Chapter Text
There was a single, shining, silver lining to the Historical Society burning down and relocating to Nick’s building: instead of driving across town, with the grey winter sunshine and frosted roads and plasticky thermos coffee, Nancy could instead spend a precious extra half hour in Ace’s bed, warming her frozen toes on his legs and getting rolled into his arms in retaliation.
Sorry, Historical Society.
The telltale scrape of heavy boxes being dragged down the hallway was her final alarm call, and she finally managed to pull herself out from under the warm duvet and search for the clothes that had been hastily stripped off last night. Her eyes hit the end of the bed, where somebody had hung her jacket off the bedpost, carefully folded her shirt and jeans, and - she lifted them - yep, discreetly put her bra and underwear underneath. Said somebody sat up sleepily, running a hand through the tousled mess of dirty blonde hair in a way that was decidedly not helping her get dressed.
“I have to go help Bess with that delivery. If I stay any longer she’ll start with the loud British swearing,” she said.
As if on cue, a loud and pointed ‘Bollocks, who loaded this bloody box?!’ emanated from the hall.
“Can you bring some coffee over?”
He grinned lazily, always happy to help her, and her heart fluttered. Pulling her jeans and boots on, she leant in for a deep, soft kiss, and finally wrenched herself away and across the hall.
The not-so-Underground Historical Society was a mess. The boxes, all stamped with ‘PHS Maine’ and what she vaguely recognised as a containment glyph, turned out to be about 3 honest-to-god wooden crates. 4, when Bess came barrelling through the open door and almost knocked Nancy down.
“Oh, I see you finally left the love nest. You know, love has made you even less punctual,” The crate was dropped on top of another before Bess hastily made her exit, calling, “There’s one more crate downstairs, can you start checking the manifest in each box against the contents? I think George left a crowbar somewhere.”
Bess had disappeared downstairs again before Nancy could offer to help carry, so she located the crowbar and set to work prying the top off the nearest crate, finding a manifest sitting atop the packing peanuts. The first few items were easy enough to locate, but she worried she’d have to empty the whole crate out to find the last, a rare folio of Jane Austen’s collected works, “with handwritten notes (authors unknown) in endpages”. There was nothing on the manifest saying exactly why it was being held by the Portland Historical Society, although Nancy knew Bess had received a full report via email, but when her fingers finally brushed against soft leather and gilded paper edges, a hum of contentment ran through her.
She pulled it out from the packing peanuts and rested it on the edge of the crate. The cover was a plain burgundy leather, with gilt lettering reading “The Complete Novels of Jane Austen”. Entranced, she turned it in her hands. It was thick, but small enough to hold comfortably - the lettering inside would be small, to fit all those books in - and the edges of the pages shone a burnished gold. Nancy had never been a big Austen fan, preferring detective novels - or, better yet, solving her own mysteries - but Bess had insisted they watch her favorite BBC adaptations in the build-up to the holidays, and she had to admit, she understood the appeal. They were mysteries too, really, the way everyone hid their intentions and had their own motives to resolve before the happy ending. Not to mention the Mr Darcy of it all - Nancy had some serious plans for Ace next Halloween.
Absent-mindedly, she thumbed the cover open, finding a handwritten note on the title page.
“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!”
No sooner had her eyes reached the end, than she heard a faint crack, and found herself standing in the middle of a blizzard, in the middle of the night, definitely not in the Historical Society.
And the book wasn’t with her.
Making coffee was meditative for Ace, the slow drip of the pour-over and the burst of coffee smell giving him a few moments of chill before what would no doubt be a busy day of unpacking, cataloging, and fetching bagels. And, he thought, a little smugly, he and Nancy hadn't managed to get much sleep last night. In a moment he would pull on a shirt and change out of his sweats, but for now, he inhaled.
He was snapped out of his reverie by a sharp triple knock on the door. And then another, before he could even reach it, accompanied by an urgent call.
