a sense of unprecedented, immense predicament closing in on him. What had happened?

He forced himself to calm down and began to observe the bedroom carefully. It was neat and modest. A desk by the window held a few books and a stack of writing paper, alongside an opened letter. His eyes swept the room, finally landing on his (Elizabeth's) own hand. Empty. If he was here, then Elizabeth's soul must currently be occupying his body…

No. He had to find "himself" immediately! He had to ascertain what was happening, and they had to change back!

He walked to the wardrobe and opened it. It was filled with ladies' dresses. Faced with these layers of complex, lace-and-tie-adorned feminine garments, Darcy felt a wave of unprecedented helplessness and a headache. How was he to put these on? Was he to go out in his nightgown?

As he stood hopelessly before the array of dresses, his mind a whirl of confusion, agitation, and an indescribable embarrassment, the maid's voice sounded again at the door: "Miss Bennet, may I come in now? Do you require assistance dressing?"

Darcy closed his eyes, drew a deep breath—Elizabeth's breath, filled with the faint scent of flowers—into his lungs. He had no choice.

"...Come in," he managed, striving to keep his voice level despite the internal torture.

The door creaked open, and a young maid with a kind face and a clean apron entered. "Good morning, Miss Bennet," she said cheerfully.

Darcy nodded stiffly, his throat tight, unable to utter a word. He could only watch as the maid picked up the hairbrush from the dressing table and approached him.

"Let's get your hair first, Miss," the maid said, positioning herself naturally behind him.

Every muscle in Darcy's body tensed. He could feel the maid's fingers gently working through his—or rather, Elizabeth's—thick hair, undoing the braids loosened in sleep. The maid's proximity, and the strangely pleasant sensation of the brush moving through his scalp, made him intensely uncomfortable. He had never imagined he would one day experience a lady's morning toilette in this manner. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to think about the events transpiring, so far beyond the pale of his comprehension.

"There," the maid said with satisfaction. "A simple braided bun today, shall we?"

Darcy could only nod again, like a puppet on invisible strings. He felt the maid's deft fingers working at the back of his head, dividing the long hair into sections, weaving, pinning. He held his breath through the entire process, only daring to peek through his lashes at the mirror when the maid said, "All done." The reflected "Elizabeth" now had neatly arranged hair, though she still wore her nightgown. The expression on her face—a mixture of horror, bewilderment, and suppressed mortification—looked utterly bizarre.

The maid picked up the day's attire—a pale yellow muslin gown, with a matching petticoat and a corset that promised tight lacing. Darcy felt a flicker of relief; at least he didn't have to choose.

"Now then, Miss, arms up if you please."

Darcy complied mechanically. The petticoat was slipped on, the soft fabric brushing against his skin, the unfamiliar sensation making his scalp prickle. Then came the damned corset. When the maid wrapped the laces around his front and began to pull them tight, Darcy nearly choked. The feeling of his ribs being tightly encased and compressed was alarmingly intense, his breath instantly becoming laboured and shallow.

"Take a small breath, Miss," the maid advised kindly, not loosening her pull in the slightest.

Darcy managed a half-breath, feeling his chest constrict further. This was more intolerable than any fatigue from a long day's ride. So women wore this every day? How did they bear it?

Finally, the pale yellow gown was pulled over everything, the maid deftly fastening buttons and ties at the back. Throughout the entire process, Darcy remained utterly passive.

"There now, Miss Bennet," the maid said, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

Darcy looked in the mirror. The reflected Elizabeth Bennet, dressed in a becoming and decent morning gown, her hair impeccably coiffed, looked the picture of the impertinent, witty young lady—save for a face that was far too pale and eyes that held far too much alarm. Only he knew that within this shell was imprisoned a soul frantic with anxiety, shock, and profound awkwardness.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, his voice dry.

The maid seemed finally to notice "Elizabeth's" unusual quietness, but she merely smiled. "You're most welcome, Miss. Breakfast is laid. Will you go down now?"

"No… I… I shall come shortly," Darcy said, desperately needing solitude. 

"Very good, Miss." The maid curtsied, gathered the discarded nightgown, and left the room.

