Page 24 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

D arcy strode over to Sisyphus, only just managing to keep the glower off his face.

“Are you well, Darcy?” Bingley asked.

Darcy suppressed a heavy sigh. Bingley meant well, but the question had palled some many repetitions ago. Yes, he was behaving unusually, but, dash it all, he had reason to do so! The situation would be enough to drive anyone round the bend. “Yes, Bingley. I am well,” he said, forcing his tone to remain even.

“If you are certain,” his friend said with an edge of disbelief in his voice.

“I am.” Or at least he would be once he had spoken to Miss Elizabeth tonight.

Mrs. Phillips’s party could not come soon enough. Fortunately, Bingley was of the same mind and Darcy was able to convince him of the wisdom of arriving precisely on time. (Miss Bingley had taken pains to ensure they arrived at every event fashionably late since they had arrived in Hertfordshire.)

And so, after an afternoon of riding around aimlessly, Darcy finally walked into Mrs. Phillips’s drawing room. His eyes immediately found Miss Elizabeth. She stood looking out the window in the room’s emptiest corner—between the noise of the party and their relative seclusion it would be as close to privacy as they could obtain under the circumstances.

If he said even one word to either Mrs. Phillips or Mr. Collins, neither would leave him alone for the evening, so Darcy merely nodded in greeting.

His heart pounded away like a galloping horse as he approached her. What if she remembered all the times he had sought her out? What if she took advantage of the situation in some fashion? Miss Elizabeth did not seem at all like the type of person to do such a thing, but one never knew.

And yet, winding through the fear, hope shifted and shimmered like a summer haze. Miss Elizabeth would make an excellent ally, despite the inherent risk to his heart. A part of him already longed to avoid the struggle between his interest in her and his duty entirely, to pretend that a world existed where he could offer for her, and it would be all too easy to do so in this endless Tuesday.

Her awakening provided a timely reminder that his actions still mattered—who knew when someone else might awaken?

There were days when he wished he was not a Darcy.

“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth,” he said from behind her.

Miss Elizabeth turned. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy. I trust you had an enjoyable afternoon,” she said with a smile.

Darcy nodded and moved to stand next to her. It had not been an enjoyable afternoon, but there was no need to say so. “I believe we were speaking of the nonlinear nature of the day before we were interrupted this morning. When did you become aware of the change? Was it the day you had a headache?”

“My afternoon was quite congenial,” Miss Elizabeth said tartly. She took a deep breath, as though wrestling her frustration into submission. “Yes. I noticed something was amiss two days ago.”

“What precisely did you remember, and when did this recollection occur?”

“Why are we experiencing these repetitions?” Miss Elizabeth shot back. “You said that you had been informed what would cause them to cease?”

Darcy forced himself to relax and focus on her questions despite his own need for answers. “Yes. The old woman is an—angel? Spirit? Sorceress? I do not know what she is. However, she is aware of the way time is repeating itself and when I asked her about it, she informed me that ‘they’ were doing it for my benefit.”

Miss Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “For your benefit? Then why am I experiencing the repetitions?”

Darcy clasped his hands behind his back, turning to face the window fully. “I do not know precisely why you are the one who is also experiencing these time—anomalies. However, I asked Mrs. Engel to assist me, and she said that she would send someone.”

“I still do not understand how these Tuesdays are supposed to benefit you.”

“It has to do with Mr. Wickham,” he said in a low voice, glancing around to see whether anyone was paying attention to their conversation.

“It appears that you are quite consumed with that gentleman, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth said with a hint of censure.

“Consumed?” he asked with a flush.

“You have had several altercations with him, have you not?”

“I thought you said that you only began experiencing the repetitions the day before yesterday,” Darcy said, his eyes narrowing.

“I should like to know precisely why you are so against Mr. Wickham,” Miss Elizabeth said. “He told me of his misfortunes―”

“Oh, yes, his misfortunes are heavy indeed,” Darcy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Miss Elizabeth glared at him. “You have refused to give him those advantages which would allow him to lead a full life and you can laugh at that?”

“I am afraid you must seek another source for his misfortunes,” he said in clipped tones. “Mr. Wickham himself is responsible for his own predicaments.” How dare she put him in the wrong! How had Wickham so thoroughly poisoned her?

Miss Elizabeth shook her head. “You know, I had wondered if he was speaking the truth—his story seemed a bit unlikely. From the first moment, you have shown yourself to be a proud, disagreeable sort, but I did not think you would be so bad as to—did you truly deny him the living your father had promised?”

“I did,” he snapped. “However―”

Miss Elizabeth gaped at him. “Why would you do such a thing? What do you have against him?”

“It is not a story I wish to discuss where anyone may overhear,” he grated out. “Besides, I believe our current predicament is of greater concern.”

“As Mr. Wickham is the supposed cause of our current predicament, if you do not wish to discuss him, there is nothing left to discuss,” Miss Elizabeth said and walked away.

No matter how hard Darcy attempted to regain her attention, Miss Elizabeth avoided him for the rest of the night. Not that he tried very hard. He was still reeling from her statement that she had thought him proud and disagreeable from the first. She, who had flirted with him at nearly every turn, who shared a similarity of mind the likes of which he had never experienced?