“Aaaaaaaace, come quick, it's Nancy.” It wasn't Nancy, it was Bess, sounding panicked. Oh.
Ace practically leapt the last few feet to the door, yanking it open to find a distressed and disheveled platanchor. She grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall to the UHS as soon as she saw him, leading him to see–
Nancy, unconscious on the floor, an old book in her hands.
“Shit, Bess, what happened?” He knelt, checking for a pulse, for an injury, for any explanation. Nancy was out cold, but her pulse was strong and she was breathing steadily.
“I don't knowwww,” Bess wailed, clearly spiraling. “I was getting the last crate and I left her unpacking. That book,” she waved at the folio in Nancy's hands, “is just supposed to be a book! The Portland Keeper found it at an estate sale. He knew I wanted to see it, he must have given it me as a surprise! Ohhhh…” she trailed off, anguished.
At least when Ace pulled Nancy's hands away from the book it stayed behind on the floor. He gently shifted her away and into the recovery position, taking care to brush the hair out of her face and behind her ears the way she never did when awake.
“I don't think it's just a book, Bess. Can you watch her while I change?” Not that he cared about Bess seeing him shirtless, but he needed to be ready to do anything it took to wake Nancy up, and anything usually involved a shirt, probably some shoes.
Once Bess had taken his position at Nancy's side, clutching her hand and scanning the manifest for anything that might help, Ace slipped back to his apartment and called Nick, then George, who pretended she hadn't heard Nick's side of the same conversation moments before. They arrived downstairs moments before Ace returned to Bess and a still unconscious Nancy, her chest rising and falling as if in a deep sleep.
One thing was different though. The book, previously closed, had flipped open to a few pages in. The pages that should have contained high-quality regency romance were blank. Then, familiar handwriting began to appear on the page, as if written by Nancy herself.
The icy wind bit through even the tough denim of her jacket and jeans, and stung her cheeks. She might not have been an Eagle Scout, but Nancy knew her chances of surviving this kind of exposure were slim if she couldn't find shelter soon. Blinking away frigid tears, she turned to scan the horizon for any sign of light or life or shelter. There, in the direction of the blizzard, was the faintest light, bobbing frantically along. A jogger? Hopefully on a path, hopefully headed to safety.
Nancy gritted her teeth and triangulated, heading in the same direction the light was, knowing any shout would be torn away by the howling wind and her only shot was to intercept. How had she ended up outside? Was this even Horseshoe Bay? The blistering cold made it hard to focus on anything more than survival, and she tried to quash her mental murderboard until she was safe.
As she trudged closer on the frozen grass, the source of the light came into focus. Not a jogger with a flashlight, but a horse carrying a rider, holding up what looked like a camping lantern, picking their way along a slightly raised path. She expended a little energy to wave, in case either the horse or rider could see, and was rewarded with a wave in return and a slowing of the horse.
Exhausted and numb she finally made it to the road, only to be greeted by the sight of–
Mr Darcy?
No, that couldn't be right, but the rider was wearing breeches, a military-style jacket, and high riding boots. The light hadn't been a camping lantern but rather an actual lantern lantern clipped to the saddle. She hadn't thought there were any reenactments going on today - but then she hadn't thought there was a blizzard scheduled either. Her brain ran numbly through the possibilities, a list of things she would have written off as bad Buffy B-plots just last year. Was this a spider demon situation? A dreamscape? A vision?
“May I offer you a ride to Pemberley, madam?” Okay, unless that was some kind of LARPing code, Pemberley was definitely straight out of Austen. Except right now she was too cold to care, her brain starting to slow and her fingers numb. She was vaguely aware of nodding and being helped clumsily onto the horse before the world gently subsided once more.
She woke in a warm four-poster bed, settled under a thick comforter, a crackling fire in the fireplace nearby. The room was straight out of a BBC period drama, the furnishings all plush and richly-coloured and embellished. To her horror, her clothes hung on a clothes horse by the fire, and, checking beneath the covers, she saw she had been dressed in a long, loose-fitting nightgown, although thankfully her bra and underwear were still on.