The moment the door closed, Darcy sagged against the dressing table, nearly overcome. The corset's constriction prevented him from even taking a deep, calming breath.

He had to act. 

He had to find "himself"! That Elizabeth Bennet who occupied Darcy's body must be at Rosings. He had to go to her, had to discover how this horrifying transformation had occurred, and, most importantly, how to end it!

Chapter Text

Darcy—currently occupying Elizabeth Bennet's body—was practically itching to charge out the door and head straight for Rosings. He had to find his own body immediately, he had to discover what had happened, whether it was Elizabeth in his body or not, this utterly absurd situation had to be rectified!

However, the moment he descended the stairs and tried to slip unobtrusively towards the entrance, the gentle voice of Charlotte Lucas—now Mrs. Collins—sounded: "Lizzy, there you are. Perfect timing, breakfast is ready. Mr. Collins is already in the dining room."

Darcy's steps froze mid-stride. He turned to meet Charlotte's calm, perceptive gaze. He recalled the easy understanding that often flowed between Elizabeth and her friend, but he only felt scrutinized, worried that Mrs. Collins might, in the next moment, command him to confess why he was in Elizabeth's body.

"I… I'm not very hungry, Charlotte. I thought I might take a walk first," he attempted, trying to employ Elizabeth's usual, slightly playful tone of persuasion, but the words came out dry and, he could hear it himself, stiff.

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, studying "Elizabeth" carefully. Her tone remained gentle but held a note of insistence. "I'm afraid you must forgo your walk today. The Grooms—the wife of the rector from the neighbouring parish—are calling, and you promised to help me receive them. Perhaps tomorrow you can rise a little earlier for your walk. Now come, Maria is waiting too."

Compelled to obey, Darcy entered the dining room. Mr. Collins sat bolt upright, his mouth full of potato, and rose to bow to them. Maria kept her eyes fixed intently on her plate. Darcy ate the food before him, each mouthful feeling like a Herculean task. The corset felt like it was strangling his breath, the voluminous skirts hindered his every movement. He kept glancing out the window, calculating the distance to the path leading to Rosings, his inner agitation a palpable, seething thing.

Finally, breakfast concluded after Mr. Collins's lengthy grace and post-meal reflections. Darcy rose immediately, making another attempt: "Then, I shall go now—"

"Oh, my dear Lizzy," Charlotte interjected smoothly once more, a sewing basket in her hands, "the Grooms should be here shortly. Would you help me sort these embroidery threads? I remember your fingers are the most nimble."

Sewing?! Darcy's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He stared at the tangle of colourful, delicate threads. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who managed estates, investments, signed documents, and held his own in debates at the house of Commons, felt a profound and unprecedented terror at the sight of a tiny needle and some silk.

"Mrs…Charlotte," he began, a note of desperation creeping into his voice, making it sound strained, "I… I'm afraid I have a bit of a headache this morning. I doubt I'm fit for… such delicate work." He tried to recall how Elizabeth might look when unwell, faintly furrowing his brow and raising a hand to his temple.

Charlotte paused, looking at him with concern. "A headache? I thought you had one last night? Would you like to retire to your room?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Darcy refused hastily, afraid of being confined alone. "I shall just sit here quietly for a while. I hope you will not expect too much conversation from me." He almost scurried to the bookshelf, pulled out a random, hefty-looking book (he discovered it was on religious topics), and quickly settled into an armchair in the farthest corner from Charlotte, clutching the book to his chest. Despair washed over him: how was he to escape this cage?

Meanwhile, in the luxurious guest room at Rosings belonging to Darcy, Elizabeth was struggling with her own predicament.

After the shock of being valeted and shaved, and after reading the letter that exposed Wickham's true nature and her own prejudices, she had collapsed into the armchair, unable to move for a long time. Shock, shame, and bewilderment assailed her like tidal waves.

Just as she was trying to untangle this mess, to think how this bizarre bodily swap could have occurred, the door was thrust open without even a perfunctory knock.

