Page 3 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 3: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy awoke with a start, blinking up at the canopy above him and trying to discern if the pattern of sunlight on his bed gave any clues as to the start of a new day. Thankfully, he had not dreamt anything last night, so today would have to be better than yesterday’s confusing and disturbing repetition—at least he would not be subjected to Wickham’s presence! Bingley had already promised that they could finish their survey of the east fields after breakfast and then they intended to begin mapping out necessary changes for the estate. Wickham had seemed genuinely surprised—again—yesterday, so it was unlikely that he had come to Hertfordshire in pursuit of Darcy.

Hopefully the weather would allow for a good ride, so he could work his fidgets out.

“Good morning, sir,” Hawkin said, holding out Darcy’s dressing gown. “It is Tuesday, November 19th, and the weather looks likely to remain fine all day.”

Darcy nearly crawled back into bed. “Hawkin, I am quite certain that yesterday was Tuesday,” he said evenly, reminding himself that everyone made mistakes.

“I believe you are mistaken, sir,” Hawkin said, his tone edging into frostiness.

Darcy sighed. “What 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.”

Cold tingled through his bones. That had been the day before yesterday. Or perhaps even the day before the day before yesterday, if his first Tuesday had not been a dream. Both days had felt so real. Was he mistaken? Or—there must be some reasonable explanation.

He was going mad. It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would he experience encountering the one man he hated above all others over and over again?

“The only thing on your schedule is a call on the Bennets with Mr. Bingley,” Hawkin continued, beginning to lay out Darcy’s riding attire.

“No, not that one!” Darcy said sharply as Hawkin laid out the same brown coat he had worn yesterday (or had dreamt of yesterday?). “I would rather not wear my brown coat today,” Darcy said more calmly as his valet stared at him. He could not stand the thought of repeating the same day over again—at least he could change his dress, even if he was forced to experience Tuesday yet again. “And please have the kitchen prepare a tray for breakfast—I shall be breakfasting in my room after my morning ride.”

“Very well, sir.”

The day continued much as the previous day had. As he could no longer trust his own mind, Darcy allowed Bingley to drag him to Longbourn (only to be told again that the Bennet sisters were in Meryton) and from there to Meryton. This time he did not even bother to dismount, only scanning the group for Wickham before nodding at Miss Elizabeth and then walking away, the reins creaking under the force of his clenched hands. That damn wretch still stood in the middle of the street, looking entirely unrepentant, pretending respectability! He ground his teeth, and heat flooded through him; he had never hated anyone as much as he hated George Wickham.

The elderly beggar woman was just stepping into the road when he dismounted and walked over to escort her.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Darcy. How are you today?”

Darcy suppressed a grimace, thinking how very off-kilter he felt. “I am well.”

Her eyes searched his soul. “You do not look well.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said frostily.

“Oh, do not be offended! I am old enough to be your great-grandmother—the question was kindly meant. Perhaps you would like to unburden yourself.”

Darcy sped up, nearly carrying the woman to the seat by the milliner’s shop. “I thank you for the offer, but no.” His father would turn over in his grave should Darcy unburden himself to a common beggar. In fact, his father would have been greatly disappointed by Darcy’s poor handling of the day in general. He had not been polite to the Bennets—not even greeting any of them, save Miss Elizabeth. Darcy cursed himself. His foolishness had identified to Wickham precisely whom he valued most in Hertfordshire and probably raised expectations he had no intention of fulfilling.

“Well, thank you again then,” the woman said as she settled herself on the bench. “You know, you do not have to do everything by yourself,” she said, holding his gaze.

Darcy nodded politely. “I will keep that in mind. Have a good day.”

“You as well.”

Darcy waited for a moment, but as the woman did not continue with a statement of how she would see him tomorrow, he simply walked over to where Bingley was now waiting.

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

“No, I am not well,” Darcy ground out. He glanced back to where the Bennets and Wickham were barely visible around the slight curve of the road.

“We do not have to inspect the east fields,” Bingley said hesitantly. “If you would prefer, we can just return home.”

Darcy took a deep breath, reminding himself that Bingley was his dear friend. “I apologise; I should not have snapped at you. Mr. Wickham is the son of my father’s late steward, and though his father was an honourable man, the son has proven to be lacking anything resembling honour or common decency. He is a wretch of the first order, a snake in the grass who cannot be trusted to do anything but what is in his own self-interest. He does not care whom he hurts in his pursuit of what life has ‘robbed him of’ and will make free with other people’s money and women.”

Bingley’s eyes went wide and he turned ‘round in his saddle, attempting to peer through the intervening winter-brown foliage. “Is Miss--are the Bennets in danger?”

“I doubt it. They are neither wealthy enough nor of low enough birth to tempt one such as Wickham.”

“What about Caroline?” Bingley asked with mounting worry.

Darcy hesitated. He had not even considered that Miss Bingley might be in danger. “I believe that Miss Bingley’s ambitions will protect her; she would never accept the hand of a penniless soldier.” He grimaced. “Frankly, it is the shopkeepers and the lower class who are most at risk. And perhaps his fellow soldiers if they are foolish enough to accept Wickham’s vowels.”

“What—what should we do?”

“There is little we can do. Neither of us can make decisions for those people.”

Bingley frowned. “But if they were aware of Mr. Wickham’s vices, would they not be more cautious and thus avoid such poor decisions?”

“It would not matter,” Darcy said shortly. “Attempting to warn others of his true nature rarely succeeds.”

“Is it not our responsibility to try though?” Bingley asked dubiously, slowing his horse even further as though preparing to hurry back to Meryton.