So, time travel? But was Pemberley a real place or just something Austen had made up? She couldn't say for sure. Was her body really here or was she lying on the floor in Nick's building, waiting for Bess and Ace to find her - oh God, Ace. She had to get back to Ace, but how?
She was interrupted by a young woman, about her own age, in a plain wool dress and white cotton apron, hair pulled into a tight braid.
“Oh!” gasped the woman, already retreating through the cracked door. “My apologies, Miss! I had thought you still asleep, and come to refresh the fire.”
“No, it's fine, please ,come in…?”
“Mary, miss. I shan’t be but a moment.”
The woman entered, curtsying shallowly and unsurely. Nancy knew she must look entirely out of place, so she tried to smile reassuringly. Wherever or whatever this was, she should play along.
“My name is Nancy, Nancy… Hardy.” An unmarried woman probably wouldn't get far trying to investigate here, but she suspected a married one might have more luck. Not that they would know from the name, but she wrapped it around her like a cloak anyway, and clarified. “Mrs. Nancy Hardy. How did I get here? There was a man…”
Another bobbing curtsy, deeper - because of her newly claimed status?
“Yes ma’am, Mr. Wickham said he found you on his way here.” So, definitely not Mr. Darcy. Pretty much the opposite. And pretty much fictional. "I set your things to dry.”
“Is this… Pemberley?”
“Yes ma’am. My mistress has invited several ladies and gentlemen for a house party, and has said you are most welcome to attend once you are recovered.”
“I…” it wasn't exactly what Nancy had in mind for the day, but if there were people there was a chance to find out why the book had sent her here. “Please tell your mistress I would be very grateful, and thank her for letting me stay.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the maid's eyes flicked to the clothes by the fire. “My mistress also provided some things for you to wear while your… clothes dry.”
Was this corset times? Nancy was all for a fashion bodice, but…
“I can check, they might be dry enough to-” she stopped at the maid's gasp, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm so sorry ma’am, but they're not suitable. You were wearing--" she lowered her voice and leant in conspiratorially, "Breeches, ma’am.”
Attempting to keep her sigh internal, Nancy pasted on a smile.
“Of course, I must have forgot in all the excitement. I was out… riding.” Trousers were okay for riding, right?
“Of course, ma’am,” Yeah, she wasn't buying it. “I believe my lord and lady are in the library, to the right of the entrance hall - if you are feeling quite well, ma’am.”
“Thank you, could you tell them I'll be down to make a proper introduction soon?”
Another nod and curtsy, and the maid escaped, clearly not sure what to make of her.
Nancy took the room in, now noting the draped linen dress, slip, stockings, and slippers on top of a chest at the foot of the bed. Thankfully, no corset in sight.
So, what were her options? The book was gone, so she couldn't try repeating what had sent her here in the first place. Was it like the Whisper Box situation, a dream with a mystery to solve before she could go home? Or would she have to rely on help from outside? Could she let them know where she was somehow?
Her phone! Had it been in her pocket? Rushing to the hearth, she found it, toasty warm from the fire, in her jacket pocket. The battery was almost drained, the screen dim as it clung desperately to life, but she made it to messages and managed to fire off one thing, a single lifeline, before the screen went dark.
“Ace, DON’T TOUCH BOOK! Trapped in Austen story. Look for disco spiders or ghosts.”
The handwriting was Nancy's, he'd recognise it anywhere, but the content removed any of the comfort of recognition. Instinctively, he went to grab the book - he had been trapped outside, unable to help her, too many times before. This time he wanted in.
“Don't you dare!” Bess had grabbed his wrist, thin fingers digging in with unexpected strength.
“Bess, I can't…” he relaxed his arm, no longer reaching, but Bess maintained her grip. Smart. “I'm better in there with her.”
“Okay, so we make a plan first,” she hissed, “we make sure we can get you both back, okay?”
