Page 13 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 19: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

The next morning, Darcy timed his ride so that he and Bingley would reach Meryton at their once customary hour. The old woman sat on the bench in front of the milliner’s and the Bennets stood in front of the shops, speaking once again to Wickham and Mr. Denny. Darcy’s desire to speak to the old woman was such that it overshadowed both the longing that filled his heart upon seeing Miss Elizabeth and the rage that pounded through his veins every time he laid eyes upon Wickham. With a mere tip of his hat to the group, he turned and rode towards the milliner’s.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy!” the old woman called as he approached, her cracked, purpling lips curving up in a gap-toothed grin. “I am glad to see that Mr. Bingley passed my message along. He seemed so confused that I was unsure he would do so.”

“Good morning,” Darcy returned as he drew near, bowing to her. “Yes, he did.” He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide which of his hundreds of questions to ask first. “May I ask your name, Madam?”

“Oh, there is no need for names, is there?”

“I would like to know with whom I am conversing.”

The old woman cackled. “Polite to a fault, aren’t you? You may call me Mrs. Engel.”

“Very well, Mrs. Engel. How did you know that I did not accompany my friend yesterday?”

“Rather, you should ask: how did I know that you did not accompany your friend today? After all, you were not in Meryton on Monday, were you?”

Darcy huffed. “One may argue that Monday was the precursor to Tuesday; however, as this is the nineteenth Tuesday I have experienced, I do not believe your description is accurate. Yesterday is, after all, the day before today, and by that definition, yesterday was the eighteenth Tuesday.”

The old woman cackled again. “I see they were right about your precision.”

“ They were right? Who are they?”

“Oh, no one you need concern yourself with. In fact, of all the questions you have considered, the one you really ought to be asking has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you: why are you repeating today?”

“Are you also repeating today?”

“That is not a question you need concern yourself with.”

“So you are,” Darcy concluded.

The woman shrugged. “Some might say that I am, and some might say that I am not. Would you like to know why you are repeating today?”

Darcy straightened. “You know?”

She beamed at him. “Of course I do. It was my idea, after all.”

“ If it was truly your idea, I would appreciate some elucidation.”

“Why do you think you are repeating today?”

“I do not know.” Darcy said steadily, annoyance replacing burgeoning hope.

The old woman studied him. “Do you have any thoughts on why one might repeat a day?”

Darcy frowned. “Perhaps to change something that occurred on that day or perhaps to prevent something that will occur in the future.”

She nodded at him like a teacher accepting a pupil’s correct answer. “And why do you think you are repeating this particular day?”

Darcy considered. There had been little of import that had occurred that first Tuesday. The only thing of note had been encountering Wickham once again. His breath hissed out at the thought that Wickham might yet further blight his life. “Setting aside the means for enacting these repetitions,” he said pointedly, “I cannot recall anything that might trigger them unless it has something to do with Mr. Wickham. November 19th is the first time I have encountered him in some time.”

“And why is Mr. Wickham significant?”

He hesitated, unwilling to divulge the exact nature of Wickham’s actions, but desperate for further information—if this old woman could indeed provide it. “I have known him since childhood and he has often been the source of various troubles.”

“And yet I believe he would consider you his enemy.”

“Only because he has been unable to use his silver tongue on me for many years. He is the one who leaves ruin behind him wherever he goes—not me.”

The woman looked over to Wickham, studying that gentleman for a moment. “He does need some assistance,” she muttered. “Perhaps another time.” She leaned forward. “I believe you are worth helping, Mr. Darcy, and you would not at all be happy to be tethered to Mr. Wickham for the rest of your life. We decided to give you the opportunity to choose a different fate.”

Darcy blanched. “Tethered? To Wickham? For the rest of my life?”

The woman nodded. “As things stand now, that is the fate in store for you should events continue on as they have been.”

“I cannot, but―” Darcy broke off, trying to wrap his mind around the enormity of Wickham there every day of his life. “But how will he be bound to me?”

The woman gave him an enigmatic look. “One’s family is always one’s family, are they not?”

“Family?” Darcy burst out incredulously.

Mrs. Engel merely nodded.

“But—how?” he demanded.

She hesitated, her gaze shifting to something behind him. “A brother by marriage is still family, even if not by blood. I imagine you would like to change that, would you not?”

