Page 4 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 4: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

When Hawkin reported that it was—yet again—Tuesday, Darcy decided he would not, could not, endure encountering Wickham again today. The night before, he had lain in bed for hours, unable to sleep as a parade of Wickham’s misdeeds trumpeted through his mind.

He had despised the man before Ramsgate; however, it had been akin to how one felt about a mosquito—Wickham was an annoying blood-sucker, but not worth lying awake in bed over. After Ramsgate, after watching the light in Georgiana’s eyes die, that hatred had grown, twining its roots deep into Darcy’s being. Only his father’s love for the man and his fear for Georgiana’s reputation had prevented him from taking strong measures against Wickham.

And now he was being forced to cross paths with the man over and over again.

Why in God’s name was Tuesday repeating at all? And if a day had to be repeated, why this one? He could have repeated any number of enjoyable days from his past or even days when he had made grave mistakes that he wished to rectify, but no; he was trapped in this meaningless, miserable day.

Yesterday, madness had seemed the likely culprit, but today, it seemed less likely: mad people were irrational and prone to flights of fancy. He was perfectly capable of responding properly to the situation; he was simply caught in Tuesday.

If he was not going mad, it must be a dream—a wretchedly long nightmare. What mattered that the sights, sounds, smells, and sensations were so vivid? He had never heard of such vivid dreams, but that meant nothing. The alternative was impossible. Ergo, he was dreaming and just needed to figure out how to wake up.

After his morning ride, he once more took breakfast in his room but then pleaded a headache. Bingley went to Longbourn and presumably on to Meryton without him. After several failed attempts to read, Darcy finally settled on writing a letter to his cousin; he did not wish to appear unoccupied when his valet checked on him lest the man cross over from concern into real worry and ask uncomfortable questions.

November 19th (the fourth)

Netherfield

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I doubt you will ever read this letter. Truly, if I thought I could keep myself occupied in any other manner, I would not be writing to you. However, my excuse of an indisposition would wear a bit thin were I to go for another ride, and I have been unable to content myself with reading.

I am trapped in a dream, apparently repeating November 19th. The events of the day remain the same except when I change my behaviour. I may choose to breakfast with the Bingleys (and to endure Miss Bingley’s machinations and fawning) or I may choose to breakfast in my room.

Wickham is in Meryton today. Do not ask me why that scoundrel thinks it wise to come within reach; I do not know. I suppose I have never truly injured him, much as I have wished to do so.

I must confess that my resolve is wavering.

Darcy paused, his jaw clenching as once more Wickham’s mountain of sins filled his mind—Georgiana’s pain at the forefront. His left hand clenched into a fist where it sat upon his writing case. Brawling was certainly not befitting a Darcy, but, oh, how he wished it were. The pain that man had inflicted deserved more than just cutting ties with the Darcy family or sending him to debtor’s prison. Wickham deserved to bear bodily the evidence of the many wounds he had inflicted, and Darcy wished he could be the one to mete out that justice.

Beating him senseless is an attractive thought, is it not? Wickham’s features finally clear of that smirk that he wears near-perpetually?

I must confess that repeating today has not helped the situation at all. In fact, it occurred to me in the late watches of the night that I could simply pound Wickham and when today restarted, no one would be the wiser. I wonder if that is why my dream is repeating—perhaps my mind simply wishes for an opportunity to punch the man without consequences.

There is little else of import that occurs today. I go for my customary morning ride (in solitude), breakfast in my room, ride with Bingley to Meryton where we encounter the Bennets and Wickham, inspect Netherfield’s east fields, and then dine at Netherfield before retiring to my room and to bed. Last night, I could not stomach the thought of listening to the Bingley sisters complaining yet again about the neighbourhood—what would they say were I to tell them precisely what I thought of them?

Of course, I would never do so. Darcys are always polite. But the temptation is there—particularly in light of the fact that this is a dream.

I have not told you about the Bennets. As is his custom, Bingley has fallen madly in love with the local beauty: Miss Bennet. She is the eldest of five daughters, and the family is, unfortunately, eminently unsuitable. Their estate is entailed upon a cousin, they are connected to trade, and, as if that were not enough, both parents and the two younger girls entirely lack propriety. Their insipidity and foolishness have frequently disgusted me. One would imagine that, given their situation, their mother would at least have raised them to be genteel, winsome girls. Miss Bennet appears to be pleasant enough, though she smiles so often that one cannot help but question whether she lacks the discernment to recognise when something is truly pleasing or is merely playing some deeper game.