"Darcy! Still abed? Did you drown your sorrows in too much brandy last night?" Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam's hearty, teasing voice rang out as he strode in and, with natural familiarity, gave "Darcy"—that is, Elizabeth—a heavy, clapping blow on the shoulder.

Elizabeth stiffened all over. She had never experienced such casual, close physical contact with any gentleman, and in a private chamber, no less! Darcy's tall frame swayed slightly from the unexpected slap, and Elizabeth's soul inside nearly shrieked in alarm. She whipped her head around, staring wide-eyed at the smiling Colonel, utterly speechless and at a loss for how to respond.

Fortunately, Richard seemed accustomed to "Darcy's" silences. He pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and launched into conversation: "Seriously, when are we leaving? Another day of this and I fear we shall be drowned in Aunt Catherine's lamentations. She treated me to another half-hour lecture on military deployments this morning." He mimicked Lady Catherine's haughty tone with perfect accuracy.

Elizabeth struggled to calm her racing heart, attempting to mimic Darcy's cool, aloof tone. "…It is not yet decided."

Richard shrugged. "Very well, you always have your plans. But," he leaned in closer, a mischievous grin on his face, "might I guess that these recent delays have something to do with a certain sharp-witted young lady?"

Elizabeth's heart jumped. Did Richard know of Mr. Darcy's… feelings for her? And from his tone, he seemed to approve? She suddenly remembered it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who had inadvertently revealed to her that Mr. Darcy had "saved" a friend, likely from an imprudent marriage. Had he been trying to showcase Darcy's… loyalty to his friend? This realization complicated her feelings further.

She had to respond, to not give herself away. She tightened her jaw, trying to make Darcy's face assume its customary impatience and reserve. "I would thank you, Richard, to mind your own affairs."

Richard laughed heartily, completely unoffended. "Always so dull, Darcy. Fine, I'll say no more. Come on, let's ride! Better than sitting here waiting for Aunt Catherine to summon us."

Ride? Elizabeth's heart sank. While she could ride, it was only sidesaddle amble suitable for a gentlewoman—and she didn't even do that often. How could she possibly manage Mr. Darcy's tall thoroughbred and display the skilled, elegant horsemanship expected of him? She quickly fell back on the "headache" excuse. "No, not today. My head… does not feel quite right."

Richard raised an eyebrow, giving "Darcy" a puzzled look. But he didn't press the matter, merely muttering, "Must have really overdone it last night," before chattering on about regimental gossip and London scandals.

"Though I must say, Miss Bennet has a certain heat about her, quite unlike those simpering misses in London," Richard said in a lowered voice, with a knowing, masculine chuckle.

"Hmm," Elizabeth managed a noncommittal grunt, her gaze fixed firmly on the dancing flames in the fireplace.

"Remember last month at the White Stag—good heavens, you probably don't—you were so drunk you nearly tumbled down the stairs." Richard guffawed, slapping his "cousin" on the back so heartily it sent Elizabeth into a fit of coughing. "That red-headed landlady was giving you the look!"

"Ahem… Indeed."

"I'm telling you, Darcy," Richard leaned in conspiratorially, "You have the means but choose to live like a monk. All this propriety will be the death of you."

Ignored the implied information contained in the colonel's words, Elizabeth shot to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Grabbing the Colonel by the arm, she propelled him towards the door, earning only more of Richard's booming and utterly annoying laughter.

Finally rid of the Colonel, Elizabeth let out a long sigh of relief. And this was only the first day! She thought despairingly. They had to change back, and quickly! She decided to go to the parsonage immediately to confirm if Mr. Darcy was indeed in her body.

She remembered Charlotte mentioning the visit from the rector's wife today. If it was Darcy in her body… with his proud, unsociable nature, how would he handle the trivial chatter of these ladies? She hardly dared imagine the scene. She prayed fervently that Mr. Darcy would, for the sake of "Elizabeth Bennet's" reputation, manage not to be overly rude. Simultaneously, she resolved firmly that while occupying Mr. Darcy's body, she would do nothing to damage his reputation or his estates. Though she still found him proud, aloof, and meddlesome, after reading the letter, she could no longer believe him to be wholly bad.

