Page 27 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
Day 33/5: Tuesday, November 19, 1811
Elizabeth studied the path in front of her; her thoughts were as tangled as the underbrush on either side of the stream. Mrs. Engel had not been in Meryton this morning nor the previous afternoon, and Mr. Darcy had mentioned that the woman often absented herself for lengthy periods. Elizabeth hoped this was not such a time.
She sighed through her frustration. Why did the woman believe she could help Mr. Darcy?
Yesterday’s conversation, along with the various conversations they had had over the previous month of Tuesdays, had upended something in her. A month ago, she would have scoffed at the idea that Mr. Darcy could be kind, or could laugh, or could be humble, even apologise. Nor would she have believed—no matter how hard one tried to convince her—that she could ever find herself stuck in a repeating Tuesday with the man. It beggared belief!
But now, she did not know what to think at all. He had laughed last night at some silly little story she had told him, had even responded with a tale from his youth. It made no sense. Had she been that blind? Or were these sweeping changes a result of their predicament?
What would he be like once time resumed and he returned to his natural rhythms? Would he rejoin Miss Bingley in disparaging the inhabitants of Hertfordshire? Or was he perhaps merely tolerating the woman’s complaints? She had thought his hauteur denoted pride—but Mrs. Engel had referred to it as a mask. How did the man underneath the mask view the world?
And how in heaven’s name were they supposed to save Miss Darcy? Once again, today was Tuesday, so clearly Mr. Darcy’s letter to his aunt and uncle had failed.
Would a personal visit be more successful?
Or perhaps the conversation with Colonel Forster would be sufficient.
Elizabeth picked up a stick and began prodding at a clump of dead leaves that choked the stream, breaking them up with repeated poking. Once loosened, the leaves continued their merry way down the stream. A fine parallel to her view of the world being demolished by the simple expedient of repetition.
Hopefully, the repetitions would not last. If they did.... She shivered, wondering what else she might learn about herself.
Darcy hurried Bingley along the road to Meryton, rushing to the spot where they often met the Bennets. He was anxious to reassure himself that Miss Elizabeth was real, that she still remembered, that he was not alone in this Tuesday.
The moment they reached the Bennets though, Miss Elizabeth smiled up at him.
“I am glad you are here,” he said in relief once the groups had exchanged greetings.
She gave him a quizzical look. “Where else would I be?”
“Unaware once more. Or—or somewhere other than this walk. You have, after all, made this trip several times.”
Mr. Collins broke in before Miss Elizabeth could respond, and Darcy wondered whether he could convince her to leave the man at Longbourn tomorrow. Their walk continued as it did most Tuesdays—with Mr. Collins dominating the conversation. Did the man even know what he was saying? Often, his words were so repetitive that Darcy got entirely lost. And every pronouncement had to be further confounded with a statement regarding Lady Catherine.
“Do you see her?” Miss Elizabeth murmured once they stopped to greet Mr. Denny.
Darcy looked around, but to no avail. “No. I believe I shall walk down the street and see if she is out of sight.”
“Avoiding Mr. Wickham?” Miss Elizabeth asked.
“That too,” Darcy agreed, glancing at the man with distaste. He still could not stand the sight of Wickham charming people, pretending to be respectable when it was the last thing he was. At least the man would not be able to add Miss Elizabeth to his list of victims.
Miss Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic look. “Very well. Shall I attempt to hold Mr. Bingley?”
“No, I shall simply tell him that I will return in a few moments.”
While Mr. Darcy was gone, Elizabeth studied Mr. Wickham, attempting to align Mr. Darcy’s account with the man in front of her. He was certainly handsome and his manners were all that was good. But... he was too polished. When he leaned down to listen to Lydia as though she were the only woman in the world, a gentle smile fixed upon his features, all she could see was the guile behind his demeanour.
The only true expression she saw from him that day was when he glanced over at Mr. Darcy—his features grew fixed, his face pale, and she fancied that fear lurked in his eyes.