“Of course, but―” Before Darcy could respond further to this shocking, life-altering, terrifying pronouncement, Bingley approached them. “Darcy, are you well?”

Darcy nodded, schooling his features reflexively. “Yes, I―” He glanced over to the old woman, but she was gone. He looked around wildly, attempting to discover where she had disappeared to, but there was no sign of her.

“Are you certain? You appeared to be having a heated discussion with thin air,” Bingley said reluctantly.

Darcy took a deep breath, realising that quite a few people were glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes as though wary of what he might do if they looked more directly. “I—I am well. Perhaps we should go.”

Bingley studied him for a moment before nodding. Profoundly grateful for his friend’s careful silence and for the fact that it was unlikely anyone would recall his odd behaviour, Darcy hurried Sisyphus out of Meryton and back towards Netherfield.

“Did you wish to inspect the east fields?” Bingley asked.

Darcy shook his head. He just wanted to be alone, to have time to think without having to pretend to pay attention to anyone.

Bingley gave him a worried look. “Did something—do you need something? Is there anything I can do? I have never seen you this overset.”

For a moment, Darcy considered confiding the whole in his friend and attempting to gain advice on the best course of action, but then he discarded the notion. Even if Bingley believed him, he doubted his friend would have useful advice.

But perhaps he could share something of the truth. It might at least clarify the matter if he heard the words spoken aloud.

“I am afraid that seeing Mr. Wickham again was more upsetting than I had anticipated.”

Bingley slowed his horse. “Again? You are acquainted?”

“Unfortunately,” Darcy said stiffly. “Wickham is the son of my father’s late steward, a worthy man who was a dear friend of my father’s. Due to his respect for his friend, my father sponsored Wickham in almost every area of his life. He paid for his schooling, introduced him to various people... in short, he opened many doors—including Pemberley’s—for Wickham. It has been many years, however, since I could think of him with any kindness. The propensity for vice that Wickham hid from my father could not be so easily hidden from me. Wickham has ever left a trail of destruction behind him, be it ruined young women, unpaid vowels or debts to local merchants, stolen property—the list goes on and on. He lies with every breath, and due to his comeliness and manners, he is welcomed as a gentleman at every turn—it allows him to cheat many who would otherwise remain safe.”

Sisyphus sped up, probably in response to the tension in Darcy’s legs. Darcy took a deep breath, slowed his horse, and then continued. “To prevent my father from further grief after the loss of my mother, I regularly dealt with the consequences of Wickham’s misdeeds. My father’s attachment was so steady that before his death, he recommended that Wickham be given a valuable family living. Fortunately, Wickham had sense enough to request money in lieu of destroying others’ spiritual lives and spreading his poison all around the county. Therefore, I gave him ￡3,000 and he signed away all rights to the living.” Darcy scoffed. “Unfortunately, it was not enough for Wickham and so he attempted to obtain the living when it became vacant, arguing that he was now penniless and in debt.”

Bingley nearly choked. “Your father only died five years ago. How did he spend half such a sum in the interim?”

“Probably on vice. He has ever been a gamester, and he requires the accoutrements of a gentleman to pass himself off as one.” Darcy shrugged. “I do not know, nor do I care. Wickham has made his bed, and he ought to lie in it!”

Bingley blinked at him. “You are—quite vehement. I am sure it was unpleasant to see such a person again, but we do not have to encounter him if we do not wish to do so. It is easy enough not to attend the same events.”

Darcy gripped the reins so hard that they creaked. If only Bingley was right! If only he could simply avoid the man for the rest of his life! But Wickham was apparently like a plague that one could not outrun: every time you believed you had weathered the storm, another outbreak would occur.

“Unfortunately, Wickham has decided to haunt me to death in retribution for my ‘sins,’” Darcy ground out. “I had hoped that I would never see him again—indeed, it seemed exceedingly unlikely because we do not at all keep the same company. However, Wickham has apparently determined to pursue Georgiana in revenge for my refusal.” Mrs. Engel’s revelation buzzed through his mind like a swarm of angry bees demanding to escape. “He nearly succeeded last summer.”

“He what?” Bingley said, aghast.

Darcy glowered. “He followed Georgiana to Ramsgate.”

“While you were in Kent?”