Yet, it seemed fate was determined to thwart her plans today. Having firmly ignored the slightly surprised look from a footman to ask for directions, she had just descended the main staircase when an imperious voice halted her.

"Darcy!"

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, like a moving fortress, blocked his path. Elizabeth instinctively began to curtsy, her body starting the motion before her mind caught up. She jerked to a halt, flustered, and converted the aborted gesture into a rather stiff, awkward bow.

Fortunately, Lady Catherine paid this oddity no mind. She launched into a loud monologue, complaining about the weather, the improperly trimmed hedges on the west side, some person who had failed to show due respect, and finally commanded: "Anne is looking poorly today. You will go and speak with her, Darcy. You know what is expected."

Elizabeth was forced to turn her gaze to Miss Anne de Bourgh, sitting quietly by the fireplace like a pale shadow. However, as she looked, she was surprised to see that Anne was not entirely demure. On that pale, sickly face, a pair of eyes glanced up, meeting Elizabeth's (in Darcy's body), and in them flashed a faint, almost sly gleam, as if she found her mother's performance rather amusing.

Elizabeth was taken aback. Hesitantly, she tentatively, very slightly, raised one eyebrow.

The corner of Anne's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before she quickly looked down again, resuming her frail appearance. But in that brief moment, Elizabeth was certain they had shared a silent moment of amusement regarding the absurdity of Lady Catherine. The discovery shocked her anew—Anne de Bourgh was apparently not the lifeless, submissive creature she had always assumed. Pushing aside, for now, the uncomfortable introspection about her own habit of defining others' characters, she listened with half an ear as Lady Catherine held forth.

Seizing another chance to escape, Elizabeth was determined to get outside no matter what. Yet, fate seemed to mock her once more. Just as she reached the hall, the impeccably stern-faced butler of Rosings intercepted him.

"Mr. Darcy, my apologies for the interruption. There are matters regarding the tenant leases on the northern farms, and the budget for repairing a boundary fence, that require your attention and decision. As you know, these affairs have been under your purview."

Elizabeth was stunned. So Mr. Darcy not only managed his own vast Pemberley estate but also assisted with the Rosings' estate affairs? Two great estates! She instinctively knew that Mr. Darcy would never, like her father with Longbourn, relegate all responsibilities to his steward and retreat into leisure. Even at the height of her dislike for him, she had known him to be responsible.

She was ushered back into the study, facing spread-out ledgers, maps, and documents. The steward stood respectfully by, awaiting instructions. Elizabeth took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. Scanning the clauses and figures, she found the issues, while requiring the master's final say, were not overly complex. Drawing on her experience managing Longbourn and her own sensitivity to numbers, she could understand them, even posing a few pointed questions.

Cautiously, mimicking the decisive tone she imagined Darcy would use, she made the decisions. Elizabeth prayed that she hadn't made any mistakes. The steward noted them down, his expression revealing no surprise, clearly finding these judgments in line with Mr. Darcy's usual practices. It would be a gross understatement to say Elizabeth was relieved.

By the time this was handled, it was nearly afternoon. Elizabeth rubbed her tired brow. Looking out at the bright sunshine, she felt a profound sense of powerlessness. Her plan to escape Rosings was foiled again. She could only pin her hopes on the morrow.

Back in the parsonage drawing-room, Darcy's ordeal continued.

Mrs. Groom and the other rector's wife had arrived. The room was filled with the gentle clink of teacups, the soft murmur of ladies' voices, and the faint whisper of knitting needles. Darcy had never in his life participated in such a… trivial yet intensely domestic gathering. He had initially tried to focus on the book in his lap (he had just discovered it was on religious topics) and ponder the supernatural puzzle that had befallen him and Elizabeth.

But gradually, his attention was involuntarily drawn to the conversation between Charlotte and the two visitors.

Charlotte leaned forward slightly, a white porcelain teacup in her hand, her expression focused and kind.

"When I visited old John last week, the leak was worse than I feared," murmured Mrs. Groom, a faint frown on her face.

"That won't do at all," Charlotte responded immediately, her teacup meeting its saucer with a soft chime. "I believe we have some spare tiles in the storeroom. I'll have Tom take a couple of men over first thing tomorrow, before the next rain."

