Page 42 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 72/44: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

The next day, Darcy began his campaign. When they met on the path to Meryton, he smiled at Elizabeth, trying not to show the wild beating of his heart, and complimented her gown. Darcy had discovered that she was lovely to him in anything she wore; however, he had a fondness for her in pale green and yellow gowns. Green reminded him of how like a forest nymph she had appeared when she had arrived at Netherfield in search of her sick sister, and yellow was like seeing her clothed in pure sunlight. It was glorious—she was glorious.

Elizabeth merely blinked at him. “Thank you,” she finally said. “Are you well? You seemed more pensive than usual last night.”

“I am.” He hesitated before deciding to keep to safe topics rather than proclaiming how very well being in her presence made him feel. “One of the cords disappeared,” he murmured.

She gave him a brilliant smile. “I am certain you will succeed.”

Darcy returned her smile, his look turning rueful as they both shifted to speak to Mr. Collins—after weeks of their morning greetings, they both knew precisely how long Mr. Collins would wait before interrupting them, eager to introduce himself to Lady Catherine’s nephew.

Throughout Mr. Collins’s discourse, Elizabeth held Darcy’s arm and Darcy endeavoured to ensure a proper distance between them, no matter how much he longed to draw her close. He refused to treat her as anything less than a lady.

Finally, when Mr. Collins was engaged in speaking with Mrs. Phillips, Darcy pulled Elizabeth slightly aside. “I was wondering whether you wish for company this afternoon—it might be useful to continue discussing the cords,” he rushed to add, as she gave him a quizzical look.

“Oh, yes, of course. I am at your disposal.”

“I imagine Bingley will not object if I request time for a solitary ride this afternoon. Perhaps three o’clock?”

“A solitary ride in the woods sounds most conducive to gathering one’s thoughts,” she said.

Elizabeth could not help but ponder Mr. Darcy’s behaviour as of late as she walked towards their customary meeting place, the afternoon sun providing a lovely counterpoint to the chill breeze. Yesterday morning, he had seemed warm and open, and this morning he had even complimented her dress. But then, he had immediately stood farther away than usual. Perhaps he was merely reminding her of the proper distance? She had not realised how often they were closer than was strictly proper. At least not until Mr. Darcy had begun taking a step back every time she drew near.

It could simply be the strain of the past two days; pondering how one could release pains as old as those Wickham had inflicted could not be an enjoyable meditation.

If his distance lasted more than a day or two, she would ask him about it. In the meantime, she would continue to observe.

“Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his fingers tensing around Sisyphus’s reins in an effort to avoid reaching for her hand. How long had he imagined taking her soft hands in his, clasping them, kissing the back of one hand? But no, it would not be proper. And more than that, it might cause her discomfort.

Belatedly, he realised he had not bowed and did so.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy,” she returned, her lips quirking up as she curtsied deeply.

Sisyphus nickered—either in complaint for the death grip Darcy had on his reins or out of welcome for Elizabeth.

“And good afternoon to you as well, Sisyphus.” She petted the horse gently on his nose.

“I—I hope you are well,” Darcy put in.

“I am.”

“Good.” He swung one hand at his side, unsure what he had done with his hands when they had met in the past. “Well, did you have a path in mind?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I mostly ramble along the creek bed near here.”

“Lead the way,” Darcy said, gesturing widely. “I am certain you know the forest better than I do.”

“Did you not say that you spent several days riding around this area? Do not tell me that you wandered without knowing at all where you were; I shall not believe that the great Mr. Darcy would ever be so careless,” she said teasingly, gesturing to their left.

“Perhaps the ‘great Mr. Darcy’ was preoccupied—there is little incentive to pay attention when one will awaken in one’s bed the next morning, regardless of where one went to sleep,” Darcy said as he followed her, his thoughts growing bleak as he recalled the various times he had ridden away, simply trying to escape Tuesday.

Elizabeth bit her lip. “I had not considered that aspect of Tuesday. I knew that you had to ride back to London daily when you spoke to your aunt and uncle, but I have not been away from home at night since the repetitions began. Were you often absent from Netherfield?”

“Several times,” he admitted curtly.

