Page 44 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 76/48: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Elizabeth slowly made her way to Netherfield’s north field. Mr. Darcy had requested they vary their usual rest-day tradition slightly and meet at noon. The man had been incredibly frustrating and confusing ever since his latest conversation with Mrs. Engel. At first, she had attributed it to the arduous task of releasing the various cords he had tied to Mr. Wickham. Now, however, she worried that she had somehow offended him or been indiscreet with her feelings—why else would he vacillate between pretty compliments and increased distance?

Things between them had been uncomfortable for the past few days, and she could quickly see them becoming miserable.

Then again, perhaps he did not realise how very perplexing his behaviour had been. Regardless, they could not continue in this vein. If nothing else, she could at least ask whether she had contributed to his new demeanour.

When she arrived, Mr. Darcy was waiting for her, Belle and Sisyphus on hand as usual. He was twisting his customary picnic basket in his hands, rather than setting it down beside him. Had he simply wished for some time to himself? After all, they saw each other quite often, and on the days when they met in Meryton, their morning routines varied little.

Elizabeth pasted on a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”

He started. “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, setting the picnic basket down and bowing to her. “How—how are you?”

“Quite well,” she said.

“You look lovely this morning.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath, allowing the compliment to slide off like water from a duck’s back. “Thank you.” Silence stretched between them for a minute while Mr. Darcy studied her intently. Finally, she turned to the horses and greeted them, trying to hide her discomfort.

“Well, shall we?” she suggested once both horses were satisfied.

Mr. Darcy took a step towards her and then rushed to untie Belle for her, as though she were as inept at managing horses as she had been all those weeks ago.

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. What in the world was wrong with him? With a mental shake of her head, she allowed him to lead Belle to the stump they had been using as a mounting block and then mounted. She needed a good canter to settle her own fidgets and he would likely be more forthcoming after they completed the lesson.

Darcy suppressed a grimace. He had behaved like a buffoon! It was a wonder Elizabeth had not called him on it. He was staring like a callow youth and then stuttering to her, his dearest friend, like an imbecile.

He had asked the cook to make chocolate tarts and had brought them for her today. Over the past several days, he had been more and more open about his interest, complimenting her and making excuses to simply spend time with her, discussing whatever Elizabeth wished to speak of. Literature, music, philosophy, people, nature; he did not care what the topic was—not when she was such a scintillating conversation partner.

Bringing tarts though was . . . .

Darcy felt exposed, as though it was tantamount to proposing. What if she laughed in his face? Not that Elizabeth would do that—she was too kind to laugh in someone’s face. But what if she rejected his tarts? What if she rejected him? She might be unwilling to entertain the possibility that they would make an excellent match.

As Elizabeth cantered around the field on Belle, Darcy could not help but admire her, wishing that she would be done soon and yet dreading the moment when his tarts would be revealed.

After some time, he joined her in the field on Sisyphus, matching her pace. Eventually, she slowed.

“You are riding excellently,” he said, trying to sound hearty but failing entirely.

“Thank you.” Elizabeth smiled slyly. “I am certain it is a testament to my teacher’s skill.”

Darcy returned her smile, a little of the tension flowing out of his shoulders as they fell into familiar patterns of banter. “I cannot attest to the teacher’s skill—rather, I think you are an extremely apt pupil.” He gestured towards where the picnic basket sat in the shade. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth nodded.

Darcy nervously spread out the picnic blanket and then set out the food, leaving the chocolate tarts in the basket. “I—I brought a dessert today.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth said, gracefully sitting down on the picnic blanket.

With a deep breath, he pulled out the tarts. “Miss Bennet said that you like chocolate tarts, so....”

Elizabeth blinked at him. “I do. Very much.”

“Well, then I am glad my information was correct,” he said. He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, terrified that he might beg her to love him or propose or something else equally pathetic.

As they ate their meal in silence, Elizabeth continued to study him, her delicate brows drawn into a frown. Eventually, she picked up a tart and took a bite.

“Do they taste all right?” Darcy asked anxiously.

“Yes.”

He fidgeted with his napkin before deciding to just ask her what was amiss. “Is something wrong?”

“I am just―” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Mr. Darcy, have I offended you?”

“Offended me?”

“Yes.” She broke off a piece of the tart and nibbled on it. “You have been ill-at-ease this past week, and I—I do not wish for things to be uncomfortable between us. Is there something I have done to cause you discomfort?”

“I am not ill-at―” His behaviour of just this morning flashed through his mind. “You have not offended me.”

“Is there something I have done that is making you uncomfortable? You have been―” She faltered, her gaze dropping to the tart in front of her. “You have not been yourself.” Elizabeth set the piece of tart down and clasped her hands in her lap. “As those differences in behaviour have appeared to revolve around me, I cannot but conclude—well, I would not wish to be the cause of discord between us. If I have done or said something that has—has made you uncomfortable in any way....” Her lips quirked up. “Our unusual situation has required us to practise somewhat greater honesty than commonly occurs between a man and a woman, but I hope greater honesty has not caused you to grow weary of my company. I would not at all begrudge you if you desired some days to yourself, sir.”

Darcy blinked at her. She thought he wished to distance himself? He could not decide whether to laugh or to cry. He had spent the past week attempting to woo the love of his life, and she had only concluded that he no longer desired to spend time with her. “I—Miss Elizabeth, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable; you are correct that we have been forced to be rather more plain-spoken than is the norm, so forgive me if I—I am not practised in the art of―” He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. If only he were not so damn incompetent when it came to women! “I have been trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to signal my interest in you.”

Elizabeth’s gaze flew to his. “Your—your interest in me?”

He nodded. “A man would be a fool not to be interested in you.”