"Old John is so stubborn," interjected the other lady. "He says he doesn't want to be a trouble to the parish."

Charlotte smiled slightly. "Then we shall tell him it is no trouble."

As he listened, Darcy realized Charlotte not only remembered the name of every parishioner but understood their characters, their hidden struggles, their reluctance to ask for help. They discussed the concrete realities of parish life: repairing old John's leaky roof, obtaining medicine for Widow Smith's sick daughter, the lack of warm clothing for the Sunday school children, how to organize the parish women to take turns helping...

Darcy was surprised to discover that the daily work of a rector's wife was far more than managing menus and maintaining appearances, as he had vaguely assumed. It involved a great deal of organization, coordination, and practical charity to ensure the well-being of the parish's most vulnerable. He himself held the right to appoint clergy to livings, but he typically only ensured the stipend was paid, never concerning himself with what the appointee actually did, what good they brought to their parish. He devoted a lot of effort to the tenants' affairs related to the land, but if it had nothing to do with his estate, he actually didn't pay much attention to it.

He also noticed that "Elizabeth's" name came up frequently. Mrs. Groom remarked with a smile, "Miss Bennet is such a kind girl. In the few days she's been here, I'm sure she's been a great help to you, Mrs. Collins—visiting parishioners, listening patiently to them, even helping distribute sweets to the children." Darcy could only respond with a stiff twitch of his lips that he hoped passed for a smile, his mind churning.

He suddenly realized how superficial his understanding of Elizabeth had been. He knew she was clever and observant, that she loved to read, that she frowned slightly when concentrating. But he had never considered how these qualities manifested in her daily life. He had never thought about what Elizabeth did with her days, what other interests she might have (besides walking and reading). He had not considered the texture of Elizabeth's affections.

And so, lost in these unsettling thoughts and conversations, Darcy found no opportunity for escape that day either.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn once again pierced through the gap in the heavy curtains of the Rosings guest room, sharpening Elizabeth's consciousness. She awoke almost instantly. The myriad experiences of the previous evening flooded back, causing her cheeks to burn with a heat she couldn't control, even in solitude.

The torment of the bedtime preparations had been no less than that of rising. She had been forced, once again under the gaze of the silent, efficient valet, to undress, don a nightshirt, and then face the most mortifying part—the bath. She had kept her eyes tightly shut, rigid as a statue, allowing the warm water and the servant's hands (through a towel, yet the touch was unmistakable) to tend to this male, firm, and utterly unfamiliar body. As the water cascaded over the broad chest, the clearly defined muscles of the back, and… those areas she desperately tried to ignore yet could not completely avoid, every second stretched into an eternity. She could only silently thank the servant for his professional discretion, for not uttering a single unnecessary word.

Yet, what left her most flustered was attending to the most basic human needs. The first time she was forced to relieve herself in the male manner, the strange, standing angle and the completely different physical sensation threw her into utter confusion. She fumbled clumsily, her cheeks flaming, inevitably discovering the perplexing frontal opening in the gentleman's breeches in the process. When she finally, and rather awkwardly, completed the task, she secretly vowed: until she was back in her own body, she would drink as little as possible!

Once in bed, she stared at the ornately carved canopy, trying to rationally analyze how this supernatural event was possible. Was it witchcraft? A curse? Or was she herself trapped in a long, bizarre nightmare? But the sensations of the body were so undeniably real—the heavy weight of muscle on the shoulders, the more powerful stride when walking, the deeper resonance of breath in the chest, and… that blushing experience—all mocked this self-deceptive fantasy.

She sat up, trying to calm herself, but noticed another subtle discomfort. A… tight, unfamiliar restlessness, emanating from between the legs, from that part of the specific male anatomy she still couldn't face with equanimity. It seemed different remarkably? Elizabeth's heart gave a jolt; worry momentarily replacing embarrassment. Was Mr. Darcy ill? Was something wrong… down there? She stared nervously, and through the fine wool of the clothes, she could discern a vague, unnatural swelling. What was she to do? Who could she ask? Aside from Darcy himself, she could not breathe a word to anyone, not even a hint!