The second eldest daughter, Miss Elizabeth, is—well, I have found myself strangely attracted to her. She is lovely, intelligent, witty, and compassionate. Were it not for the rest of her family’s horrid behaviour, I should be in real danger.

Hawkin is stationed in the room adjoining mine. Though Miss Bingley has not appeared desperate enough to force a compromise, I am uneasy that she may decide to check on me this morning. And after Miss K.—well, one can never be too careful.

I do not know what I shall do with my time if I continue to repeat Tuesday. Perhaps I should floor Wickham, and then I may awaken.

Fitzwilliam would chortle with glee should Darcy ever punish Wickham in truth. His cousin detested Wickham, seeing him as little more than a bug to be squashed. For the thousandth time, Darcy wished he had asked his father what he had seen in the scoundrel.

Wickham was charming. He could certainly entertain when he wished to. But Darcy’s father had never seemed content with shallow people... perhaps his father had simply enjoyed Wickham’s veneer of lightheartedness. The man had always maintained a rapport with Wickham, but it had been after his wife’s death that Darcy’s father had begun to dote on Wickham. Anne Darcy had been a breath of fresh air to everyone who encountered her. Her kind smile had always reminded Darcy of drinking warm chocolate on a cold winter’s day. She had truly loved the people around her, whether they were tenants, servants, or her own family. He had never heard a cross word from her, and she had filled the house with laughter.

Mirth had never come naturally to Darcy, and he worried he had forgotten many of the lessons his mother had lived out. Being around Miss Elizabeth had reminded him of his mother’s wit and kindness.

Darcy ruthlessly smothered the thought. Dwelling on the past was a waste of time.

With a sigh, he resumed his letter-writing.

For now, I believe I will go back to attempting to read, and perhaps later this afternoon I shall feign a miraculous recovery and go for a ride. It all just feels so pointless when I do not know if anything I do shall be reset in the morning. Why bother writing letters or dealing with matters of business when I shall just have to do the exact same things tomorrow (or whenever I finally awake)? I would much prefer to spend my time in a less tedious manner. Unfortunately, I have been unable to concentrate on reading or any of my other customary pastimes. I am too distraught by Wickham’s presence and my current circumstances to relax.

Darcy sighed again, annoyed by the pointlessness of the letter. He had begun it to keep Hawkin from worrying, but he would rather have sat in a chair and stared at a book. At least doing that, while pointless, was not reset the next morning.

He signed the letter, sealed it, and placed it in the pile of correspondence to be taken out. With a mental growl at himself for not bringing more books to Netherfield, he took up one of his newest volumes—an account of Wellesley’s latest campaign—and attempted to immerse himself in the Duke of Wellington’s struggles.

By the time Bingley returned to the house, Darcy had progressed through restiveness and was downright chomping at the bit. When his friend requested a conversation, Darcy was more than willing to acquiesce simply for the distraction.

“How is your headache?” Bingley asked in a low voice as he sat down in the chair across from Darcy.

Darcy grimaced. “Better than it was this morning. Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?” he asked in a normal tone of voice.

Bingley shrugged. “Only if you wish to.”

“I would welcome it,” he said firmly.

“We have received an invitation to dinner tonight.”

For a moment, Darcy wished he could take his statement back. “From whom?”

“Mrs. Phillips. She is Mrs. Bennet’s sister.”

“The one who is married to the attorney in Meryton?” Darcy asked, standing and collecting a decanter of port and two glasses.

Bingley nodded. “The Misses Bennet were not at home today, but I met them in Meryton and escorted them to their aunt’s home. She is quite congenial and kindly gave us an invitation to join her little dinner party tonight.”

Darcy poured them each a glass and returned to his seat, the winter sunshine turning his port jewel-bright. “Dinner party?”

“She and her husband are having some of the officers over for dinner, and they expanded their party to include the Misses Bennet and their cousin, Mr. Collins. In addition, she included me and you—and Caroline and the Hursts, but I cannot see them wishing to attend.”

“Rather short notice.”

“Yes, I was quite surprised that she was willing to add so many people to her invitation this morning—truly, it shows her kind heart,” his friend enthused.

Darcy took a sip of his port. Or her lack of manners.

“She did apologise for the short notice,” Bingley continued. “Apparently, she had intended to hold the party tomorrow evening, but her husband is called away to London on business for the next several days and she did not wish to put off having it.”

“I see.”