He felt a strong hand on his shoulder, too, a gentle squeeze.
“Ace, bud, we'll wake her up.” The squeeze became a tug, and Ace relented, turning into Nick for a hug, head buried in a muscular shoulder, eyes screwed tight closed for a moment, grounding himself again.
Meanwhile, George was taking charge, skipping into the crisis management mode she'd been honing for far too long.
“Bess, you're gonna call the Portland keeper and find out what he did, and then do everything he missed to try and figure this out. Nick, Ace, take a moment. Breathe. Then you're gonna carry her across the hall and put her somewhere she's not gonna wake up with a cricked neck.” She swiveled, hands on hips, surveying the situation. “Ace, did I smell coffee?”
The instructions helped. Ace was always at his best with something to do, some way to help. They all set to work, George decanting steaming mugs of coffee to everyone and ordering in some bagels, Bess disappearing to make a loud phone call, he and Nick setting Nancy carefully down on the bed. It had seemed almost wrong to put her there, sheets still rumpled and full of the morning's lazy warmth. But, if she was the smallest bit aware of her body, he wanted her to know she was safe.
He perched next to her on the mattress, sipping slowly, urging the caffeine to spur his brain into action, to spark a better plan than ‘follow Nancy through hell’, and watching her face for any sign of discomfort. She was peaceful, her only movement the fluttering of her eyelids and the steady rise and fall of her chest. He could almost get lost in it.
Bess clattered through the door, clutching an archive box to her chest with one hand and carrying a well-thumbed grimoire in the other, one finger squished in to mark her page.
“I’ve got it!” She perched on the couch arm at Nancy’s head, dumping the box unceremoniously on the coffee table in front of her, and cracking the grimoire open. “It’s a classic fairytale trap, really. Apparently the book was gifted by a New England warlock to his niece in the 1840s so she could experience her favorite stories in person.”
“And she could get out of it?” George asked, cutting through Bess' nervous waffle like an axe.
“Well, no.” The crew collectively tensed, before Bess hurried on, “but she should have been able to. Apparently Miss Margaret wasn’t as big on literary analysis as he thought, so he had to get her out himself after three days.” She flipped a page, ran her finger down, and jabbed at it when she found her goal.
“Okay, I’ll go in. What do I do?” Ace would have leapt to his feet if it wouldn’t disturb Nancy, but the muscles in his legs were tense with readiness.
“Well…” Bess read carefully, brow furrowed making sure she had the exact right instructions for him. “Okay, someone needs to go in after her - once a story has started it should drop you in the same one. He didn’t record what the exact trigger to end it was, but it says he ‘let the story end’. And he made her— ” she fumbled, swapping the grimoire for a nondescript jewelry box on the table and cracking it open, “This, to help her see the plot threads.”
“Hang on a second, if this is Jane Austen, is Ace really the best person to go?” George had posed the question to Bess directly, eyes sliding away from Ace guiltily. “I’m sorry, it’s just… well you wouldn’t send me to infiltrate a ballet.”
There was a logic to it, Ace conceded. With a librarian mom, he’d read his share of Jane Austen but he was no expert. Maybe, once again, he wasn’t the right man for the job.
“Bess? You probably know the most of all of us.”
Her deep brown eyes were pools of anguish as she looked up at him, torn.
“Maybe, but if I’m out here I can work on an unweaving spell. It might take a while, but… Nick?”
Nick stepped forward, one hand a comforting weight on Ace’s shoulder.
“It should be Ace. I love my Jane Austen, but, uh…” he gestured up and down to indicate himself, “Let’s just say, I don’t care what Shonda thinks - you’d fit in better.” He winced, apologetically, but George nodded emphatically next to him.
“Okay, no, valid point. That rules me and Bess out anyway. Ace, you’re just gonna have to channel your inner Mr Darcy. Make those regency ladies swoon.”
