Page 50 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
Days 99/71-108/80: Tuesday, November 19, 1811
Elizabeth agreed, in theory, that speaking to her mother was their next best option; that did not, however, mean that she wished to speak to her mother or for Mr. Darcy to do so. In the beginning of their endeavour, she had worried that he might be repelled by her family’s improprieties. However, not once had he seemed to repent of the idea of becoming related to them.
As the days went by without any progress, she grew restless. Mrs. Engel had mentioned two conditions necessary for escaping Tuesday: for Mr. Darcy to free himself from the cords binding him to Mr. Wickham and for something to change with her sisters. Now that Mr. Darcy had fulfilled his goal of freeing himself from Mr. Wickham, her family alone was keeping them trapped in Tuesday. For the first time in weeks, she longed for Tuesday to end. As much as she enjoyed the intimacy of being the only two in the world and all the ways that Mr. Darcy demonstrated his love, she was ready to move on, ready to start a life with him. Longings had no part in changing time though, and Tuesday after Tuesday marched on.
Today marked a month since he had admitted the substance of Mrs. Engel’s words and they had begun trying to reach her family. It was not their rest day and so they had continued their attempts, managing to speak to her sisters and parents over the course of the day. But the conversations had gone almost the same way as they had the previous day, and she knew the sun would rise on another Tuesday tomorrow. Were it not for the fact that she needed the reassurance of Mr. Darcy’s presence, she would have begged off going to Aunt Phillips’s dinner party. It all felt so hopeless.
The moment Elizabeth met his gaze, her eyes grew hot, despite their audience.
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked quietly.
She shook her head, unable to put into words the hopelessness that had filled her while getting ready for this party yet again. Really, she did not want to talk about it. She just wanted his arms about her, to be reminded that she was not alone and that they would make it through, somehow.
Mr. Darcy put a hand on her arm. “What is wrong?”
She glanced about the room. What was the point in trying to maintain her reputation when they would never escape Tuesday? “Will you meet me in my uncle’s study in five minutes?”
“Of course.”
After making a quick excuse to her aunt, she slipped into the study.
Moments later, Mr. Darcy joined her. “Are you well?” he asked, his expression taut.
Elizabeth shook her head, tears beginning to leak out despite her best efforts. “Nothing is changing. My family is so stubborn that Wednesday may never come.”
Mr. Darcy put his arms around her and drew her close. “I refuse to believe that is a possible outcome. Mrs. Engel would not have given us further instructions after that first Tuesday were it impossible.”
“So I believed, too. But it has been—months. I have lost count of the days.”
“One hundred and eight for me and eighty for you.” His embrace loosened, and he shifted so he could look her in the eye. “If Providence were cruel, you would not be here. Nor would I have been given the chance to change.”
“You do not believe it is torture of another sort that we are together in Tuesday?”
“Never,” Mr. Darcy declared. “The learning and growing that I have done, the time spent with my best friend and love—how could I ever repent of these past months, despite how unorthodox they have been? Yes, I long for Wednesday to come. I ache to become your husband. But even without that, Tuesday will remain bearable, because we will be able to bring the most important things with us into Wednesday.”
“The most important things?”
“Our love. Our growth. We are both better people than we were before we began this journey, especially me.”
Elizabeth gave him a reluctant smile. “I suppose you are right.”
“Of course I am.” He caressed her face. “If we are to trust Providence for the advent of Tuesday’s repetitions, we shall have to trust that we will not be here a moment too long. And perhaps—perhaps that is all that matters. I love your family now.” Mr. Darcy blinked. “I had not realised that until this moment, but it is true. I love them and will do all I can to ensure their well-being, but we cannot control them or anyone else. The ways we have changed and will continue to change this Tuesday will have repercussions we cannot know.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe all those changes will be enough to alter your family’s trajectory.”
Elizabeth hugged him tighter. “I hope so. I am eager for Wednesday to begin.” She no longer dreaded that Mr. Darcy might change his mind on Wednesday, now willing to trust that if it were best, they would end up married, and if not, she would grow through the pain. There would be beauty at the end of it somewhere.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and they sprang apart. A beaming Mrs. Engel put her head into the room. “I knew you could do it!”
They both gaped at her.
“Do it?” Mr. Darcy asked, his tone laced with confusion.
“Make the necessary changes, learn what you were supposed to learn. The others thought—well, never mind what they thought. I have always believed that you would eventually learn your lessons. And so quickly!”
“Quickly?” Elizabeth asked, one eyebrow raised.
Mrs. Engel nodded vigorously, a stray curl popping loose and waving about in agreement. “It has only been one hundred and eight Tuesdays. Oh, I will miss seeing you,” she said fervently. She cupped Elizabeth’s cheek. “Do not forget what you have learned. You are strong enough to get on the other side of whatever occurs. Strong enough, I daresay, to give people, even your sisters and parents, the benefit of a second opinion, to see beyond their masks, and to let them make their own decisions.” Mrs. Engel turned to Mr. Darcy and gave him a fond smile. “And you—I am so proud of the way you have let life back in, learned to love those around you (even those you once found distasteful), and gained freedom. Your love for the Bennets is a thing of beauty.” She beamed at them once again, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. “You both have done so well.”