Elizabeth shot to her feet, sudden sparks in her eyes. “Mr. Darcy, I do not know what sort of game you are playing, but I do not appreciate being toyed with or lied to.”

Darcy gaped up at her, then slowly got to his feet, his heart pounding. “Toyed with? Miss Elizabeth, toying with you is the farthest thing from my mind.”

“You have already made it plain that you do not find me attractive,” she said, shaking her head as though denying every yes that his heart yearned for. “I would appreciate it if you did not continue in this vein, sir. I do not know what sort of skill you are attempting to practise on me, but please cease.”

“I am not trying to practise anything! And it has been some time since I have concluded that you are the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”

“I? The woman who is ‘not tolerable enough to tempt you’?” Elizabeth spat before turning away from him.

Darcy’s heart sank. “Elizabeth, I was a fool then.” He took two steps closer, willing her to hear the sincerity in his voice. “My comment to Bingley was not accurate, even in the moment. I was merely trying to escape his importuning. I should not have spoken so.”

Elizabeth’s back remained towards him, her head bowed.

He walked around to stand in front of her, noting that her hands were fisted in her skirts. “My poor behaviour was not at all a reflection on you or even an accurate representation of my opinion of you.” His lips quirked up. “It was merely a testament to how wretched my behaviour had become without a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet to tell me unpleasant truths. I have tried my best to grow, to no longer be that man. I would never say something so unkind now.”

Elizabeth glanced up at him before her attention shifted to the trees behind him. After a long moment, she took a deep breath. “You are certainly not the man you were when you first arrived.” She looked up into his face, searching his eyes. “I forgive you.”

Darcy daringly reached out and took her hand. “Thank you. I am making a hash of this, but I am trying to say that I wish to—to woo you. I know you will never accept an offer from anyone whom you do not truly esteem, and I wish to prove my worth.”

Her expression softened. “You are more estimable than you realise.”

The band around his chest loosened. “Wednesday is nearer than it has ever been, and I—I have learned that my life is so much better with you in it. I do not wish to be parted from you, ever. You have become my dearest friend, my love.”

Elizabeth’s heart leapt. Mr. Darcy dreaded their upcoming separation just as much as she did. Mr. Darcy had called her his love!

And yet.

Her eyes slid closed, trying to block out his pleading expression. One of them had to be rational. She suppressed a chuckle even as her chest ached. Who would have ever thought that she would have to be the more rational of the two of them?

All the reasons Elizabeth had cautioned her heart about remained true. As far as they knew, they were the only two awake. It had created an unnatural closeness between them—frankly, there was no one else for whom Mr. Darcy could develop feelings.

What would happen a year from now?

A scene flashed through her mind: Mr. Darcy looking at her, the distaste as obvious on his face as it had been at the assembly ball, bound by the decisions he had made in an impossible situation. How would he feel about having proposed to a country maiden then? The demands of his station would eventually resume, and she could not bear it if he regretted marrying her.

The ache in her chest grew as she steeled herself to do what she must; she could not accept his love. Not like this. Not now when he might change his mind come Wednesday.

Elizabeth opened her eyes, blinking back tears. “Mr. Darcy, what you feel for me, it is because we have spent so much time together this Tuesday. When life resumes and consequences are relevant, I am certain you will have a much different view on the matter.”

Mr. Darcy stilled. “I am not so inconstant as that.” He rubbed his thumb tenderly across her hand, taking another step closer, his dark eyes holding hers. “As Shakespeare put it, ‘let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” he murmured. “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken,’” he said, as though making a vow. “We have already endured the tempest of many Tuesdays and I do not believe that Wednesday’s advent, that returning to our normal lives, will at all change the way I feel about you. You are the star to my wandering bark. You have brought joy back into my life when I believed it impossible. Elizabeth, you are everything I never knew I needed in a wife. That will not change, no matter the day of the week.”

Elizabeth shook her head, though she could not pull her hand from his grasp. “I wish that were so,” she said, tears spilling from her eyes.

“Please, how can I prove my love to you? Can you—do you think you could ever esteem me? I will do whatever is necessary to prove my constancy and my fitness to be your husband.”

“Mr. Darcy, please,” Elizabeth said, her voice strangled. How could she even respond to that?

“There is nothing to be done?” Mr. Darcy asked, gently releasing her hand. “You are my dearest friend. I do not wish to lose your friendship, but―” He turned away and stepped back. “I suppose I simply wished for my own happily ever after.”

Elizabeth sprang forward. “You are my dearest friend too, and I would not, for the world, hurt you, but you must know how impossible it would be. You are a member of the ton, and I am—I am naught but Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.”

Darcy turned back to her. “That is more than enough.” He searched her gaze, looking for any hint that she might be as distressed by the thought of losing him as he was of losing her, and not merely upset by the situation. “Elizabeth, please—if you tell me there is no hope at all, I shall not continue my attentions, but will you not let me prove myself?”

“How can you?” she cried. “We know not how we will behave once time resumes until it actually does so! I care deeply for you, and I will not allow you to promise something that you may regret.”

“You—you care for me?” Darcy asked, hope kindling in his breast.

For a moment, Elizabeth held his gaze, her eyes full of assurances that left him nearly breathless. Then she dropped her eyes, her cheeks going rosy.

He gently took her hands in his. “Once we have escaped Tuesday, then may I call on you?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “Yes, if you still wish to call on me after we have resumed our normal lives―” She fixed him with a stern stare. “And I do not mean on Wednesday morning; I mean sometime after we have returned to our normal rhythms.” She softened. “Then you may call on me.”

Darcy lifted her hands and kissed them fervently. “I shall do everything in my power to hurry Wednesday along.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “As though you have not already been doing so.”

He inclined his head. “This gives me added incentive.”