It was decided. Bess rummaged in his closet for the closest thing to period appropriate he owned - the vest, shirt, and pants he’d worn for Tiffany’s memorial - and he changed on the spot. Pressing a kiss to Nancy’s forehead, he charged across the hall to where the book had been left.
“Wait, take this!”
As he turned to the front page and a wave of nausea overcame him, Ace was vaguely aware of a flash of gold as Bess slipped something into his hand.
Whatever this was, it felt real. The cotton was soft on her skin, the slippers pinched just a little on her toes, and the hairbrush she ran through her frizzed hair scratched like the genuine bristles of whatever animal had donated them. Gross.
The staircase too, was solid wood that creaked the perfect amount as she picked her way down and into the foyer, decorated with sprays of berries and autumnal leaves. Vases of dried sunflowers mixed with fresh-cut flowers in warm tones, the smell of beeswax cutting through and carrying the scents to her. She didn’t know whether this was the usual decor or just for the party but she liked it, as well as the warm conversational sounds coming from her right. The foyer had a similarly ornate staircase on the other side, a large set of doors open onto what looked like a ballroom. A swath of patterned floor tiles and columns along the walls interspersed with chaises and an even grander set of doors to the outside. But next to the staircases were smaller doors, recessed a little, presumably leading to the more lived-in parts of the level. She turned, noting the glow of natural light creeping under the doorframe, and crept up to the door. She knocked.
Another servant opened the door with a welcoming smile, stepping aside so she could see the room, and its occupants.
Furthest from her, almost tucked in against the shelves, was a tall, stately man, with broad shoulders and a classically handsome face, who regarded her from a cool distance. If this was Pemberley, that must be Mr Darcy. He sat next to a woman not much older than Nancy with a heart-shaped face framed by soft brown curls, a hefty book in her lap. Lizzie? From the ease of their bodies next to each other, this must be post-story for them. Across from the Darcys sat a slightly older woman - although still under 30, Nancy guessed - who was beautiful but looked as if she’d seen a Horseshoe Bay amount of stress, and a man in his 30s with a down-to-earth charm about him as he sat back, relaxed in his chair reading some kind of large leather-bound manual. Although they were all arranged in armchairs around a gently-smoldering fire, there was another younger man perched on a smaller chair he seemed to have pulled from a nearby chess set-up, beaming broadly at her. He was cute, but his puppy-dog eagerness was all-too familiar and off-putting.
She looked away, hoping for some cue from her hosts instead, and Lizzie met her eyes with a look of understanding, crossing the room to take her hand.
“Mr Darcy, Mr Knightley, Mr Elton, Miss Elliott, may I present Mrs Nancy Hardy. Mrs Hardy, I am Mrs Elizabeth Darcy, the lady of Pemberley.”
Nancy doled a curtsy out to each of them, attempting to imitate Mary’s while she scrambled to place the names, and got the subtlest nod of approval from Lizzie. Was there a Miss Elliott in Pride and Prejudice? No, that was Persuasion.
“You may, of course, stay as long as you need to recover, although I must ask, if I may… how did you come to be so far from the road in such a dreadful storm?” The trousers were not mentioned, but very much implicit, Nancy felt. Looking at these now-familiar faces, she didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t know how much this scenario could stretch without them throwing her out again. Well, if this was a story it could probably handle an extra trope.
“I… I’m sorry, I can’t remember. I must have been riding, but I don’t know what happened.” She widened her eyes and pressed her lips together in mock confusion, pulling out all the tricks she used to use on cops when they found her mid-crime, and felt a twinge of guilt when Lizzie squeezed her hand.
“Then it is settled, you must stay at the very least until your memory returns. Do you recall if your husband is nearby, that we might send word?” She was pulled into the chair Lizzie had vacated, and a cup of tea placed into her hands by Mr Darcy with a nod.
“No, I… I don’t know if he’ll know how to find me.” Okay, that was a lie, she knew Ace would be trying his best to recreate what had brought her here, despite her warning him not to.