Elizabeth tensed. Had the question been too personal?

“It was―” He smiled down at her. “You are here now—there is no reason for me to wander about the countryside, preoccupied or otherwise.”

“Good. You would not wish to distress Sisyphus by getting injured somewhere far from civilization.”

“I would not,” he agreed.

“He would be very distressed,” Elizabeth said firmly.

Mr. Darcy’s gaze softened. “I will do my best not to distress Sisyphus.”

Elizabeth nodded, her throat still a bit tight as visions of an injured Mr. Darcy, alone and far from help, played through her mind. They walked in silence until they reached the creek. “Did you wish to discuss the cords?”

“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said, though there was an edge of uncertainty to his tone.

“Which cords disappeared last night? Of course, if you do not wish to share―” she hurried to add.

“I believe it was one belonging to my father. I finally realised that I am—upset that he did not see Wickham’s true character and that he favoured Wickham over me.” He cleared his throat. “My aunt has said that my father preferred spending time with Wickham because he did not owe anything to Wickham.... He could simply enjoy his company.”

Elizabeth’s hand twitched towards his arm before she drew it back, unsure if Mr. Darcy would welcome the contact after this morning. “That sounds difficult. I am sorry.”

“Thank you. It is liberating to think that my father’s preference was for the nature of the relationship rather than for the person—that no matter how many times Wickham may say that Father preferred him, and even if Father did prefer him, it likely has little to do with me.” He hesitated, frowning. “I do not know how to explain it well.”

Elizabeth gave him a quick smile. “I believe I understand.” She ripped a winter-brown leaf from a nearby bush and began mutilating it, needing something to do with her hands. Something about his buried anguish had touched the pain that lived in her—she well knew what it was like to yearn for a parent’s approval and to fall short. It had been many years since she had sought her mother’s good opinion and the ache had diminished, but every so often something awoke the wish. “I can imagine that it would be quite freeing to know that your father’s behaviour had little to do with who you are and rather with his own feelings about responsibility.” She glanced over at him, grimacing wryly. “Not that anyone would like to be categorised as a duty.”

“You do understand. Thank you. Yes, it is not my preference; however, it feels... easier than it was before.”

She gestured to a fallen log and sat down. “What of the other cords?”

“You were right,” he said, tying up Sisyphus and then perching on the log next to her, his attention firmly fixed upon the stream in front of them. “I was angry that you sided with Wickham, though I still believe that the lion’s share of the blame falls to Wickham for being such a practised liar.”

“I am sorry for being so willing to believe ill of you,” Elizabeth said. “Truly, I ought to have listened to both sides before attempting to judge.”

Mr. Darcy shook his head. “You did not know anything but ill of me. The way I treated you—how could you be expected to see me any differently?”

Elizabeth tentatively laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Darcy, if the point of this exercise is to recognise where you have blamed Wickham when you ought to have blamed another, you must allow me to bear my own responsibility. I ought to have known better. And perhaps we did not begin our friendship so well, but we have certainly mended that.” She forced herself to hold his gaze, despite how mortifying it was to admit her own flaws so readily. If he could be so bravely vulnerable, so could she. “I disliked you because you wounded my vanity, and that is a poor reason for judging anyone. I am sorry for accepting Mr. Wickham’s version of events without asking you if they were true. Everyone deserves the benefit of a second impression and I denied you that.”

Mr. Darcy searched her gaze before finally nodding. “Thank you. Though I had not realised my—disappointment until last night, you have already clarified that you no longer hold the same views.” He cleared his throat. “One of the cords that vanished last night seemed to be yours. I believe you were right about all the other cords too: there are several people whom I did not blame at the time, but who ought to have realised that Wickham was lying.” He grimaced. “Wickham several times stole my work and passed it off as his own at Cambridge. I learned to lock up my assignments; however, prior to that, when I went to one of my professors, he accused me of trying to take advantage of someone whom it was my duty to protect. At the time, I believed Wickham was responsible. Now, I can see that the man refused to examine the evidence.”

A flare of the cords left them blinking. “A woman who is now in my employ refused to listen when I tried to tell her to avoid Wickham—she told me that I was clearly jealous of Wickham’s facility with women.” Light flashed once more.

