Page 19 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 29/1: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Elizabeth Bennet hung up her wraps by the back door and then, with a deep breath to fortify herself in preparation for breakfast with Mr. Collins, entered the breakfast-room.

Her parents, four sisters, and her father’s distant cousin, Mr. Collins, were seated around the table.

A wave of dizziness overtook her as she looked at them, their forms overlapping with a variety of images, as though she were suddenly seeing quadruple or more. She grabbed onto a chair, attempting to steady herself.

“Lizzy?” Jane called.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am well. Just—just in need of some breakfast.”

With that, she seated herself.

“I must say, Miss Elizabeth, your mother informed me that you often take a morning walk, and it is a testament to your industriousness that you rise early and partake in healthful exercise.”

Elizabeth’s stomach nearly rebelled as the man’s voice began to echo and the scene shifted back and forth between the breakfast table and various places out of doors. She gripped onto the seat of her chair, attempting to anchor herself amidst this storm.

What was happening?

“I myself prefer to walk to see my parishioners when they are within an easy distance and, of course, I make it a practice to walk to Rosings daily to partake in my patroness’s wisdom,” Mr. Collins said, setting down his knife and fork. “She is often aware of difficulties in the community even before they come to my attention and I have found great benefit in my regular visits—both for the purpose of conversing with Lady Catherine and engaging in healthful exercise.”

Elizabeth merely nodded, swallowing hard to keep herself from losing the muffin she had taken with her this morning on her ramble. Moving was unadvised.

“Are you still planning to go to Meryton today, my love?” Mrs. Bennet asked Lydia, her voice echoing as though an entire choir of Mrs. Bennets were all questioning her daughter.

Lydia nodded vigorously. “Oh yes! I am hopeful of finding out when Denny shall return—or perhaps that he has returned!” she said, her voice echoing similarly.

Head pounding, Elizabeth declined the walk and announced that she had a touch of headache and intended to lie down for a bit.

The chorus-like effect ceased entirely when her father commented on her headache and Jane asked if she wished her to stay behind as well. Glancing at Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet disagreed strongly with Elizabeth’s intention, arguing that she ought indeed to go to Meryton and that the fresh air would do her good.

After several moments of this conversation, Elizabeth’s headache was not exactly better—as arguing with her mother often led to a headache—but she felt less dizzy and disoriented and so, after much persuasion, she agreed to go to Meryton with the group.

Mr. Collins’s prattling was almost more than she could take as nearly every statement was surrounded by that nimbus of overlapping images. She spent the walk staring intently at the scenery and trying to ignore his choral tones.

Annoyance rose up in her breast: the man never stopped talking! Could he not see that she felt ill? Apparently, he attributed her attempt to stay home to some form of maidenly modesty and commended her on not putting herself forward.

Elizabeth could not understand why Mr. Collins insisted on staying beside her—the man was even more annoying than Mr. Darcy! At least his smile seemed genuine.

Wait.

Mr. Darcy never smiled.

And yet, clear as day, she could picture a number of his smiles. As they passed a turn, visions of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley ghosted through her mind, as though at some point or another they had met here.

What was going on?

She glanced at the rest of the group. One moment Lydia was pointing at Mr. Collins and laughing to Kitty, then a scene of her laughing uproariously, crowing as she collected a pile of fish from a table at their aunt’s house overlaid the moment. Before anything else occurred, it was gone. Jane’s smile multiplied, the radiance growing as she looked at a shadowy Mr. Bingley. Kitty’s features shifted between a firm pout and despair.

Elizabeth determinedly returned her attention to the scenery. She would be twitching like a nervous mare if this kept up.

As they entered Meryton, almost immediately Lydia proclaimed that she saw Denny just across the street and pointed out a handsome young gentleman with him.

Rather than look where her sister had pointed, Elizabeth kept her gaze on her feet. Following the group across the street, she risked a glance up as Mr. Denny began announcing his pleasure at meeting them.

He gestured to the gentleman next to him. “May I introduce my friend, Mr. Wickham, who has lately joined the militia?” he said in that oddly choral tone.

Elizabeth gasped as Mr. Wickham bowed. His dulcet tones acknowledging the introduction were also overlapping, but more than that, she knew with every fibre of her being that this man was one she had met before. Indeed, that she had had several conversations with him.

He was connected with Mr. Darcy—she was nearly certain of it.

The pain in her head intensified as she attempted to remember exactly when they had met. Lydia and Kitty immediately monopolised the young gentleman, but Elizabeth resolved to speak to him as soon as possible. He had not shown any hint of recognition when she had been introduced; had they met somewhere else—London, maybe?

“I am certain you will find Hertfordshire pleasant,” Lydia said with a giggle.

A very slight blush tinged Jane’s cheeks and Elizabeth knew that if she turned just a bit to her left, she would see Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley riding towards them. Instead, she looked over at Mr. Wickham, who turned quite pale. In her mind’s eye, she could see Mr. Darcy meeting his gaze and turning red with anger.

At least she thought it was anger.

But why would Mr. Darcy be angry with Mr. Wickham?

She nearly cried out as a needle stabbed through her brain, images of Mr. Darcy punching Mr. Wickham, pulling him to one side, glaring at him as though he wished to incinerate the man with his gaze alone flooding her mind.

She did not know why, but Mr. Darcy was more than angry with Mr. Wickham: the look on his face after he had punched Mr. Wickham was a fierce hatred.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy greeted.

Elizabeth nearly doubled over as Mr. Darcy came into view and the pain in her head grew exponentially. A thousand images filled her mind, and she could scarcely hear his greeting through the snippets of conversation that filled the air.

With a supreme effort, she managed to return the greeting, her eyes trained on the ground between them. It might be incredibly rude, but certainly it would be less rude than vomiting all over him.