Bingley leaned forward. “You do not have to attend—I told her that I would be delighted to do so, but that I would not dare to answer on your behalf.”

Darcy frowned out the window. Would spending an evening with the officers be preferable to another repetition of the Bingley sisters’ conversation? It would at least be something different. Although.... His eyes narrowed and he turned back to Bingley. “Did she give Mr. Wickham the same invitation, and does he plan to attend?”

“Oh, do you know Mr. Wickham?” Bingley asked. “I have only just met him! He did not say that you are acquainted. He seems most congenial.”

Darcy scoffed. “Wickham always seems congenial until one comes to know him.”

“Is—are—how are you acquainted with the man?” Bingley asked with concern.

“He is the son of my father’s late steward. Though his father was an honourable man, Wickham is not . The apple could not have fallen farther from the tree in this case.”

“Are we speaking of the same Mr. Wickham? He does not at all seem so bad.”

Darcy’s eyes slid closed. Even his dearest friend questioned him. “I am certain,” he said finally. “Mr. George Wickham is―” He hesitated, trying to decide how to explain why he was so certain it was the same person. “I had heard that he might take a position in the —shire militia.” Then, for good measure, he described Wickham in some detail.

“That does sound like the same man,” Bingley agreed dubiously. “I did not speak to him much; perhaps his flaws are more evident with more exposure.”

“Sadly, his flaws are seldom apparent until after he quits a place. Wickham has a habit of leaving behind debts and ruined young women aplenty.”

Bingley’s eyebrows shot up and he set his glass down. “Is Miss—are the Bennets in danger?”

Darcy shook his head. “No. Wickham would not bother with them; besides, they would not further his quest for revenge against me.”

“Revenge?” Bingley asked uncertainly.

Darcy nodded, his jaw clenched. “He believes he is entitled to hang upon my sleeve for the entirety of his life, as my father loved him dearly, but I have no desire to support his extravagant habits.”

A crease appeared on Bingley’s brow. “But why would he believe he is entitled to your wealth if he is not a relative?”

“Why indeed?” Darcy shook his head. “As I said, my father loved him dearly and so he provided him with every advantage. Before he died, my father recommended Wickham for a valuable family living. After his death, Wickham did not wish to become clergy, and so he accepted ￡3,000 in lieu of the living. Unfortunately, Wickham spent all the money in a few short years and then came to me, arguing that I ought to give him the living anyway since he was now without means. I refused, having no desire to tie myself so thoroughly to the wretch and believing that I had fulfilled my father’s wishes. Wickham was vehement in his recriminations.

“Ever since, he has been steadfast in his resentment and sought revenge in the most painful way possible: he secretly pursued Georgiana. Fortunately, I learned of the matter and was able to protect her; apparently, he was not content with that latest attempt and has followed me here. Or perhaps it is simply ill-chance that has brought him to Hertfordshire.”

Or perhaps some part of Darcy simply longed to gain justice with his own two hands. He would never attack the man in life, but in a dream....

Bingley stared at him, eyes wide. “I would never have guessed that he was such a scoundrel! Of course you do not wish to attend a gathering where he may be. If someone had treated me thus, I would not wish to see them ever again—let alone be forced to pretend congeniality in their presence.”

“If Wickham believes that I will attend, I doubt he would actually come. Was he given an invitation?”

“I do not know. Mrs. Phillips promised to send her husband over with an invitation as the younger Bennet girls were quite interested in him.” He gave Darcy an apologetic look. “Apparently he cuts quite a figure.”

“Wickham has ever been conscious of appearances—it allows him to present the veneer of respectability and makes others more susceptible to his lies.”

“Do you wish to chance attending then?” Bingley asked.

Darcy considered. It was the sort of invitation that he was unlikely to accept most of the time—save for the sake of accompanying Bingley to keep him out of trouble: a house full of strangers, most of whom were of a lower class and thus more likely to attempt to use his friend for his wealth and position... then again, he was acquainted with several of the officers and the Bennets... and Miss Elizabeth would likely be there....

It was the fact that he could not bear the thought of hearing the Bingley sisters’ complaints yet again that decided him. “I would be glad to accept Mrs. Phillips’s invitation.”

“Jolly good! I shall send our acceptance over at once. And if Mr. Wickham dares to show his face, we do not have to stay,” Bingley said fiercely.

“Thank you, Bingley,” Darcy said, warmed that his friend would give up his own pleasure for the sake of Darcy’s feelings and that he was siding with him rather than Wickham.