Page 17 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 26: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

The moment that Hawkin proclaimed it was still Tuesday, Darcy called for his horse to be saddled and food to be prepared for him to be out all day. If writing a letter was not sufficient, perhaps a visit would suffice.

Rather than argue with Hawkin about the merits of going to London on horseback by himself, Darcy simply said he would be out riding and that he intended to visit a destination some hours away. If the weather turned foul or it seemed too late to return, he would return on the morrow.

Darcy then dashed off a quick note to that effect and asked Hawkin to give it to Bingley whenever his friend left his room. Hopefully that would keep his friend from wringing his hands.

As he clattered down the streets of London, Darcy could not help taking a deep breath. Even if time was not moving, it still felt like progress to be somewhere else. The last time he had run to London merely to escape Hertfordshire. This time, he had a purpose for being here.

His uncle was out when he arrived at Matlock House. A startled groom took Darcy’s horse, and a request to see his sister led him to the music room where Georgiana was practising pianoforte.

“Brother!” she exclaimed, staring at him wide-eyed and standing up. “I did not know that you were returning to London today.”

Under her questioning gaze, Darcy realised that he had not even taken the time to wash the dust from his face and likely looked a fright. But he did not know how much time he would have with Georgiana before their aunt interfered.

He went to her and clasped her to himself. “Georgie, I have missed you so.” His sister remained stiff in his arms, so Darcy released her and sat down near the pianoforte. “How have you been?”

Georgiana sank back down onto the pianoforte bench. “I am well. I have been progressing in my studies.”

“I am glad to hear that your studies are going well, but I was asking rather how you are doing.”

“I am well,” she repeated, though, as she had not met his gaze since he had embraced her, he did not believe the statement. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to twist it—another sign that she was far from well.

Darcy suppressed a sigh. “I—Georgie, I do not wish to pain you, but I must ask some questions about—about this summer.”

His sister’s pale complexion drew even nearer to porcelain white, but she nodded.

“Do you know why I consider Wickham unfit to become your husband?”

Georgiana’s nervous twisting increased. “Because he is the son of our father’s steward and ought not to be elevated to high society,” she whispered. “Society would not accept him, nor would he be content in such a position.”

Darcy sighed. “That is what Aunt Margaret told you?”

Georgiana nodded.

“I have always tried to protect you, and perhaps in my zeal to keep you safe, I may have kept too much from you. Wickham presents the appearance of respectability to those who do not know him well. When we were boys, I often witnessed him manipulate those around him to get what he wanted. He would lie, blame others... it seemed to become a kind of game to him.”

Georgiana froze as Darcy enumerated Wickham’s profligacy with money and women, turning wide eyes up at him.

Darcy forced himself to continue, feeling as though he was watching his sister’s innocence crumble before him. He had to protect her, though. “I will not trouble you with specific tales of his behaviour towards women, but suffice it to say that he has ruined many a maiden and pursued several heiresses.”

Georgiana shook her head as though unable to accept the truth.

Darcy reached over and put a hand on her twisting fingers. “I wish it were not so, Georgie. But my primary objection to Wickham is not his status (or lack thereof) or his connection to our family—it is his character and behaviour. He would make you a terrible husband.”

A tear slid down Georgiana’s cheek, and she began to shake. “You said that he was not fit to be my husband, but I―” A sob broke free. “William, tell me that it is not true.”

Darcy pulled his sister into his arms and simply held her while she sobbed. He had thought he had made it clear that Wickham was unfit, but obviously, he had been too vague in his explanation previously. His chest ached as his sister cried. The man was a wretch of the first order! Darcy forced his thoughts away from Wickham and back to the girl in his arms; Georgiana needed him.

It took some time, but eventually Georgiana calmed down and Darcy was able to tell her the other things he had wished to communicate: that a good man would not suggest eloping with her, but would work to gain her family’s respect. That he loved her very much and was not disappointed with her but rather upset with Wickham for lying to her. That she could not have expected to see through a practised deceiver.

In the end, he hoped that would be enough—that Georgiana would never return to Wickham. But to be on the safe side, he reminded her that though he and Fitzwilliam and the Matlocks would do their best to protect her, she also had a responsibility to protect herself. If she did not make wise decisions, she might put herself outside their care and it would be difficult to keep her from heartbreak or worse consequences.

Darcy was just finishing up when Aunt Margaret arrived. She was shocked that he had returned and demanded to know what was wrong. He hesitated. It was not as though he could claim that nothing was wrong—particularly as he had arrived sans baggage and valet. Nor would she believe that he simply missed Georgiana, as Darcy was not prone to following whims.

“I would prefer to discuss it with you and Uncle, if you are amenable. It is nothing that cannot wait until tonight or even tomorrow.”

Lady Margaret Matlock eyed him for a long moment. “Very well. If it is truly not urgent, we shall speak to you tomorrow about it. I am afraid we are already engaged to have dinner with the Selwyns tonight as your uncle very much wishes to convince Mr. Selwyn to change his views before the vote this spring. Tomorrow night, however, we were engaged to have dinner with the Langfords, but they had to cancel due his lordship’s illness; you may join us instead.”

Darcy nodded. His uncle’s passion for parliamentary concerns was legendary, and either he would be able to discuss the matter tomorrow, if tomorrow came, or the whole thing would be entirely forgotten by the morning.

Day 27: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in Netherfield. Clearly there was something he was missing. He had threatened Wickham. He had spoken to Georgiana. None of it had mattered.

If the key to escaping these repetitions was to keep Wickham from marrying Georgiana, what else could he do?