As Darcy continued listing off people and incidents he had half-forgotten, merely putting them on Wickham’s account, he felt lighter and lighter. It was true that Wickham was merely a man. He had not understood how deeply his experiences had exaggerated Wickham’s prowess until he sat here, next to the woman he loved, letting go of the things he had blamed Wickham for. Truly, there was more than enough to place on Wickham’s account; yet the man had not controlled any of his victims. They had made poor choices, whether through their own mistakes or confusion—certainly Wickham had manipulated them, leading them down a path until they had lost the ability to make a different choice—but that did not absolve them of their own early decisions. And though letting go of the cords would in no way free Wickham’s victims, Darcy hoped that they had recognised their own contributions to their misfortunes and had grown past their mistakes.

No one deserved to have their lives blighted by Wickham—not even obliquely.

What felt like an eternity later, only the sparkling black cords remained. It was so much easier to let go once he recognised whom he was angry at and why he had been holding on to the pain and shame and anger for so many years. His professor should have listened—it was part of the man’s job. But Darcy himself had not pressed the matter, too concerned with hurting his father. And perhaps Professor Turner carried the weight of that mistake; regardless, no action was without consequences, whether obvious or not.

Wickham had avoided many consequences so far—yet, did he not now bear their weight in the form of a twisted character? Had not that become a sort of aftereffect, as though each avoided outcome was only delayed, leading to a tidal wave that would eventually sweep him away?

Darcy did not know if he would truly be able to free himself from thoughts of Wickham. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling more fully than they had in many years. Perhaps the effort itself would be worthwhile though, apart from any results.

Darcy looked down at Elizabeth, his faithful friend who had sat listening to him without interruption for some time now. “Thank you,” he said in heartfelt tones.

She raised one eyebrow. “It seems to me that you have been the one doing the work. I do not know what you would thank me for.”

“For being here. I―” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I cannot imagine having this conversation with anyone else.” Indeed, he would not have bared himself to anyone else, save perhaps for Fitzwilliam; but Fitzwilliam would have harrumphed and complained about Wickham the whole time. Darcy had needed a trusted person to just be with him, and Elizabeth had met that need admirably.

“You are more than welcome. Thank you for telling me about those people.”

Darcy merely nodded, too raw to discuss the matter further. He took another deep breath, revelling in her presence.

Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy, her thoughts as dazzled as her eyes had been. She had known that he was willing to recognise his mistakes and to rectify them, but... his commitment to dealing with the cords was awe-inspiring. Despite the attendant pain, he had taken the time to remember each event and to share it with her, sometimes haltingly, sometimes almost coolly, as though the only way he could speak of it was to pretend it had happened to someone else. Betrayal after betrayal. Time after time when someone had taken Wickham’s side. How had Mr. Darcy done it? How had he remained the kind man she now called her dearest friend?

True, he had managed those pains by tying them to Wickham, which had acted as a sort of quarantine for them, but still....

And the speed with which he had addressed the problems! Yes, they were trapped in Tuesday and there was a strong motivation for him to pursue freedom, but she did not think she could have done it. And she would not have blamed him for putting the matter off until some later Tuesday.

This was a man she could trust. Everyone made mistakes—not everyone worked so assiduously to rectify their mistakes. Mrs. Engel had said that she was sending Elizabeth to assist Mr. Darcy, but thus far, he had appeared more than capable of fulfilling the task Mrs. Engel had set him.

He was nearly done with the cords now—just the ones that truly belonged to Wickham remained. Mrs. Engel would probably appear soon to tell them precisely how to rescue Miss Darcy, and Wednesday would arrive. Her heart sank. Never had Wednesday appeared so near and never had she dreaded its arrival more. No longer would she be able to sneak off and spend her day with Mr. Darcy. He would return to London, and this would all be nothing more than a pleasant interlude, mere memories that she took out to warm herself during the long days of his absence.

Teetering on the edge of grief, Elizabeth chose instead to allow a bubble of laughter to rise in her chest. Not a Juliet, indeed. Mr. Darcy might take her heart with him, but for now, she would simply enjoy the time she had left with him.