“Very well, we shall send word to all the coaching inns nearby- Ah, Wickham,” her tone changed immediately, souring as the appearance of Mr Wickham in the doorway cast a literal and metaphorical shadow on the room. “Mrs Hardy, you have Mr Wickham to thank for your rescue.” No formal introduction there then, which wasn’t surprising given what she knew about him. But why was he here at all? She summoned a smile.
“Thank you, Mr Wickham. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t found you.”
He smiled toothily, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were instead on Lizzie.
“I believe I found you, Mrs Hardy. I agree, it was fortunate I was on my way to visit my dear Mr Darcy last night, or you might have been quite frozen.”
Darcy stood, finally, his demeanor gone from the quiet ease of a man enjoying a peaceful morning at home to a more protective, icy projection.
“Wickham, shall we attend to your business in the study? I am sure there is no need to tire my guests with it so early in the day.” It wasn’t a question, and Wickham flashed another queasy smile at Nancy - and, strangely, Anne Elliott - before exiting the room ahead of Darcy, who continued. “Mrs Hardy, I shall send word to the local inns for your husband, if he is there. Good day.” He swept out of the room behind Wickham and Nancy turned back to Lizzie, curious.
Lizzie, clearly not wanting to expand, caught her gaze and pointedly picked up her book again, settling in the chair Darcy had been in. “Well, they shall be some time. I should like to finish another chapter before luncheon is served.”
Nancy found herself on the receiving end of three inquiring sets of eyes: Miss Elliott, openly curious and kind; Mr Knightley, more bemused than anything; and Mr Elton, now apparently bored, shifting between her and Miss Elliott. Evidently despite her age - which was, again, not particularly advanced by Nancy’s standards - Anne was quite the catch. Nancy sifted through all the half-remembered plots surfacing in her brain. Anne was nobility - in her own story she was being pursued by her cousin (ew) for her title. Mr Elton and Mr Knightley were from Emma, with no Emma in sight. Elton was a clout-chaser, right? Wickham was famously an asshole, although married to Lydia in his story - but if they were all here together, who knew what the story would turn out to be?
In an instant, Ace was elsewhere. At least it was light, the sun risen to mid-morning, although mist still clung to him as he turned to get his bearings. The ground was sodden too, melting snow drenching the frigid grass he stood on - there had been a snowstorm then, and there was no sign of Nancy nearby. Frustrated, Ace opened his hand to examine Bess’ gift.
A plain gold band, nothing to indicate it was a magical macguffin. He just had to hope it was what the archive box label had said it was. The ring was made for smaller fingers than his, but he slotted it on his pinky. It would fit Nancy when he found her - he might even make a proposal joke when he handed it over.
Sparkling red threads appeared, glittering like snail trails through the mist and outlining the shape of a large house not far away. There was nothing for it, he set off, picking his way through the mud until the mist cleared a little and he found himself at a stately manor house, made from soft yellowed stone. The gardens around it were manicured, polished, and there was an air of… not decadence, not like when you entered the yacht club and immediately felt suffocated by the crass richness - more like how the Drew house felt, accents of expensive taste but practical, homey.
The large oak front door was hard to miss, and he slammed the wrought iron knocker as hard as he could, hoping someone was home to hear it. After a second knock for good measure, the door was cracked open slowly, revealing a middle-aged woman in a neatly-pressed apron who projected authority and glared up at him.
“I’m looking for my…” he fumbled for a split second before landing on the one reason they might entrust her to a strange man, even if she hadn’t spun the same story. He held up the ring in explanation, “My wife, Nancy. I found her wedding band on the hill, is she here?”
“Your wife? And how did your wife come to be alone on the moor, in the middle of the night, in men’s clothing, Mr…?”
“Hardy.” ‘Ace’ probably wouldn’t cut it here. “Captain Thomas Hardy, of, uh, Tower Hamlets.” He prayed Bess’ home patch had existed then - now? - but the housekeeper stood a little straighter as she eyed him.
“A military man, are you?” Why not? Hopefully it would excuse his rough manners.
