Page 38 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
Day 70/42: Tuesday, November 19, 1811
Though Darcy had made some trifling reply, his friend’s words remained with him, sending him out riding immediately when he awoke. Movement always helped him gather his thoughts. Bingley’s point was one he had never considered, and it had left his mind in a tangled mess.
Elizabeth might not accept his suit.
The women of the ton had thrown themselves at him for years. He had always assumed that choosing a woman to marry would be his only part in the matter. But Elizabeth was not like any other woman.
She would not marry him for his money, nor for his status in the ton. In fact, during the few times they had discussed the ton, she seemed utterly indifferent to society’s approval. What if she did not wish to become a member of the ton?
Prior to these Tuesdays, he would have been appalled by the thought, but now he could easily understand why someone might wish to avoid the ton’s scrutiny and constant judgement. It was a weight he dreaded to resume carrying. In fact, he had been more free than any time in his life the past months, despite being trapped in Tuesday. This time—it truly was a gift.
The snap of a broken stick rang through the forest, followed by the sound of someone’s complaints. Darcy pulled Sisyphus to a halt, peering in the direction from which the sounds had come.
A baggy shape appeared to be moving towards him, someone dressed in dark blue.
“Mrs. Engel?” he said incredulously as the old woman stumbled out of the forest.
She straightened, as though attempting to appear perfectly at ease, then grinned up at him. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”
He slid from Sisyphus at once. “We have been looking for you!”
“Something else was more important,” she said, nodding.
Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows went up, but he did not reply. “Whom do I need to speak to? Or is it someone that Miss Elizabeth and I need to speak to together? Or is there something I need to do differently? Perhaps I simply need to change my wording?”
She cackled. “So many questions! Would you be kind enough to help an old lady down the lane?”
“Of course,” Darcy said, rushing to escort her.
She took his arm, smiling up at him. “I am quite glad to see that you have been making the most of the days you have.”
“I have certainly done my best,” Darcy said. They had not tried every idea—he still wondered if taking Elizabeth to London would be the best option. However, they had not yet devised a way to ensure her reputation would be unaffected.
“What do you think of the help we sent?”
“I am grateful beyond words; truly, I do not know what I would have done this past month without Miss Elizabeth.”
She raised one eyebrow. “And yet neither of you has succeeded.”
“If I am to be trapped in Tuesday—er, gifted with a number of Tuesdays,” he hurriedly modified in the face of her steady look, “I would not choose anyone else with whom to spend those Tuesdays.”
It was true. He had not known how true until the words had left his lips; Elizabeth was the perfect companion. Bingley and Fitzwilliam would both have been excellent choices, but neither of them would have brought the fun to the Tuesdays that Elizabeth had, nor would they have challenged him to broaden his horizons. Now that Elizabeth had spent so much time forcing him to practise small talk and had shown him that every single person he encountered had struggles and joys, he could not imagine returning to his previous indifference. It would not be easy, but he was determined to bring these lessons into his life once Tuesday ended.
“I am glad,” Mrs. Engel said. “She has done far better than I had hoped.”
Darcy frowned. “You did not know what she would do?”
“There were many possibilities,” she said, waving his question away. “I am not always permitted to See when decisions have not yet been made.”
“I—very well,” Darcy said, deciding he did not wish to divert into unnecessary questions. “How may I free myself from Wickham? Is there someone in particular to whom I need to speak?”
The old woman considered him for a long moment. “Do you recall what I told you about your ties with Mr. Wickham?”
“That I have bound him to myself, and that, unless something changes, he will marry my sister.”
“You have made a home in your heart for Mr. Wickham, for good or ill,” she said softly.
Darcy scoffed. “A home in my heart? You are mistaken.”
“Even before he arrived in Meryton, did you not conduct imaginary conversations with the man? And does he not bring forth strong emotion from you at every turn?”
Darcy did not reply, though the truth of her words pierced him like a new arrow. He had not seen it that way. Wickham was never far from his thoughts—not since this summer. He had spent so much time trying to undo what had been done or to fix it. A vision of Wickham’s bleeding face rose to his mind. When he had punched Wickham, it had felt wonderful in the moment; but mere minutes afterward he had only felt worse. Punching the man had not changed the past. He could break every bone in his hands on Wickham’s body and it would not heal Georgiana. The marks on Wickham’s body would not change the painful questions he had had about his father’s favour or undo the feelings of betrayal that had coursed through him as a child.