He abhorred violence, but perhaps challenging the man to a duel... His stomach churned at the thought. Wickham was below him in status, and such a duel could cast scrutiny upon Georgiana—not to mention that his honour would be questioned should the identity of his opponent ever come out, that he could face murder charges, and that one day was not sufficient time to actually duel the man.

Perhaps Hawkin would have another idea.

Upon repeating his question of how to stop Wickham, Hawkin again appeared aghast, so Darcy hurried to explain that he had already considered speaking to Georgiana and threatening Wickham with debtor’s prison and with Fitzwilliam’s wrath.

Hawkin’s brow creased. “Perhaps you ought to inform Colonel Fitzwilliam of the threat—Miss Darcy is his ward too.”

Darcy hesitated; obviously, his letter to Georgiana had not been sufficient. But was it because the substance of his message had been lacking or because he had tried to intervene via a letter? If nothing else, a letter to Fitzwilliam would not hurt anything and it might help. He could also resend his sister’s letter as well, just in case the combination of the two would succeed.

Eschewing coffee, he sat down to write his letters. After his conversation with Georgiana yesterday, re-writing his letter was much simpler, though hardly less painful. He turned from it to his letter for Fitzwilliam.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

W is here in Hertfordshire. I have reason to believe that he may continue to pursue G, and though I would rather not handle the matter with force, it seems unlikely that it will be resolved any other way as he is unlikely to listen to reason nor to accept any sum that I would be willing to pay.

Since he has joined the local militia here, I am wondering if there is anything you can do from your position in His Majesty’s army. If not, then we shall have to take stronger measures. I would welcome your suggestions.

With that, he signed and sealed the letter. Perhaps this would suffice.

Darcy had decided to inform Wickham of the letter and so he rode into Meryton with Bingley and pulled Wickham aside for a private chat.

“Darcy, how wonderful to see you,” Wickham began.

Darcy glowered at him. “It is never wonderful to see you,” he snapped. “And the gall you have of pretending to be a respectable person, of coming here to Hertfordshire while I am staying here―”

“I did not know that you were here, obviously,” Wickham protested. “I simply intend to join the —shire corps.”

Darcy growled. “I think you would do better to leave. I have already informed Fitzwilliam of your presence via express and I do not doubt that he will do his utmost to come to Hertfordshire. He has been wanting to have a chat with you since Ramsgate last summer.”

Wickham paled and took an involuntary step back before pasting on a smile. “I doubt that you would want anyone to find out about Miss Darcy’s—indiscretion, would you? I would hate for her to be held accountable for a simple error in judgement. Perhaps you would prefer to reconsider your position—I am so forgetful, and it is entirely likely that the truth might just slip past my lips if I am once again forced to relocate.”

“There is nothing for you here!” Darcy exclaimed. “Why do you even want to join the militia? You hate discipline and work.”

“That is true; however, I need money and I have heard that this corps is a congenial one in which to pass my time in the militia. And since you have ensured I shall be destitute for the rest of my days―”

Darcy scoffed. “You have spent your own wealth, Wickham. It is not my fault that you have little sense with money.”

“I believe your father would disagree. I was his favourite and―”

Darcy slashed a hand downward, unwilling to listen, yet again, to Wickham’s discourse on how Darcy was simply jealous that his father had loved Wickham better. That tune had been played far too many times already. “I doubt my father’s so-called favouritism would have lasted after the way you treated Georgiana. Regardless, I did not come to argue cases with you. I came here simply to inform you that Fitzwilliam is likely on his way. What you do with that information is entirely up to you.”

Wickham’s hands shook, and his smile turned a little sickly.

Darcy merely nodded at the man and strode back to the group. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, nearly strong enough to send him back to his bedroom at Netherfield. Miss Elizabeth stood there though, like a lighthouse promising safe harbour and so he walked over to her and smiled.

Miss Elizabeth returned the smile, though her eyes widened. What did she find odd? Oh, she did not remember their banter and the smiles he had already given her. His throat grew tight.

“How are you today, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Quite well, Mr. Darcy.” She glanced over at Wickham, who was slowly making his way back to the group.

“I am pleased to hear so.”

She studied him for a moment. “And how are you today, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy hesitated, tempted to confide in her at least a portion of his frustrations—indeed, he was finding that the most difficult part of these repetitions was having no one in whom he could confide. As much as he valued Hawkin’s opinion, the man was working with limited information.

“I am well, I believe,” he said. “Today is better than some Tuesdays have been.”

Miss Elizabeth’s lips curled up. “Do you have a habit of poor Tuesdays?”

“Tuesday is certainly not my favourite day. I find that it rarely goes as I wish it would.”

“That is a rather sweeping statement—there are, after all, a great many Tuesdays.”

Darcy barked a laugh. “More than you know.”

Miss Elizabeth blinked at him.

“Do you intend to walk to your aunt’s now?” Darcy hurried to ask.

“Yes,” she said uncertainly.

He was not sure why that caused her to look at him as though he were a horse sporting two heads, but he merely smiled at her and requested to escort her to Mrs. Phillips’s.

Miss Elizabeth nodded.

Wickham excused himself.

The walk was fairly quiet between Miss Elizabeth and Darcy as Mr. Collins insisted on monopolising the conversation. But Darcy could enjoy simply being with her. That was something he would miss about the repetitions—at least now he could spend time with Miss Elizabeth without raising expectations, worrying about what the neighbourhood would think, or considering how his behaviour would reflect on his family name.

Still, he would much rather not continue having to speak to her as barely an acquaintance when they had had so many conversations over the past three weeks....

Perhaps tomorrow would be Wednesday.