Page 135 of The Long Road Back to Yesterday

December 21, 1811

Elizabeth drew the needle through the corner of the handkerchief, tied off the thread, and cut it.

The letters were small and plain.

E.D.

Across the room, Fitzwilliam stood near the window, already dressed for travel. Beyond him, Pemberley lay beneath a pale winter sky, the lawns silvered with frost.

She ran her thumb over the embroidered initials.

“I mean to leave this at Arbor Low.”

Fitzwilliam crossed the room and took the handkerchief from her.

“For Richard and Dr. Wynn? Proof that Elizabeth Darcy once existed?”

“If everything changes, there may never have been an Elizabeth Darcy.”

“There was, and she will live on in our memories.”

Elizabeth touched her wedding ring. “If our memories survive.”

“They will. We have written them down for that very reason.”

He drew her to her feet. “Have faith, Elizabeth. It worked for Samuel Grange, and it will work for us.”

She rested her head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart eased the racing of hers.

Fitzwilliam bent and kissed her hair. “All will be well, darling.”

Elizabeth slipped her arms around his neck and held him close. They had awakened before dawn and remained in bed long after the first gray light entered the room. Neither had been willing to surrender their last morning together.

When Fitzwilliam finally drew away, he rested his forehead against hers.

“I do not want to leave you,” Elizabeth whispered. “I cannot bear the thought that we may cross over and somehow be separated. You are the center of my life now.”

His arms tightened around her.

“But Papa was taken from us too young. I want to see him again. I want Lydia home and safe before Wickham can destroy her life. I want Georgiana safe.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I want all of that, Fitzwilliam, but I do not want to lose you to have it.”

“You need not make the crossing, Elizabeth.”

She looked at him.

“If you wish to remain here, say so. I will stay with you.”

Elizabeth looked around the room. She knew its furniture now, the pattern of the bed curtains, which board near the hearth creaked beneath her foot, and where Fitzwilliam left his watch at night. A few months earlier, she had never heard of Pemberley or Fitzwilliam Darcy. Now every familiar thing in the room reminded her of the life they had made together.

But it was not Pemberley she feared losing.

It was him.

Elizabeth lifted her cloak from the bed and handed it to him.

Fitzwilliam settled it over her shoulders. After fastening it at her throat, he smoothed the collar and let his fingers linger against her cheek.

Elizabeth tucked the handkerchief into her reticule. “Come, husband.”