Darcy nodded. “I believed the business there was important enough that I ought to attend to it personally, and as Georgiana was getting along well with Mrs. Younge, I thought it safe to send her to the seashore with only her companion as company. Mrs. Younge was in league with Wickham though, and thither he went the moment he knew Georgiana would be unprotected. When I arrived in Ramsgate, I discovered that they were on the verge of an elopement.”

Bingley dropped his reins. “What?”

Darcy nodded grimly. “That was my response as well. Wickham had convinced Georgiana that the fault in our rift was on my side and that she needed only to present me with their marriage as a fait accompli and I would be overjoyed.”

“You were able to stop them, though.”

“Yes. But now that Wickham is here in Meryton, I do not know what mischief he is planning—he never seeks me out without something intended.”

“Is Miss—are the Bennets in danger?” Bingley asked worriedly. “He was speaking to them today. Do you think he is targeting them?”

Darcy shook his head. “No. He would have no reason to do so—he wishes revenge upon me or to marry some heiress. He sates his appetites with servants or other women whom no one will protect. The Bennets fit neither category.” In fact, Darcy ventured to guess that they would not be in any danger unless Wickham discovered his attachment for Miss Elizabeth. At least he would likely limit himself to ruining Darcy’s chances, rather than attempting to ruin her or her family.

“You do not have any inkling of what he may intend then?” Bingley asked pensively.

“Other than somehow seeking Georgiana out? No.” If Wickham was truly destined to become his brother, the man would have to gain access to Georgiana. But how? His sister was unlikely to fall into the same trap twice. Wickham would have to kidnap Georgiana, force a compromise, and hope that Fitzwilliam would not simply ship him off with the navy (something that his cousin had already threatened to do).

Darcy’s jaw clenched as he imagined Georgiana chained to that monster for the rest of her life. He would not stand for it! Wickham was sorely mistaken if he believed he could trick Georgiana into marrying him. Once Darcy escaped this cursed Tuesday, he would send word to his Aunt and Uncle Matlock asking them to double their protections around Georgiana.

But would he escape this cursed day if he did not change something here and now? Though he found it difficult to envision Mrs. Engel in the part of an angel or anything of that ilk, if she truly was responsible for Tuesday’s repetitions and if she were telling the truth, did that not mean that there was something he could do today to change the situation?

“Ought we to warn the neighbourhood?” Bingley asked.

“Warn the neighbourhood?” Darcy repeated blankly.

Bingley nodded. “If Mr. Wickham has a habit of leaving behind unpaid debts and, er, pursuing young women, I would not wish to create hardship for the shop owners or anyone else.”

Darcy waved away Bingley’s concern. “I shall simply pay his debts, as I have before.”

“But―” Bingley hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with disagreeing with Darcy.

“But what?”

“If you simply pay his debts every time such a thing is required, what incentive does he have to avoid accruing more debt?” Bingley asked. “And would not the shopkeepers be equally invested (or perhaps more so) in ensuring they are not cheated out of their just recompense?”

“I doubt Wickham will be able to leave behind debts anyway. The shopkeepers around here must be aware of the standard pay of militia members; they have likely already taken steps to limit the amount of debt the militia incurs.”

“But if they have not―”

Darcy suppressed a shrug. “I do not believe it will be an issue. Regardless, I am unwilling to expose Wickham while he holds the information regarding Georgiana’s indiscretion. If word were to get out....”

Bingley made a face. “Of course. But can you not simply suggest that the locals keep a close eye on their money and their women?”

“I am not one of the residents; you may say something if you would like.” Though anything Bingley determined to do today would be entirely pointless as tomorrow was unlikely to come and Bingley might make an entirely new determination prior to Wednesday’s advent.

What could he do? He could not announce Wickham’s true character—it would only ruin Georgiana. If he wished to get out of this cursed day though, he needed to do something now, to somehow change Wickham’s behaviour. Perhaps a stern warning?

His jaw tensed at the thought of repeating the warning he had given Wickham mere months ago. The man had already heard Darcy’s threats—both to call in Wickham’s debts and to release the curbs he had placed upon Fitzwilliam. In truth, Darcy’s cousin was a far worse threat than anything Darcy could do to Wickham. The man hated Wickham with a passion and had no compunctions about beating him within an inch of his life and permanently altering Wickham’s good looks.

Perhaps Wickham might respond if he phrased his warning differently. He would try another version tomorrow.