“Mr. Darcy, it is easy to believe that holding even tighter to the ones who have wronged us will set us free—but, in truth, you are only chaining yourself to this man.” She reached out and touched his chest. Glowing ropes of sparkling black, sickly yellow, burnt red, and several other colours for which he had no name appeared, stretching from his heart off toward Meryton (and presumably Wickham).
Darcy took an involuntary step back, but the cords did not fade.
“Though you have anchored all these cords to Mr. Wickham, not all of them belong to him. You will never be free until you untie them.”
His own heart was the battleground—and it was a battle he had been sorely losing, as evidenced by the pain and rage that filled him whenever he dwelt on the matter. He shook himself—he had time to consider that later. “How do I keep him from marrying Georgiana then?”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Who said anything about Mr. Wickham marrying Miss Darcy?”
Darcy came to an abrupt halt. “ You said that he would become my brother or that I would ruin my life if I killed him.”
Mrs. Engel stared up at him steadily for several long moments, then shook her head. “So unwilling to see what is before you.”
“I am willing,” Darcy proclaimed. “I simply need more information.”
“Mr. Darcy, how may Mr. Wickham become your brother?”
“If he marries Georgiana―”
She frowned.
“But if not Georgiana, then....” The truth was so simple, he wondered how he had not seen it before. “If Wickham were to—to marry my wife’s sister, he would become my brother,” he said wonderingly.
Mrs. Engel grinned at him.
“But I do not know who my wife will be.”
Mrs. Engel merely stared at him. “Do you not?”
“I―” He released her arm and began to pace.
“Of course, it is not set in stone—you may always make a different decision.”
Darcy hardly heard her caveat, his mind entirely caught by thoughts of what his heart had desired for some time now.
“When you are ready to admit the truth, I believe you will find answers, Mr. Darcy,” she said, then walked over to him and patted him on the cheek fondly. Her expression turned stern. “Do not neglect to set Mr. Wickham free.”
Darcy blinked and she was gone again. Her disappearance, though frustrating and annoying, was nearly inconsequential compared to the substance of her revelations.
He imagined Elizabeth by his side at Pemberley, involved in his tenants, spending every day with him. It was a dream come true. Bingley had said that Lady Matlock could deal with the ton—if she were so disposed. He had been considering the matter off and on since speaking to his aunt and uncle, but could he truly marry someone his parents would never have approved of?
His mother would have enjoyed Elizabeth. They were quite similar, after all. He could easily imagine them partaking in long walks filled with sparkling conversation. But his mother was a Fitzwilliam and just as conscious of rank as his Aunt Margaret.
Would his mother have overcome her prejudices and accepted Elizabeth? She had, after all, chosen to marry his father, despite Mr. Darcy’s lack of title. Affection and respect had brought about their marriage.
Perhaps his mother would have been more open to Elizabeth as her future daughter than he had realised.
His father would never have approved, though.
Darcy leaned against a winter-barren tree trunk, wishing that he could have gained his father’s approval in even one thing. His stomach sank as he imagined the stern disappointment that would be writ across his father’s face should he marry someone like Elizabeth. The man had required perfection in every area, and Elizabeth, though perfect for him, was far from meeting society’s exacting standards. He passed a hand across his face. His father had not been proud of anything he had ever done anyway; what mattered adding another reason to disappoint him? He straightened, his hands coming to rest in fists.
He would fail his family name far more should he marry one of the ton’s beauties who lacked kindness and compassion.
A smile spread over Darcy’s face and his heartbeat sped up. Marry Elizabeth. The only strange thing about the idea was how very not-strange it was. He would do it. He would woo the woman of his dreams and pray he succeeded.
What should he tell Elizabeth? He could not tell her that Mrs. Engel had said that they might marry—what if it was too soon to talk to her about it? What if she did not yet care sufficiently for him to be willing to marry him?
But if he did not tell her, they would spend more time fruitlessly trying to devise a means to go to London or wandering around Hertfordshire, searching for Mrs. Engel. No, he could not conceal the whole from her—she was just as invested as he in leaving Tuesday.
The thought of leaving Tuesday left a bitter taste in his mouth despite how much he had longed for such an occurrence. At least, if Elizabeth married him, he would still have many more days to revel in her company.