Darcy huffed, the heat of his anger entirely warding off the slight winter chill. A simple statement that he had had prior unhappy dealings with the man would have sufficed! Blast this day for loosening his tongue! “If I believed any warnings would be heeded, I would make them.” Or at least he would consider the matter. He could not outright warn anyone lest Wickham retaliate by making Georgiana’s indiscretion public. And if Bingley sounded the alarm, Wickham might still retaliate, recognising Darcy’s hand behind it. He glanced over at his frowning friend. “Truly, I have tried many times to warn others; Wickham is too slippery for a simple warning to suffice. He has always turned others against the person doing the warning. I would not wish to see you discredited. Perhaps being in the militia will curb the worst of his impulses.”

“If you say so,” Bingley finally said, his features expressing extreme reluctance.

“I do.” Darcy squared his shoulders and nudged Sisyphus into a trot. “Let us inspect the east fields.” At least the inspection, repetitive though it was, would provide Sisyphus with an opportunity to run, keep Bingley from interrogating him on the topic of Wickham, and save him from having to endure Miss Bingley’s presence.

After dinner that night, Darcy retired to the library on the pretence of estate duties, unwilling to endure yet another night of listening to the same poisonous conversation between the Bingley sisters about their neighbours. Not that he disagreed about how uncultured the locals were—but really, it was the country; what else did they expect?

Besides, it was not as though everyone in London were cultured, as the Bingley sisters proved.

He attempted to read without being able to settle on anything and had just decided to simply seek his bed in hopes that the whole day had been nothing but a nightmare when Bingley entered.

Darcy raised an eyebrow as Bingley shifted from one foot to the other and then walked a circuit of the room, appearing to study the books—something Darcy knew his friend was unlikely to do.

“Are you—Darcy, are you well?”

Darcy suppressed a sigh. He could not tell his friend the truth without sounding as if he was destined for Bedlam. “Yes.”

Bingley sat down in the chair nearest Darcy, picking up a book off the small table between them and fidgeting with it. “You do not seem well.”

“I am tired and vexed that Wickham has managed to intrude himself into my life once more.”

Bingley flipped the book over several times and then ran one hand across the spine. “Was—were you around Mr. Wickham much when you were younger?”

“Yes. My father took a keen interest in him as Mr. Wickham senior was one of his dearest friends. Wickham had free rein of much of our home and Father sent him to the same schools that I attended.”

“And was he always—awful?”

Visions of Wickham’s “tricks” flashed through Darcy’s mind like a dizzying kaleidoscope of wretched recollections. Nearly from the first, Wickham had resorted to deception and manipulation to get what he wanted—whether that was a treat from Cook or a ride on Darcy’s father’s horse. He had then used those same skills to pin the blame on others, like Darcy.

“I believe so, yes,” Darcy finally replied.

“I have never seen you so upset. He must have been terrible indeed.”

Darcy hesitated. “He has a habit of blaming his behaviour on others. And he was my father’s favourite, so he received more leniency than would otherwise be the case.” He stood and went to the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, silently holding up a glass in inquiry. Bingley nodded and Darcy poured them each a finger.

“My father’s love for Wickham was so steadfast up to the last that he requested Wickham be given a valuable preferment. Wickham, however, did not wish to become a clergyman—his unfitness for the occupation is one of the only things we have ever agreed on.” Darcy took a sip of his drink. “He requested the sum of ￡3,000 as compensation, stating that he intended to go into the law. I was more than content to be done with the whole matter and so I gave him the money. However, when the living became vacant, Wickham returned and demanded that I give it to him as his circumstances were exceedingly bad.”

Bingley gaped at him. “He spent it all and then requested more?”

Darcy nodded, swirling his drink. “He argued that he had been my father’s favourite—which may be true,” he admitted quietly. His father had certainly been much warmer with Wickham than with his own son. “According to him, only an accident of birth caused me to be my father’s heir over ‘the son of his heart.’ Wickham argued that my father would certainly have been accommodating and that I ought to be so as well.” Darcy took another sip of his brandy, trying to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. It was entirely possible that his father would have given Wickham the living, but knowing what the man was, Darcy could not in good conscience saddle the people of Kympton with such a terrible rector.

Bingley hesitated. “I am sorry, Darcy.”

“That would have been bad enough,” Darcy continued, “but he left behind a swath of debts and ruined young women. I have spent much of my life cleaning up after his messes. After this summer, though, no more,” he vowed, downing the rest of his drink.

“This summer?”

Darcy grimaced. “I cannot give you details, but Wickham tried to woo Georgiana. She is unharmed, but the fact that he would go after Georgie—it is not something that I can ever forgive.”

Bingley set his drink down. “Is Miss Darcy all right?”

“I believe she will be.” He had to. The thought that Georgiana could suffer permanent damage—his sister was already little more than a ghost in her own life. If she continued in that manner... well, there was no point in dwelling on it as it had not yet occurred. Still, he was of half a mind to release the constraints he had placed on Fitzwilliam, regardless of the talk it might cause if his cousin permanently disfigured the man.

Bingley slowly picked up his drink. “Well, I—should you require assistance, I am more than happy to help. Of course I shall not breathe a word of this to anyone.” He straightened and looked Darcy in the eye. “And Mr. Wickham shall not set foot in Netherfield.”

Darcy snorted. “He would not dare even if you gave him an invitation.”

“Is that all that is bothering you?” Bingley asked. “You missed breakfast and have not been yourself today at all.”

“I did not sleep well last night and I am afraid I have felt a bit foggy today as a result.”

Bingley studied him as though trying to decipher the truth. Eventually he nodded. “You have been―” He cleared his throat. “You have been so helpful to me. If ever you need a listening ear, I should like to return the favour.”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you. And thank you for listening to my complaints about Wickham. I believe I am ready to retire now. I shall see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well, Darcy.”