She moved to stand closer to the shop, pretending to be looking at the window while steadying herself on the shop front. Almost immediately, footsteps sounded behind her.

“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, risking a glance up at him before slamming her eyes shut against the visions that filled them.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked uncertainly, taking another step towards her.

Elizabeth sighed. “Merely a touch of the headache.”

“More than a touch, it appears,” Mr. Darcy said.

Elizabeth did not open her eyes. “I had hoped that the fresh air would aid my recovery. I assure you I am not one of those maidens who is regularly overset by a mere touch of the headache,” she said, unsure why she wanted to make that fact clear to Mr. Darcy of all people.

“Of course not. You are made of sterner stuff. You appear to be truly ill though—would you like to sit down? There is a bench across the street at the milliner’s; I would be glad to escort you to it.”

Elizabeth hesitated. Sitting down sounded heavenly.

But did she truly wish to be seen in Mr. Darcy’s company? She cursed the fact that he was the one who had come to investigate—not only could his presence cause talk, but she had no desire to spend time with the proud man.

With a sigh, she capitulated. “That would be lovely.”

A hand nudged at her arm, and she threaded her arm through his. They walked in awkward silence. Elizabeth found that she could open her eyes once more, provided she did not so much as glance at Mr. Darcy. Other people had been surrounded by overlapping visions of a few conversations, but none had provided this welter of images and sound. It was as though she were experiencing twenty conversations simultaneously and all were different.

“I am sorry you have a headache,” Mr. Darcy said as he seated her on the bench.

Elizabeth kept her attention on the milliner’s window. “Thank you. I am certain it will not last.”

“May I sit with you? I will not bombard you with conversation, but I would rather you were not left alone, should you require further assistance.”

“Of course,” she said graciously.

And so, they sat in silence. Elizabeth could feel Mr. Darcy’s worried gaze on her, and it took hardly a thought to imagine just how his features would appear.

As they sat on the bench, Darcy could not help glancing over at Miss Elizabeth every few moments. She truly appeared to be in pain. Why? Was it caused by the repetitions? And if so, why did not everyone have headaches or whatever it was that Miss Elizabeth was experiencing?

He nearly winced; she would have to endure a return journey with Mr. Collins and the man was unlikely to remain silent no matter how much of a headache anyone had.

Unless it was Lady Catherine’s headache.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss Elizabeth? Save for my silence,” he added with a wry smile.

Miss Elizabeth’s lips curved up, though she had returned her attention to the milliner’s shop. “I do not believe so, Mr. Darcy. I am certain I shall be fit as a fiddle before long.”

“Will you be visiting your aunt’s today or will you return home before your headache worsens?”

Miss Elizabeth cast him a sideways look. “I do not know. I would imagine we will simply all go to my aunt’s and then return home.”

“At least it is not far,” Darcy said comfortingly.

Miss Elizabeth frowned. “Not far?”

He cursed internally. Of course Miss Elizabeth would wonder how he knew which house was her aunt’s. “Meryton is not large. I doubt that wherever she lives is very far from here.”

“Oh, yes.”

Darcy hesitated before allowing the conversation to lapse. Miss Elizabeth rubbed her temples and he wished he could take away the pain. “I am certain Bingley could send for his carriage if you do not feel well enough to walk home,” Darcy said.

“That is not necessary.”

“If you change your mind, I would be glad to ask him.”

“Thank you.”

Darcy studied her. She did seem a bit pale, and tremors went through her body every so often—whether from the cold or the pain, he did not know.

He shifted a bit closer, attempting to block some of the cold wind that whisked down the street, playing with Miss Elizabeth’s curls.

Eventually, the group was ready to proceed to Mrs. Phillips’s house and Darcy escorted Miss Elizabeth, attempting to appear interested in Mr. Collins’s monologues so that the man would leave Miss Elizabeth alone.

The moment they were all seated in Mrs. Phillips’s drawing room, she issued an invitation for the entire group to attend dinner at her house that night, all the while apologising for the late invitation in the case of Mr. Collins, Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Darcy.

Miss Elizabeth shuddered, apparently miserable at the thought of spending the evening nursing a headache amidst a noisy crowd.

Darcy could not rescue her from her headache, but he could at least save her from such an evening. “I believe Miss Elizabeth might benefit from a night of rest—her headache seems quite painful,” he said.

Miss Elizabeth glared at him.

Clearly, she had misunderstood his intentions.

Mrs. Phillips turned to Miss Elizabeth at once. “You have a headache? Why did you not say so when you arrived? I would be glad to get you something.”

As her aunt began listing off headache remedies, Mr. Collins chimed in with the various remedies that Lady Catherine espoused.

Miss Elizabeth straightened in her seat. “I believe I shall be stout enough for a party by this evening, Aunt Phillips. I will still be quite pleased to attend,” she said.

Her aunt agreed and Mr. Collins began enthusing over how kind Mrs. Phillips was and how unexpected (and joyful) her invitation was. Darcy noted that the tension around Miss Elizabeth’s eyes and the slump in her shoulders had returned.

Eventually, Mr. Collins’s enthusiasm wound down and the group began to take their leave. Miss Elizabeth was staring fixedly at the fireplace, apparently unaware of their imminent departure.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy murmured.

She did not respond.

The group stood, Miss Bennet gently prodding Miss Elizabeth up and out of the house.

“Would you like me to ask Bingley to send for a carriage?” Darcy asked Miss Elizabeth the moment they were outside.

Miss Elizabeth gave him a strained smile. “No, thank you.”

Darcy suppressed the urge to insist. “I shall see you this evening then, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “I hope your headache ceases soon.”

Miss Elizabeth inclined her head. “Until tonight then.”