He was determined not to repeat that same error again. For Jane Austen had made it crystal clear that she wanted to be with him, if only for a little while. And God knew he wanted to be with her one last time as well.

He allowed himself a grim smile. Because, of course, he was assuming—had to assume—that, come the dawn, he would ride Lord Nelson to the arched tree limbs above the stone wall where, by the same unknown process that had brought him to the year 1810, he would magically leap back into his own time.

And if he could not return?

If his trip into the past had been a one-way ticket?

Darcy’s conscious mind refused to seriously contemplate the unthinkable answers to those questions. Although he realized that it was recklessly irresponsible of him not to have made some basic plan for the very real possibility that he might be permanently locked into this world, he could not in fact even bear to consider the reality of such a fate.

If he was doomed to remain here, he knew, he would not dare to approach Jane Austen again. For he would be an outlaw, a marked fugitive relentlessly hunted by her vengeful brothers, forced to run to the farthest outposts of civilization merely to survive.

Darcy could imagine only one fate worse than returning to his own chaotic and frenzied time without Jane Austen, and that was to be trapped in this one, where she still lived and breathed, unable to be with her.

He was shaken from his grim reverie as Lord Nelson abruptly stopped nibbling at the shoots of tender spring grass growing around the wall of the ruined hut and raised his magnificent head, snorting softly in the breeze.

Alarmed, Darcy looked up at the agitated horse. Then he, too, heard the sounds that had startled the animal. From somewhere in the distance came the faint drumming of hoofbeats and the cries of shouting men. Feeling his blood suddenly run cold, the American got to his feet and, pushing aside drooping branches and tangled brambles of undergrowth, he walked a little ways through the trees. At the edge of the wood he stopped and cautiously peered out into an open meadow.

To his horror Darcy saw a line abreast of perhaps a dozen armed-and-uniformed men riding directly toward his hideaway, their sabers extended, the polished blades flashing brightly in the orange rays of the setting sun.

Without a moment’s hesitation Darcy retreated back through the wood, making his way in seconds to the collapsed hut. Leaping onto Lord Nelson’s back, he shouted to the great black stallion, urging him into a full gallop.

Branches and small limbs lashed his face and arms as he drove the powerful horse crashing through the trees. Breaking out into the meadow, Darcy angled sharply away from the approaching horsemen, praying they would not see him in the dying light. Before he had gone ten yards, however, he heard a new shout raised behind him.

Turning in his saddle, Darcy recognized the flushed features of Frank Austen at the head of the military formation. The captain was pointing his saber directly at him, rallying his men to follow. The line of horsemen wheeled about, urging their mounts to the chase. From the corner of his eye the fleeing American saw two of the mounted soldiers unslinging long flintlock rifles from their shoulders.

Without waiting to see any more Darcy aimed Lord Nelson toward a low hedgerow and prepared to jump. A shot rang out, then another, as the horse leaped and landed awkwardly in the next field.

Crouching low in the saddle Darcy pushed the speeding stallion onward, pressing his face hard against the animal’s muscular neck. “Come on, Nelson, old boy,” he shouted into the wind, “give it everything you’ve got!”

The magnificent creature increased his stride, swiftly pulling away from their pursuers until he splashed through a muddy ditch and into another meadow and was suddenly slowed by the softer ground.

Looking ahead Darcy saw the fiery ball of the setting sun blazing through the distinctive arch formed by the pair of tall trees overhanging the low stone wall. “There it is, boy!” he shouted as a full volley of shots rang out behind them, tearing muddy gouts in the turf to either side. Turning back to look over his shoulder he saw Frank Austen at the head of the pack not fifty paces behind him and quickly closing the gap. The captain’s face was contorted with rage and he was screaming an epithet that was lost in the thunder of hooves.

Darcy raced across the emerald green turf to the very verge of the field bounded by the low stone wall, riding hell-bent into the sun. Though he assumed it was impossible to leap back into his own time before sunrise, he prayed that a jump through the narrow arch might at least intimidate and slow his pursuers, who would have to follow in single file.