“Does that mean that tomorrow will be Wednesday?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Mrs. Engel cocked her head at them. “Would you have tomorrow be Wednesday? You really were less than discrete when you left this evening; several people have already noted your joint absence.”
“Do we have a choice?” Elizabeth asked. She had no desire to play any guessing games with this woman, despite being grateful for the opportunity they had been given.
“If you will trust me, I shall give you one more Tuesday to spend however you wish. And then the next morning will be Wednesday. Or tomorrow may be Wednesday and then you shall have to deal with the consequences of your actions today.”
Mr. Darcy exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. “We would like the opportunity of one more Tuesday, please.”
“Mrs. Reynolds is right: you can be such a polite person,” Mrs. Engel noted. “Very well, I shall give you one more Tuesday.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. “Thank you, Mrs. Engel. Truly, thank you for all the help you have given us and for these past one hundred and eight Tuesdays.”
“You are welcome, poppet. I knew you could figure it out together.”
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “I thank you for myself too. I cannot imagine the person I would be if you had not intervened.”
Mrs. Engel smiled. “Something would have turned up. Still, I am glad that you will no longer have to drag Wickham about for the rest of your life.”
“And thank you for allowing us one more Tuesday,” Elizabeth added.
“Of course. After all, you do not want to be forced to marry, do you?”
With that she vanished, and Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were treated to the sight of an agitated Mr. Phillips who immediately drew the door closed and eyed them both.
The resultant conversation was rather less than pleasant, but they managed to put him off “until tomorrow” and returned to the party.
Despite how desperately Darcy longed to draw Elizabeth back into his arms, to speak to her, to stretch out the moments of their last opportunity with only the two of them awake and aware, he did not dare do so under her uncle’s watchful gaze. He only managed to press her fingers warmly when taking his leave.
His last night before everyone would once again be cognizant of events. It was all he had longed for these past weeks and he was thrilled, but... a part of him regretted all the things he could have done during their lengthy interlude—especially given that Mrs. Engel’s parting comment seemed to indicate that no one else would regain their memories of Tuesday the way Elizabeth had.
“Are you well, Darcy?” Bingley asked as they reached Netherfield. “You have been awfully quiet, even for you.”
Darcy hesitated only a moment. “I am quite well.”
Perhaps there was one thing he wished to do before tomorrow. Bingley had been so obliging that Darcy had never needed to do more than ask for his assistance with the Bennets—nor had he required proof those few times Darcy had told him of Tuesday’s repetition. But, after tomorrow, proof would not be readily accessible. More importantly, he could finally begin changing this most important friendship and he would like to be able to prove his tale should it become necessary to tell.
And so, he drew Bingley into the library for a nightcap and told him, once again, of the repeating Tuesdays.
Bingley studied him, the furrow in his brow growing deeper and deeper as Darcy’s story progressed. “I—er, are you certain you are well? This is rather fantastical, you know. Perhaps everything has been a bit much.”
“I do know. And I shall prove the truth of my words to you. If you tell me something that will later prove to yourself that I am telling the truth, then either you will remember telling me tomorrow and we may further discuss my mental health, or you will not remember and will know that I am not mad at some later date.”
Bingley cocked his head at him, eyes narrowed as though to see into his very soul. “You are not playing some strange prank, are you? I mean, it would not be like you at all, but some of the fellows—well, what sort of information would you want?”
“Whatever you wish to tell me; it just needs to be something that only you can corroborate.”
Bingley nodded and began to pace, muttering under his breath. Finally, he stopped and turned back to Darcy. “When I was eight, Caroline fell off her horse and broke her arm. What I was never brave enough to tell anyone was that it was my fault. I put a burr under her saddle, and it spooked the horse. She had been avoiding me, and I—I wanted her attention. I learned the hard way that even small wounds can have great consequences.”
“No wonder you are such a kind man,” Darcy said thoughtfully. He had always thought that Bingley was simply naturally disposed to care for others’ feelings and needs.
“You cannot know how far the consequences of a misplaced word or action will ripple,” Bingley said earnestly.
Darcy stood and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You are a far wiser man than I. I wish I had learned that lesson long ago. It would have saved me a great deal of trouble,” he said, thinking of the pain his careless words had caused Elizabeth.
Bingley’s ears turned red. “I am still failing miserably at navigating the ton. Caroline tells me regularly that I lack refinement, and I know you would rather I was less—exuberant.”
“No, my friend, I was wrong. Your welcoming nature is a boon, not a fault. The ton is not known for its kindness, but it ought to be. Miss Elizabeth has convinced me that kindness is the soul of civility, and if the ton is supposed to be renowned for its excellent manners, it ought likewise to be renowned for its kindness.”
“I—thank you, Darcy. That means a lot coming from you.” Bingley returned to his chair. “Does that mean you have been speaking more to Miss Elizabeth?”
Darcy smiled. “Yes. Rather a lot. But I would prefer to discuss that tomorrow when you will remember it.”
“Very well,” Bingley agreed amiably.
Truly, he had not been nearly appreciative enough of his friend’s easy-going nature. Where would he have been these past years without Bingley to provide a safe port in the storm of the ton’s incessant demands?