She could only sit rigidly, waiting, her heart filled with absurdity and a thread of panic. As time ticked by, just as she was becoming convinced Mr. Darcy suffered from some hidden affliction, the tightness… slowly, of its own accord, subsided, returning to calm. Elizabeth let out a long, silent sigh of relief, as if she had just survived a silent battle. This male body remained, for her, a territory full of unknowns and frights.

She rang for the valet (she still hadn't managed to learn his name without raising significant suspicion). Once fully dressed and the valet had withdrawn, leaving her alone in the room, one thought dominated her mind.

No more waiting! She had to find Darcy! Immediately!

She strode out once more, ignoring the increasingly peculiar looks from the servants as "Mr. Darcy" repeatedly inquired about the path to the garden walk, and headed directly for the lane where she had so often "encountered" Darcy in recent days. She now understood those "chance meetings" were nothing of the sort, but rather the gentleman's clumsy, stubborn form of… courtship. The thought stirred an intensely complicated emotion within her, but it was quickly submerged by the more urgent need to resolve their situation.

In the bedroom belonging to Elizabeth at the parsonage, Darcy was also awake early—or rather, he had scarcely slept at all.

Confined the previous day to sewing, tea, and the trivial yet thought-provoking chatter of the ladies, while it had given him much to ponder, the feeling of being a prisoner to circumstance had only strengthened his resolve: he must escape this predicament, the sooner the better!

The process of preparing for bed last night had made him feel he could die of shame.

When that damned, breath-stealing corset was finally unlaced and removed from his (her) person, Darcy had never in his life felt such profound, physical relief! It was as if his lungs, perpetually bound, could finally expand freely. The reprieve, however, was short-lived. He was then faced with an even more daunting problem: without a lady's maid to see to everything, Elizabeth had to manage most of her own dressing, undressing, and washing. Which meant he had to personally… bath Elizabeth Bennet's body.

In that moment, Darcy would have preferred to face ten Wickhams and their schemes.

Standing by the small hip bath, the steam rising, looking at the blurred reflection in the water—the slender arms, the softly rounded shoulders, the hint of feminine curves beneath the surface—his cheeks burned like hot iron, the flush extending to the very roots of his hair. With a reverence that was both determined and utterly clumsy, he picked up the cloth, shut his eyes tightly, and scrubbed roughly. The occasional, unavoidable brush of his fingertips against smooth, soft skin sent shivers of guilt coursing through him. He fought to banish any improper thoughts, repeatedly admonishing himself to respect Miss Elizabeth, to honor the owner of this form, but the impact of this vivid, warm, utterly female body was far beyond what his reason could govern.

He had practically fled the torture, scrambling into the nightgown and burying himself under the covers. But the physical agitation did not subside. His own male instincts, housed within this different yet equally healthy female vessel, had been thoroughly awakened by the extreme intimacy and visual shock. He felt distinctly a heat gathering low in his(her) belly, a potent, primal hunger pulsing in his veins. He was certain that had he been in his own true body, a certain part of him would have been standing at firm and unmistakable attention. This knowledge doubled his shame and mortification. He lay awake most of the night, tossing and turning in the soft bed, tormented by the interwoven struggle of body and mind.

Thus, at the first hint of dawn, he rose immediately, dressed with the utmost speed (still battling the complexities of female attire for a good while), and determined to get outside and find the Elizabeth occupying his body, no matter what.

The morning lane was fresh with dew and the scent of damp greenery. Elizabeth paced nervously, her tall - truly no one had ever used the term to describe her- frame casting a long shadow in the rising sun. She kept glancing towards the parsonage, her heart full of uncertain anxiety: Would Darcy (or whoever was in her body) come? Could he successfully evade the "attentions" of Charlotte and Mr. Collins? She almost threw up her hands in frustration, a habitual gesture when thinking, but the motion looked strange performed with Mr. Darcy's long, powerful arms.

Just then, she heard soft footsteps behind her, crunching gently on the gravel path.

She spun around.

