Page 11 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 15: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Today marked fifteen Tuesdays, and the repetitions had been annoying and difficult. He could no longer endure them, though. Not like this. Not alone. Today, he would free himself. Surely the phenomenon could not last if he left Hertfordshire, could it?

Darcy rode to London and went to bed in Darcy House, his staff entirely bewildered by his precipitous arrival without even baggage or Hawkin. Heaven willing, tomorrow would be Wednesday.

Day 16: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy awoke, not daring to open his eyes and see whether his attempt had succeeded. Was it Wednesday?

Before long, however, the soft sounds of Hawkin conversing with a maid filled the room. The bedclothes hung above him with their hatefully familiar patterns. Why was he back at Netherfield?

“Good morning, sir,” Hawkin said, holding out Darcy’s dressing gown. “It is Tuesday, November 19th, and the weather looks likely to remain fine all day.”

Would Tuesday never end?

Darcy’s temper was too uncertain to risk more than the briefest answers to Hawkin and certainly too strained to risk seeing Wickham. Another long ride was clearly in order. Even if he could not leave Hertfordshire, he could at least expunge some of the frustration through exertion.

Eventually, many hours later, Darcy dragged himself back to Netherfield, the hour more advanced than any he had returned at previously. Hawkin cast many worried glances at his employer as he assisted him out of his riding clothes. Darcy’s stomach twisted, and he dismissed his valet rather than having to explain his behaviour. He had neglected to inform anyone that he would not be home for dinner, but it had not been premeditated; late that afternoon he had discovered he did not have the energy to face anyone, and so he had eaten at an inn. Even poor food was better than the company he would have had to endure.

A sharp knock came at his bedroom door, and Bingley tumbled in the moment Darcy opened it. “Darcy!” He clasped his friend’s forearms. “I was so worried. Are you well?” He looked him over, apparently hunting for injuries.

Darcy’s guilt grew. He ought to have apprised Hawkin that he might not return until late. He had not mentioned it, unwilling to deal with the resultant questions; but just because his valet and friend would forget their distress, that did not lessen the distress of the moment. “I apologise for worrying you. I decided to dine at an inn as I had ridden so far afield that I did not believe I would return in time for dinner.”

Bingley frowned. “Are you certain you are well? I have never known you to behave so cavalierly.”

“A mere oversight,” Darcy assured him.

His friend simply scrutinised him as though weighing the truth of his statement. Darcy straightened, clasping his hands behind his back to avoid fidgeting with his sleeves. It would be so much easier if he were not alone in this Tuesday. His behaviour was perfectly reasonable when viewed through the lens of his true circumstances, but how to explain that to someone without explaining the repetitions was baffling at best.

“If something is wrong, you know that you can tell me,” Bingley said earnestly. “You have always done your best to assist me and I—I would do my best to return the favour.”

“Thank you, Bingley.”

Bingley nodded, holding his gaze. “If you are certain you are well―”

Darcy cleared his throat, attempting to loosen the tight knot that had appeared at this show of genuine concern. “I am―” he began, intending to assure his friend that all was well. “—apparently trapped in this Tuesday,” he finished, the words spilling from his lips without volition.

Bingley blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“I have been experiencing this Tuesday repeatedly,” Darcy said stiffly, his jaw tensing as he cursed himself for every kind of fool. At least Bingley could not send him to Bedlam in the space of one night.

Bingley’s brow creased. “I do not understand.”

“Today is the sixteenth time that I have experienced November 19, 1811.”

His friend’s eyes widened.

“It sounds incredible—and if I were not the one who was experiencing the day, I would not have believed such a thing possible. However, it is.” He seated himself in a chair by the fire, gesturing for his friend to take the opposite chair while avoiding meeting Bingley’s eyes. “If you followed your customary routine today, you rode to Longbourn to call on Miss Bennet only to discover that she had walked into Meryton with Miss Elizabeth, Miss Kitty, Miss Lydia, and their cousin, Mr. Collins. When you arrived in Meryton, you found them speaking to Mr. Denny and a Mr. Wickham. Likely, you then accompanied them to Mrs. Phillips’s house, where she issued an invitation to attend dinner. After dinner, you most likely played whist with Miss Bennet while Miss Elizabeth and her younger sisters played at lottery.”

Bingley’s eyebrows had shot up and continued to creep upwards with every statement Darcy made. “How do you know that?” he asked, hovering near the indicated chair.

Darcy sighed, his eyes sliding closed as he reminded himself that Bingley was not responsible for his predicament and that directing any of his frustration at him would be pointless and unkind. “I have lived this day sixteen times already.”

“But―” Bingley stopped, poured them each a finger of brandy, and then downed his portion and sank into the chair opposite him. “I—you are not prone to jokes,” he mused. “You are quite serious?”

“Entirely,” Darcy said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“How?”

“How is it possible?”

Bingley nodded dumbly.

“If I knew that, I might be able to stop experiencing Tuesday and move on to Wednesday. As it is, I am―” Darcy swallowed as a boulder filled his throat and bands tightened around his chest. “I am marooned here.”

“Marooned?”

“What else would you call it?” Darcy asked, trying to maintain a dignified manner, despite the tightness in his chest and the pricks of unshed tears. “I am alone and unable to leave.” He gave a forced, wry smile. “My only saving grace is that I am not on a deserted island, forced to construct my own shelter and hunt for food.”

Bingley leaned forward. “I—I do not entirely understand, but I—you have been my dearest friend these past few years. We have endured much, and you have helped me greatly. What can I do to help you?”

The tears pressed more insistently at Darcy’s eyes, and he blinked them away. Bingley believed him—despite how impossible the truth was. “I do not know.”

“Perhaps, together, we can devise something? What have you already attempted?” Bingley asked hesitantly.

Darcy hardly knew how to answer his friend, but he listed off the various things he had already tried without success. They then discussed possible methods for keeping one trapped in a single day, ranging from fairy tales to miracles. They did not come to any conclusions, but simply talking about the matter with someone who believed him and who listened and asked questions helped Darcy to sort through his thoughts.

A warm glow filled his belly as Bingley continued to listen. That night, he went to sleep with a smile on his face.