“Yes ma’am. My wife and I are traveling for our honeymoon and decided to ride for a spell. We were nearly to the Inn when the horses startled. I was thrown and, when I woke up, my dear Nancy had gone.” He plastered his best ‘worried husband’ look on his face, which was thankfully very similar to his ‘worried boyfriend’ look. She’d mentioned men’s clothing though - that had to mean Nancy was here. She hadn’t quibbled at the ‘wife’ part either, so hopefully Nancy had had the same idea. Thankfully the housekeeper looked mollified, if a little snippy.
“Well Captain, I can’t say as I would have chosen to ride in this weather myself, but your wife is safe inside. I’ll send a maid for her and see if she wishes to see you.”
A maid was summarily summoned and sent, and Ace took the time to examine the grand entrance hall, bedecked in autumnal finery.
And then there was Nancy. And she was running to him and wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his damp chest. And he was holding her close and kissing the top of her head and ignoring the disapproving sniff from the housekeeper behind him.
When Nancy finally pulled away, he was smiling at her. He couldn’t help it. She looked like every fiery Austen heroine he’d ever imagined in his classics phase. His mom, bless her soul, had never discriminated when she recommended books to him, knowing he’d enjoy the quiet puzzles of her own favorites too. He’d read a few, listened to more on tape when he found out that was easier to process, spending quiet hours immersed in the rich stories. It had been a long time since he’d revisited them, not since Rebecca had bought his first computer, but seeing Nancy with that empire waistline amidst all this had pulled him right back in.
“Mrs Hardy,” that was new, unfamiliar, pleasant in a way, “I’m so glad I found you.” He willed her with his eyes to play along, but it seemed she was already ahead of him, as another woman, dressed similarly to Nancy, had emerged.
“Mr Hardy, I presume? Your wife has had quite the adventure.”
Nancy smiled, eyes warm as if to say this woman was a friend, and a wry smile on her lips that he couldn't quite read, before letting go of one of his hands and turning to the newcomer.
“Mrs Darcy, may I present my husband, Mr Hardy. Darling, Mrs Darcy has been so kind to me here at Pemberley.”
Oh, Pemberley.
They had been left to talk in a drawing room with a knowing smile from Lizzie and a reminder of the imminent lunch, and Nancy had given Ace the run-down as soon as she could, listening to his side in return.
“… So I guess, Nancy Drew, will you take this ring and keep pretending to be Nancy Hardy with me?” He was too glib, his face too obviously a parody of sincerity for it not to be a mask. For him not to have the same soft butterflies she did, as she let him slip the ring onto her finger, and for a moment they just smiled at each other, vibrating on the same frequency.
Then the ring’s magic kicked in, and she saw shimmering red threads leading out of the door. By Nancy’s reckoning, they had a few minutes before they were summoned for lunch, and she wanted to get the plan of action straight. If she could do that while squished on an antique loveseat with Ace in an entirely improper way, all the better.
“So, we have… 6 characters, from… 3 different books?”
“Yep,” Ace’s brow furrowed, “And none of them have their love interests? ”
“Except Darcy and Lizzie Bennett…”
“Who’s already Lizzie Darcy.”
“Right.” They sat in stumped silence until a bell rang in the hall followed by a firm rap on the door.
“I guess we just follow the ring?” Ace stood, offering a hand to help her up like the gentleman he had always been.
Nancy took his hand in hers, the thumb of her other toying with the underside of the gold band on her finger.
“Yep,” she looked up at him, reassured by his presence despite the urgency of the situation, “After you, Mr Hardy.”
He beamed at her in that quiet, understated way he could, where his eyes lit up and his lips curved gently, squeezing the hand he still held as he led her to the door.
“No no, after you, Mrs Hardy.”
He opened the door for her and her eyes reluctantly left him to follow the plot thread as it was revealed, crossing the threshold, and illuminating the knocker who stood in front of her. Whatever the ending was, it would involve Miss Anne Elliott.