Darcy had never seen himself from this perspective. He knew he was tall, strong and in athletic shape (thanks to years of fencing, boxing at his club, and daily riding), and handsome (though he would never admit it), but to look up at that familiar, "Fitzwilliam Darcy" shell from such a… diminutive height was an indescribably strange sensation. He saw himself standing there, shoulders broad, posture erect, the dark coat making his complexion seem… healthy? He could even see clearly the fleeting expression of mingled surprise and hope that crossed "his" own face.

And "he" seemed to brighten instantly at his appearance. "His" eyes were bright and intent, focusing on him with a singular intensity as "he" strode purposefully towards him. The steps were steady and powerful, carrying an air of undeniable authority.

For a moment, Darcy was actually startled by the imposing presence of "himself." He had often heard people say Mr. Darcy looked rather intimidating (he thought it merely serious), but he had never truly understood it. Now, as this tall figure, with its stern features and focused gaze, bore down upon him, he suddenly grasped what they meant. Was this how Elizabeth… always saw him?

Watching herself—the "Elizabeth Bennet" wearing her favourite walking dress of sprigged muslin—approach so lightly, was also utterly struck by the sheer oddity of the situation. "She" looked… lovely. Her figure was graceful, her gait less lively than her own natural one, but possessing a certain quiet grace. The yellow dress complemented her fair skin, looking particularly fresh in the morning light. Decidedly more than just "tolerable"—Elizabeth caught herself thinking with a hint of irritation, recalling his ill-judged remark at Netherfield.

Now, they stood face to face. A tall, handsome "Mr. Darcy." A petite, pretty "Miss Elizabeth." For a moment, neither could speak, merely staring dumbfounded at the other, at the face that was rightfully theirs yet felt utterly alien.

After several seconds of breathless silence, they both attempted to speak at once, trying to address the other by the correct name.

A hypothetical observer would have witnessed:

The lady addressing the gentleman: "Miss Bennet…"

The gentleman addressing the lady: "Mr. Darcy…"

The mismatched names landed like a lightning strike, finally shattering the last vestiges of their hope and denial. The sheer, utter, unbelievable absurdity of their reality lay barely between them. They looked at each other, and a wave of irrepressible emotion, a mixture of despair, helplessness, and extreme ridiculousness, washed over them both.

They stared for a good half-minute, as if visually confirming the incredible truth. Then, almost in the same instant, a short, choked sound—unmistakably a laugh—escaped first from "Mr. Darcy's" throat. Immediately after, a similar, half-sobbing, yet clearly laughing sound came from "Miss Elizabeth."

The dam broke.

"Mr. Darcy"—that is, Elizabeth—was the first to laugh aloud, the low, resonant male laughter echoing along the quiet morning lane, filled with a helpless sort of wildness.

"Miss Elizabeth"—that is, Darcy—initially tried to maintain some decorum, but the laughter was too strong, too absurd. His shoulders shook violently, and finally, he too surrendered, emitting a clear, bright laugh of his own.

The laughter gradually subsided. Both were slightly breathless from their recent lack of composure, their faces still flushed and marked by the traces of amused tears. However, as their eyes met again, the brief, fragile connection was swiftly replaced by immense awkwardness and distance.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, the low, masculine sound still unfamiliar to her own ears. She tried to reclaim some sense of control, straightening her already ramrod-straight spine, which made her look even more like the haughty Mr. Darcy. "I hope you will forgive my impropriety. I didn't think you'd want to see yourself curtsy."

Darcy looked horrified. "Good God, no! Though I trust you wouldn't mind seeing yourself bow."

"Indeed... This... What in heaven's name is happening?" Elizabeth asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

Darcy instinctively moved to clasp his hands behind his back, his usual posture for deep thought. But the gesture, performed by Elizabeth's slender frame, looked profoundly awkward, even comical. He quickly dropped his hands, answering in the clear, feminine voice, yet with a Darcy-like gravity. "I have absolutely no idea, Miss Bennet. I awoke yesterday morning to find myself... like this." He glanced down at his yellow-gowned form, a look of extreme mortification crossing his features.