The wall was approaching fast. At the last possible instant and with no more time to think, Darcy leaned forward, forced to squeeze his eyelids shut to avoid being blinded by the dazzling light.

He braced himself as he felt Lord Nelson’s hooves leave the ground.

They were airborne for several instants, during which he clearly heard the thumping of his own heart over Frank Austen’s screamed warning for him to stop or be shot dead.

The sound of Austen’s voice died away, as if someone had quickly dialed down the volume on a too-loud radio. Lord Nelson’s front feet hit the ground with a bone-jarring jolt and Darcy opened his eyes. Reining the huffing horse to a halt he turned and looked back over the wall that they had just cleared. In the final rays of the dying sun he saw nothing but dissolving shadows filling an empty meadow.

In the distance he heard the rumble of an engine and turned to see a yellow-painted farm tractor coming toward him, its lights turned on against the gathering gloom. He waved and waited until the vehicle reached him and a red-faced man yelled over the top of the black steering wheel.

“Here now! What’re you doing in my field? I haven’t spent all day planting this seed for you to be tramping on it with your bloody great horse.”

Barely trusting himself to reply, Darcy opened his mouth to ask for directions to his friends’ rented country house.

The shriek of a low-flying fighter jet from the nearby NATO base obliterated his eager words.

Chapter 32

“And so I had returned.”

Darcy was standing at the open French doors in the Rose Bedroom, looking out at the first golden rays of the sun rising over Pemberley Farms. Eliza got softly to her feet and went to stand beside him.

Almost whispering, she gently said, “So you lost her.”

Quizzically, “I beg your pardon?”

Her heart went out to him. “Your last meeting with Jane never took place?”

He shook his head, still looking into the distance. “No. I never saw her again. And, as far as I can tell, the entire incident was never spoken of by anyone in the Austen family. There’s no mention of Jane Austen having ever met anyone remotely resembling me, at least not that I’ve been able to find in any family archive or historical record.”

He paused, and then turned to Eliza. “The only hint that something might have happened is that, according to several of her biographers, Jane left Chawton for several months immediately after May 12, 1810. But until her first letter to me turned up in an estate sale two years ago I was unable to find any documentation that anything I have told you really happened.”

Smiling he added, “So now you see why I said that I spent a very long time doubting my own sanity. When that first letter turned up in London in a huge collection of unrelated documents it had already passed through several hands. So although it couldn’t be traced to a specific source, it gave me hope because it proved I had actually been there.”

Darcy smiled again. “Then you turned up with more substantial proof that it was all completely true, just as I’d remembered it.”

“Well, at least you know that she got the letter you sent Simmons to deliver,” Eliza said.

“Yes, and the unopened letter must be her reply. Do you understand now why I said that letter was meant for me?”

Eliza walked out onto the balcony, considering all that he had told her. She slowly nodded her head and gazed into the sunrise. “So it is really possible to travel back in time.” Her voice sounded small and full of wonder.

Darcy joined her at the hand-carved railing and shrugged. “Theoretically, yes. As I explained to Jane, time travel is possible; at least if you’re willing to believe Einstein, Hawking and a few thousand other eminent thinkers. “How it’s done is still the big question,” Darcy said. “The only reported incidents I was able to discover in my research have been like mine—accidents.”

“Unbelievable!” Eliza yawned and felt her eyelids suddenly growing heavy, the cumulative result of her emotional turmoil and nearly twenty-four hours without sleep.

“I really do believe you, Fitz,” she explained dreamily. “But you have to admit it all seems so incredible. My mind is reeling.”

Darcy nodded, then unexpectedly leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You must be exhausted,” he said quietly. “Try to get some sleep now. We can talk more about all of this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is already here,” she reminded him, pointing to the glowing ball of the rising sun. “I think you’d better try to get some sleep yourself. Your big day is beginning.”

“God yes! I almost forgot the ball!” He reached down and touched her hand, then walked through the bedroom to the door and opened it to leave. She spun around.