From Pemberley to Manhattan [COMPLETED]

Chapter 1

OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO

People are never ready for the impossible.

Normally it is a matter of misusing the word: most have the annoying habit of judging something impossible merely because they can't accomplish it themselves, which is entirely different from that something actually being impossible.

Luckily for Ethan Brown, the man standing in front of him didn't believe in time travel, otherwise he'd notice some of Ethan's belongings, still a long time from being invented. His Game of Thrones T-shirt semi-hidden by his lab coat, his ripped jeans, his Doctor Who watch, his eyeglasses; these definitely didn't belong in the nineteenth century.

Neither did he.

Instead, the man facing him was scowling; his dark, thick brows pulling together; his lips settling in a straight line. He looked like he was crossed because a Mr. Nobody was standing on his land unauthorized, spoiling his so far agreeable morning, wasting his precious aristocratic time.

"Excuse me, sir", Ethan cleared his throat, recovering his voice, "What is the date?"

Conscious that his accent might sound strange to the serious man, Ethan spoke as slowly as possible. It didn't seem to work, though; the man's brow furrowed deeper, and the corners of his lips turned down.

"What day is today?", Ethan repeated, his knees feeling weak already. The man's presence was imposing; even his tough sister, Nathalie, would have to admit something about him was scary.

"I could hear you the first time, sir", Mr. Darcy was taken aback by the young man's presence and even more bewildered by his forwardness and lack of manners. The only reason he didn't call for his steward right now to accompany the man out of his property was the fact he might be a tourist who had been visiting Lambton and had lost his way. He quite enjoyed the village himself, even though the company there could be beneath him. "Today is the twenty-eighth."

"Of what month?" Yes, Mr. Darcy thought, probably an intoxicated guest from Lambton, unaware of his surroundings or the importance of the man in his presence.

"This is the month of July. Sir." He sighed, his temper trying to get the best of him. Ever since the dreadful affair with Wickham weeks ago, he had been even less tolerant than usual. Just to think of the scoundrel and Mrs. Younge made him want to hurt someone. It was not, however, that poor soul's fault that the other two lacked honor.

Mr. Darcy was mentally making the arrangements to take the stranded man back to the village when he spoke again: "Of what year?"

That question alarmed Mr. Darcy. One thing was drinking enough wine to be confused about the accurate date. Forgetting the year, in any event, indicated a mental condition he was not willing to deal with, especially alone.

Calculating the distance between himself and his house, Mr. Darcy answered the man with black hair and confused, gray eyes, ignoring the trespasser's offending tone and his own manners. "It is 1811, naturally."

"Yes! YES!!! Suck that, McFly! I'm in the nineteenth century, baby!"

The young man was behaving like a maniac, a strong indication to Mr. Darcy of his being a fugitive from a lunatic asylum. His strange-looking trousers were in shreds, and the rest of his garments weren't at all adequate, proving his point. Unfortunately.

Another unfortunate aspect of the odd situation was that the crazy fellow was blocking the closer way to Mr. Darcy's house. Had he started running in the opposite direction, Mr. Darcy would have to circle the lake before reaching it. Nonetheless, there was a chance he might encounter someone tending to his gardens at that hour.

He decided to take it.

The man stopped screaming and yelling at his imaginary friend, a Mr. McFly, moments later. By then, Mr. Darcy had already taken a left turn, being hidden by lime trees lining both sides of the new route he was taking.

Everything was quiet for a minute or so, except for Mr. Darcy's shoe soles stomping the damp earth. Abruptly, he heard another pair of feet running in his direction. Gathering the young man had guessed which way he'd taken, Mr. Darcy decided to seek shelter amongst some oak trees that stood a few feet off the main path along the lake. He hoped the young man would run past him, so he could turn back to Pemberley House.

Squatted under a tree, covered by its branches and shadows, Mr. Darcy hid in complete silence. He saw the young man spurting along the pathway, desperately searching, but unable to locate him. Mr. Darcy observed him most attentively, only letting himself exhale when he was certain the lunatic was too far to hear him.

As Mr. Darcy returned to a standing attitude, he thought he saw a glimpse of a person. Taking careful steps, so he wouldn't disturb the leaves and make most undesired noise, he approached the spot where he had the impression of seeing someone wearing black trousers.

He hadn't been mistaken; there was a tall man before him, probably one of the property's servants. His back was turned to Mr. Darcy, who was relieved and, at the same time, eager to return to his most beloved house. He called for the man, reaching further in his direction.

"I bid you good morning, sir!" Mr. Darcy's humour was improving already. He moved closer to the man, who didn't seem to hear him. "Excuse me."

"NO!" The maniac was back, and darted toward him.

Mr. Darcy took a few steps closer to the other man, his hand closing on his coat. Rather than touching the man's arm, Mr. Darcy felt like he was touching a cold, thick liquid. He subsequently had the impression of diving in freezing water. That didn't make sense, since he'd been at least fifty feet away from the lake.

Before he could reason further, he was engulfed by darkness.

                                                                                                  

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