Page 2 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 2: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

The next morning as Darcy lay in bed listening to his valet, Hawkin, direct the maid, he could not stop thinking about Wickham. The man was a blight on his life. Yesterday, it had seemed like ill-chance—Wickham had certainly appeared surprised to see him. But... had the man simply acted surprised? Was Wickham hatching some new scheme? Was Georgiana in danger?

The moment the maid left, he could no longer stand to lie in bed, his shoulders growing tighter and tighter as he tried to decipher what new end Wickham could have in mind; Darcy threw off the bedclothes and pulled back the curtains. As usual, Hawkin had a dressing gown ready for him, though his generally unflappable valet did blink at his hasty exit.

“Good morning, sir,” the lithe little man said. “It is Tuesday, November 19, and the weather looks likely to remain fine all day.”

Darcy stared at his valet. Yesterday had been Tuesday.

“The only thing on your schedule is a call on the Bennets with Mr. Bingley,” Hawkin continued.

Darcy studied Hawkin. Was the man ill? “Do you not think that calling on them two days in a row might be a bit much?”

A slight crease intruded upon Hawkin’s unruffled brow. “Two days in a row, sir? You last saw the Bennets on Sunday, sir.”

Darcy returned his valet’s frown. “I am referring to yesterday when Bingley and I rode to Longbourn only to discover that the Bennet sisters were in Meryton.”

Hawkin’s frown deepened. He studied Darcy for a moment before clearing his throat. “I believe, sir, that you are mistaken. Might you have been dreaming? The wine before bed, perhaps,” he suggested delicately.

Darcy glowered at the man. Though Hawkin had only been his valet since Darcy had completed his schooling, he was far too familiar with Darcy’s habits and had no compunction about commenting on things that he believed to be in less than his charge’s best interests. Without a word, Darcy put on his dressing gown and sat before the fire to drink his morning coffee. He was halfway through his cup before he remembered that he had not had wine before bed last night. With Wickham’s advent, he had felt the need for something a bit stronger and so he had taken a glass of brandy before bed. Either Hawkin’s memory had failed or Darcy had truly dreamt yesterday.

“Hawkin, what do you make of Wickham’s arrival?” Darcy asked. His valet would hardly have forgotten that —Hawkin had been with him at Ramsgate, had in fact delivered Darcy’s letter of warning to Wickham. He truly believed that Wickham was in more danger of being torn limb from limb by Hawkin than by Fitzwilliam. Of course, in addition to harming Georgiana, Wickham had seduced Hawkin’s niece and then left her, so it was no wonder.

Hawkin paused in the act of preparing Darcy’s shaving things, one hand poised over the shaving foam. “Mr. Wickham, sir? In Hertfordshire?”

Something was clearly wrong. “What, precisely, did I do yesterday?”

“You went for a morning ride, accompanied Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst on a walk through the gardens, spoke to Mr. Bingley about improvements for the north fields, and dined here at Netherfield.”

No, that had been the day before yesterday. Unless, was Hawkin correct? Had he merely dreamt yesterday? It had felt so viscerally real though! “Never mind, Hawkin. You must be correct—it was naught but a dream.”

“I should hope so, sir. The odds of Mr. Wickham showing his face again are slight indeed. Particularly as there is little in Hertfordshire to draw one such as him.”

Darcy nodded, seating himself before his valet. Wickham preferred cities—places where there was vice aplenty. Nothing—save the hot pursuit of vengeful relatives, moneylenders, or people who possessed his vowels (or the indignity of his credit drying up)—would cause him to bury himself in such a small town as Meryton. Encountering Wickham would be a nightmare indeed; it was no wonder his mind had conjured up such an unlikely scenario, particularly in light of Georgiana’s latest letter. She was no better; her words had been stilted and contained little but the bare facts of her studies, as though writing to him was nothing more than another assignment.

Relaxing under Hawkin’s ministrations, Darcy allowed himself to drift. It had been nothing more than a bad dream. Hopefully, he would never encounter Wickham again.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley called as he reached the bottom of the stairs on his way to breakfast after his morning ride.

With a small sigh, he waited for her. Miss Bingley had been most assiduous in her attentions and while politeness towards Bingley required delicacy in his rejection, he did not wish to spend any more time with her than necessary. Had he ever doubted the misery that would await him should he lose all sense of self and marry her, his time at Netherfield had ensured that he would never doubt again.

Like a badger, Miss Bingley clamped onto his arm as he offered to escort her to breakfast. “It is such a lovely morning, is it not?”

Darcy merely inclined his head, increasing his gait so as to reach the breakfast parlour as soon as possible.

“A walk in the gardens would be just the thing.”

“I believe your brother has other plans for the day.”

Miss Bingley smiled up at him and clutched his arm a bit more tightly. “Charles cannot expect to monopolise your attention all the time.”

“I am afraid that we have duties to attend to today.”

“Oh, pooh! You cannot intend to pore over dusty ledgers all day—on a day like this? After all, we may not have many clement days left before winter arrives. Several of the locals have informed me that the weather here will soon consist of icy rain and clouds. The sun will not be much in evidence.”

“Your concern is unnecessary—we intend to inspect the east fields,” Darcy said.

“But can you truly enjoy the sunshine if you are forced to work in it? I believe a walk in the gardens would be much more suited to the day.”

A footman opened the door to the breakfast parlour, and Darcy gratefully settled Miss Bingley at her customary seat. “Good morning, Bingley.”

His friend looked up from the cup of coffee cradled in his hands. “Morning it is,” he agreed, stifling a yawn.

“Charles, surely you and Mr. Darcy do not mean to spend all day inspecting fields today, do you?” Miss Bingley asked with a pout.