It was the fear, more than anything, that convinced her that Mr. Darcy had been accurate in his portrayal. If Mr. Darcy had simply been over-stating, Mr. Wickham would be resentful or perhaps hurt—not afraid.
How could this man attempt to ensnare a fifteen-year-old?
Before long, Mr. Darcy returned, shaking his head in answer to her questioning look. Mr. Wickham excused himself. The rest of the group made their way to Mrs. Phillips’s, and while there, Elizabeth convinced her aunt to send Colonel Forster an invitation.
“And how do you intend to spend your afternoon, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked quietly while her aunt and Mr. Collins kept each other occupied.
Mr. Darcy studied her. “I had not yet considered it. Did you have something in mind?”
“I thought you could practise what we discussed yesterday. After all, your conversation with Colonel Forster may be all that is needed and then today would be your last opportunity to take advantage of the repetitions.”
Mr. Darcy winced. “I suppose you are correct. How would you suggest I do such a thing?”
“Perhaps I may introduce you to a variety of people in Meryton. After all, we did not fully canvas the town on our way here.” She tapped one finger on her chin. “I believe we should start in Clarke’s library.” She smiled at him. “You will like Mr. Clarke—he is an avid reader and enjoys speaking to others about his latest finds.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Very well.”
When they left Mrs. Phillips’s, Miss Elizabeth told her sisters that she wished to visit the library. Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty argued that they did not need to stop there until Mr. Denny mentioned a desire to accompany their sister; they quickly changed their minds.
Darcy was unsure precisely how Miss Elizabeth would prevent Mr. Collins from monopolising any conversation with Mr. Clarke, but he trusted she had some plan.
The moment they entered the shop, Miss Elizabeth drew him to the front. “Mr. Clarke, may I introduce Mr. Darcy? He has an extensive family library.”
Mr. Clarke, a small rotund man who looked out at the world through spectacles, lit up at once. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Darcy. Though our library is not a large one, I would be glad to help you find something for your discerning tastes.”
Darcy nodded, unsure how to proceed. “I—it is a pleasure to meet a fellow bibliophile,” he said uncertainly.
Miss Bennet then introduced Mr. Collins and Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Collins immediately began extolling the value of virtuous literature and strongly hinting that novels were likely to “poison the minds of the young.”
“Mr. Collins, I am curious which of these religious books you recommend,” Miss Elizabeth said. She shot Darcy a smile as she drew her cousin to another part of the shop.
Darcy suppressed his unease at being left without her support and turned back to the shopkeeper. “It is good to see a library in such a small town. Books are a way to open one’s mind, are they not?”
The small man gave him a wide smile. “Indeed! I believe it is vital to encourage thought by providing food for it. After all, if one has never encountered an idea, how may one consider it and perhaps add to it?”
Darcy nodded. “Indeed.” He hesitated awkwardly. What the deuce was one supposed to discuss with a stranger? The weather was an asinine topic, despite being one of the most common ones. Or... he could ask after the man’s family. No! That would be ridiculous, since he had never met them. “Have you received any new books lately?”
“Oh yes! Now that the militia is stationed nearby, there is much more demand for new works. I must confess that many of their tastes run to the military, and I have purchased several new volumes on the Siege of Badajoz as of late.”
“I would have thought that they would prefer not to read about warfare,” Darcy said.
Mr. Clarke shook his head. “Oh, no. I think it is because it is the militia—the young men wish they could enlist and enjoy glory. Or perhaps they merely desire fodder for tales to tell the young ladies,” he said, glancing slyly over to where the youngest Bennets were hanging on Mr. Denny’s every word. “Men who have been on the front lines prefer to read about anything but war, but the militiamen have a taste for it.”
“Ah, I see. Is there anything in particular you recommend?”
Mr. Clarke nodded. “I have several excellent works that have only recently been returned. If you would come this way―” He gestured to the shelf in the far corner and led Darcy over to it.