"Likewise," Elizabeth replied tersely, her gaze also involuntarily dropping to "herself." Seeing the serious, almost pained expression characteristic of Mr. Darcy on "Elizabeth Bennet's" face was a surreal experience. "We must determine the cause, and then... change back."

"Undoubtedly," Darcy agreed immediately. He attempted to take a small step forward to confer more closely, but the light, short step taken by Elizabeth's body was so different from his own powerful stride that he nearly lost his balance. He steadied himself, a flicker of annoyance on his face.

Elizabeth, not noticing the misstep, pressed on: "Mr. Darcy, yesterday... in my person... was everything... tolerable?"

Darcy's face—or rather, Elizabeth's face—flushed a deep, immediate crimson, spreading to the tips of his ears. He could almost feel the heat of the blood rushing under the skin. He avoided the seemingly perceptive gaze, staring fixedly at a nearby shrub. His voice was dry. "It was... sufficiently enlightening." He could not possibly elaborate on the experiences of the day, especially the feeling of sacrilege during the bath and the subsequent physical agitation. He turned the question back. "And you? In my body...?"

It was Elizabeth's turn to be embarrassed. She recalled the morning's alarming "incident" and the fumbling confusion of attending to basic needs. She turned her face slightly aside, mimicking Darcy's habitual gaze into the middle distance. "Equally... instructive," she said evasively. She paused, then added with genuine concern, "Also, Mr. Darcy, I noticed... your body seemed somewhat... unsettled this morning? In the... lower region. It... protruded, and then it subsided. Are you... quite well? I assure you I haven't mentioned it to a soul." The question was excruciatingly difficult, and she felt herself burning with the absurdity of the conversation.

Darcy stared blankly for a second before a stronger wave of heat, mingled shame and helplessness, washed over him. He understood immediately what she referred to. Yet, having it addressed by a young lady—the young lady he loved, despite her refusal—in such a worried and confused tone, was arguably one of the most mortifying moments of his life.

"That... that is normal!" he blurted out, his voice sharp with urgency. "Perfectly normal! I beg you... do not concern yourself. It would be a problem if it... didn't... Not that... One has little control!" He stumbled over the words, wishing the earth would swallow him whole.

Elizabeth, observing the deeply flushed and thoroughly embarrassed face, though still unclear on the details, vaguely surmised it must be some private peculiarity of the male form, not suited for further inquiry. She simply nodded, temporarily suppressing her bewilderment. "Very well," she said flatly.

Another suffocating silence fell. Morning birds chirped in the branches, sunlight dappled through the leaves, everything around them was full of life and serenity, save for the two of them, trapped in awkwardness and confusion.

Elizabeth finally broke the silence, forcing herself back to practical matters. "Until we discover a means to reverse this, we cannot allow anyone to suspect anything is amiss."

"Agreed," Darcy responded instantly. "We must strive to imitate each other's manners and conduct, to avoid raising suspicion."

"Imitate you?" Elizabeth raised an eyebrow—a gesture that, on Darcy's stern features, carried a peculiar air of mockery. "That would require me to become significantly more... silent, arrogant, and generally disagreeable?"

Darcy frowned (Elizabeth's brows drawing together made her look appealingly distressed, though she was trying to convey displeasure). "I am not... That was not my intention. Whereas you, Miss Bennet, must moderate your overly... lively expressions and speech. Particularly in front of my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Lady Catherine."

Elizabeth thought of Charlotte's perceptive gaze and Mr. Collins's endless fawning and lecturing. If Darcy were to emit an impatient snort using her clear voice in response to Mr. Collins, or respond with blank confusion when she attempted a knowing glance with Charlotte, it would be equally exposing.

They looked at each other, seeing in the other's eyes the enormity of the task and a profound sense of dread.

"We... shall have to learn from each other," Elizabeth finally conceded, reluctantly. "At the very least, the most basic patterns of each other's daily lives and social circles."

Darcy gave a heavy nod. "Shall we walk?" He instinctively began to offer his arm, then remembered he was not the gentleman in this pairing. Elizabeth, half-amused, half-intrigued, extended her arm instead.

Darcy took it with evident reluctance.