Bingley shrugged.

“It will simply depend upon how we find the east fields,” Darcy said evenly, unwilling to leave room for his friend to elaborate lest Bingley cave to his sister’s demands. “One cannot predict how much time it will take.” He gave Bingley a stern look.

Bingley nodded. “Of course. It may be that they require, er, more inspection than the north fields did. If they are, you know, neglected.”

“Then I hope you find them in perfect condition,” she said in saccharine tones.

The moment they were done with their food, Bingley pulled Darcy aside to the study. “I had intended to call on the Bennets this morning. May we not do so before inspecting the east fields?”

“Of course. I was not attempting to alter your plan; I was simply ensuring we were not committed to spending the entirety of the day here. And, as you had expressed a desire to visit the Bennets without your sisters today, it seemed prudent to suggest an activity which will ensure our absence for most of the day.”

Bingley coloured. “Caroline has been quite persistent as of late. I believe she thinks you merely require more time in her presence.”

“She is not the first woman to do so.” Thankfully, Miss Bingley did not seem likely to resort to the more base stratagems of some of the ton’s beauties. There was, after all, a reason that Hawkin always entered Darcy’s room first and searched it before he retired—even at Pemberley.

“I am sorry, Darcy. I tried to tell her that you are not interested in her, but I believe she inferred that you were not interested in being married at the moment and your recent comments about Miss Elizabeth have reawakened her plans.”

Darcy grimaced. What a fool he had been to have admitted that he found Miss Elizabeth attractive! It had been a misguided attempt to clarify that he had no interest in Miss Bingley, but it had recoiled upon him spectacularly.

“You cannot control your relatives’ actions,” Darcy said firmly. It was a lesson he had had to learn early in life—Lady Catherine was enough to make anyone blush unless one simply recognised that she was entirely responsible for her own behaviour.

“True. Well, shall we leave for the Bennets in, say, half an hour?”

Darcy nodded. Half an hour would give him time to finish the correspondence his steward had forwarded to him.

The moment they entered Meryton, Darcy was reminded of his previous opinion of the place. As in his dream, Mrs. Bennet had directed them to Meryton and suggested they might like to escort her daughters, particularly her “dear Jane” about the town on their errands. He glanced around, annoyed once more by the presence of the frail old woman whom everyone ignored.

When Bingley announced that he had seen the Bennets, Darcy’s heart leapt. As though he were connected to her, compelled to orbit Miss Elizabeth, Darcy immediately turned Sisyphus in their direction. Forcing himself to show proper decorum, he dismounted and greeted her calmly before looking around at the rest of the group.

His stomach lurched, and bile rose in his throat: Wickham. The man touched his hat in greeting, the expression on his face precisely as it had been in Darcy’s dream.

Darcy stood stock still. Was this a dream too? Or had his dream been some sort of premonition?

He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with fresh air and the scent of horse and of Miss Elizabeth. The woman was watching them both closely. He could not afford to show just how affected he was, he reminded himself. Not to Miss Elizabeth, not to Wickham, nor to anyone who might guess that something was amiss.

With one fist clenched at his side as he tried to keep himself from levelling the man, Darcy returned Wickham’s greeting, then wheeled around, mounted his horse, and rode away. Ahead of him, the beggar woman stumbled in the street, and Darcy shivered. How had his dream been so accurate?

For a moment, he considered riding on, unwilling to replay the dream so exactly. But good manners required he stop. He dismounted and held out a hand. “May I escort you somewhere, Madam?”

The woman’s chapped and cracked lips split in a wide smile and the wind twirled about his nose, nearly causing him to gag at her unwashed stench. Just as she had in his dream, she heaved herself up, requested he escort her to the bench by the milliner’s, and then took his arm to cross the street.

“I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Darcy,” she said as she sat on the bench in front of the milliner’s. “I do hope that you make the most of this opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“I believe your friend is waiting for you,” the woman commented. “Have a good day.”

Darcy studied the woman for a moment. “Are you certain you do not wish to be escorted to a family member?”

“As I said, I do not have family in the area,” the woman said with a grin.

“But―”

“Mr. Bingley appears most anxious.”

Glancing over, he noted that his friend was mounted and waiting impatiently by Sisyphus. Darcy hesitated then decided that there was no point in wasting time trying to understand a madwoman. “Good day, Madam.”

She nodded foolishly, her eyes unfocused.

He shook his head, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

“I say, Darcy, are you well?” Bingley asked as Darcy mounted Sisyphus. “You were rather abrupt back there.”

Darcy grimaced. For a moment, he had forgotten Wickham’s arrival. His fingers twitched on the reins as though unwilling to leave Meryton without punching the smile right off Wickham’s face. Why had he stopped Fitzwilliam from disposing of Wickham again? Oh, right, out of love for his father and because they did not wish to invite scrutiny—the same reason why he needed to be extremely careful with how he answered Bingley’s question now. “Merely uncomfortable with the company. I have a prior acquaintance with Mr. Wickham, and he is a scoundrel.”

Bingley started. “A scoundrel?” He turned in his saddle as though trying to see past the bend in the road to where the Bennets still stood. “Is Miss Bennet—are the Bennets safe?”

“Yes,” Darcy said, his jaw tensing.

Bingley glanced back once more. “You are certain?”

Darcy nodded curtly. “Wickham is not one to dally with women like the Bennets.” He forced himself to relax. “Shall we ride to the east fields now?”

As they cantered along, Darcy wished it was as easy to escape his problems as it was to put distance between himself and Wickham. What was the man doing here? And how had he known about Wickham’s arrival? It made no sense. Unless it was a dream sent by Heaven to warn him of—something. But what?