Page 39 of Twice Chosen

He whispered, "Mrs. Harold was meant to see to it."

Elizabeth covered her mouth.

Darcy took one step forward. "No."

She laughed. Then cried. "William."

He made a sound that was not quite a word. "Elizabeth."

She crossed the distance between them.

Darcy caught her.

There was no propriety. No caution. No Meryton. He held her as though she had returned from the grave, which Elizabeth supposed she had.

His face buried against her hair. She clutched his coat.

"You remember," she said against him.

"All of it."

She pulled back enough to see his face. "Everything?"

"Everything."

Elizabeth began laughing again. "You asked about apricot preserve."

Darcy's mouth twitched through tears he would once have hidden. "You mentioned my coffee."

"You asked about hawthorn."

"You threatened that tree."

"It deserved defending."

"It was diseased."

"It lived thirty years."

"Poorly."

Elizabeth laughed. Darcy smiled.

There it was: young Darcy's face with her husband's smile.

She touched his mouth.

His expression softened.

Then he kissed her.

Not like a first kiss. Not like young people uncertain of one another. Like returning home.

Elizabeth's arms went around him. For one reckless minute fifty years collapsed.

Darcy drew back sharply.

Elizabeth blinked. "What?"