At least tomorrow was another opportunity.

Unless she did not come to Meryton.

She could not avoid him forever, he assured himself. And it would be better to discuss the matter when tempers had cooled. It was relatively safe to discuss the time repetitions where someone could overhear. It was an entirely different prospect to tell Miss Elizabeth about Wickham; Georgiana must be protected above all else.

Elizabeth’s ire only grew every time Mr. Darcy attempted to speak to her. She had defended him in her mind, argued that he probably had not actually refused to give Mr. Wickham his inheritance—it was just too out of character. But the man had confirmed it with his own lips.

Why? What did he have against Mr. Wickham? He had even considered whether “removing him” would end the repetitions!

Fortunately, Mr. Darcy was not the only one with whom she could speak. If this old woman, this Mrs. Engel, was truly responsible for creating the repetitions, then she would likely have far more information than Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth made it through the night, even going so far as to join Mr. Collins at cards. It was a wretched, wretched evening, but she could not stand to listen to Mr. Darcy attempt to excuse why he could not explain. At least her aunt’s party could not last forever. And tomorrow she would find Mrs. Engel if it was the last thing she did.

When Jane arrived for their nightly chat, settling herself on Elizabeth’s bed with deliberation, Elizabeth was startled to see deep concern in her sister’s eyes.

“Lizzy, are you well?”

Elizabeth shifted, the creaking of the bed loudly proclaiming her disquiet. “I—I do not know.”

“You have been distressed all day. Was it your dream this morning? Or did Mr. Darcy say something?”

Elizabeth hesitated. Both things preyed on her mind, but trying to explain her “dream” without sounding mad seemed impossible. “When I spoke to Mr. Darcy tonight, he admitted that he has withheld Mr. Wickham’s inheritance. I did not think him capable of such a thing. I may have been a bit harsh with him.” Disappointment and shame bubbled in her stomach like some noxious sludge.

Jane blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

Of course Jane did not remember any of the information she had imparted about Mr. Wickham last night. “Mr. Wickham’s father was Mr. Darcy’s father’s steward, and so the elder Mr. Darcy paid for Mr. Wickham’s schooling and promised that a valuable living should be his when it became available. But the current Mr. Darcy refused to give him the living.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “There must have been some misunderstanding between them.”

“I do not think so. I have―” How could she explain having heard Mr. Wickham’s side of the tale? “Mr. Darcy freely admitted what he had done. He did not even seem remorseful.”

The furrow deepened. “There must have been some misunderstanding between them that caused Mr. Darcy to act as he did then. I cannot believe that he would be so callous and dishonourable as to rob someone of what is rightfully theirs—not even someone who does not deserve it. Mr. Bingley would not have him as his dearest friend if he was.”

“Even if Mr. Bingley were not aware of the circumstances?”

Jane hesitated. “I—I will ask him if he knows anything about Mr. Wickham.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, wondering if she could convince Jane to make such a query earlier in the day. She shivered, hoping that she could find Mrs. Engel and end these repetitions. It was wretched having conversations with Jane and knowing that they would simply be overwritten the next morning.

“Mr. Darcy seemed talkative today,” Jane said. “I hope you treated him kindly.”

Elizabeth smiled slyly. “I did my best not to annoy him any more than he has annoyed me.”

“Lizzy!” Jane admonished with a laugh. “I would hope that you do your best not to annoy anyone, regardless of how they treat you.”

“I do not have any control over whether someone is annoyed with me,” Elizabeth said sententiously.

Jane gave her a stern look.

“I must confess that I was less than pleased with his unwillingness to explain his behaviour towards Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth admitted.

“I wondered why you began avoiding him so assiduously.”

Elizabeth gestured wildly. “The man refuses to disclose why he cheated Mr. Wickham, though he freely admits that he did so!”

“He does not have to explain to you at all, does he?” Jane asked pointedly.

“Well, no, I suppose not.”

Jane tapped her sister’s hand. “It is a rather private thing to explain to someone who is nearly a stranger.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly.

“I hope that you will not judge Mr. Darcy too quickly, Lizzy. He may have simply been having a bad day.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. “Perhaps.”

After Jane left, Elizabeth blew out her candle and continued to contemplate Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham. She chuckled into the darkness. Mr. Darcy had refused to tell the story, and she was annoyed and concerned about his character. Mr. Wickham had spilled the story almost the first moment of their acquaintance, and she was concerned about his character.

Perhaps she would never know the truth. As the information truly belonged to Mr. Darcy, he could reasonably set the conditions for hearing it or refuse to tell the story altogether—after all, if Mr. Wickham had humiliated him as a child or some such thing, he might be sensitive about strangers hearing it. Not to mention that anyone could awaken and regain their memories of previous Tuesdays just as she had so even the relative privacy of the repetitions could not be guaranteed.

Thoughts of Mr. Darcy inevitably led to wondering why she was now aware of Tuesday’s behaviour. Why did Mr. Darcy believe she was sent to help him? And why did he believe that this unprecedented action was being taken on his behalf?

Heaven did not take such a keen interest in individuals, did it?