Chapter Twenty-two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
fitzwilliam
Everything was pristine and perfect in the wee hours of April ninth.
I wandered in the darkness and came to the rectory, remembering the time before I had tried to gain entry and found the door locked.
Yes, but that had been the night of April ninth, had it not? This was the morning. I tried the door and, miraculously, found it unlocked. I carefully and quietly let myself in.
I found her bedchamber, and she was there.
She was asleep and she looked…
Well, I suppose I had not realized it, the way the ordeal we had gone through had changed the set of her countenance, how it had weighed on her.
Would she be damaged? Like Anne?
She did not look it now. She looked younger, less careworn, as if a heaviness had been taken from her.
I watched her sleep for too long. But I did not wake her.
Instead, I wandered.
I went to the lake and I looked into it, and I swear, out in the midst of the waters, I saw the watch floating—just for a moment —glittering gold in the moonlight. And then it slipped down under the gleaming waters and drifted into the darkness of the water, gone.
When morning came, I was in my aunt’s bedchamber, seated on a chair that I had pulled to face it. I sat at the foot of the bed and waited as the sun stole into the sky, as the morning made everything grow lighter and lighter.
I waited until she woke.
When she saw me, she let out a bellow. “What are you doing in here?”
“The morning after Sir Lewis drowned again, but this time with the watch,” I said. “You told me that it was the same day again, but that you could not alter things in the way you had been able to before? Is that correct?”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, you were not raised to accost your aging relatives in their beds in the morning. If you have something to discuss with me, you can do it at breakfast, over a nice cup of tea, when I have properly awakened. I am not even wearing my wig!”
“Aunt Catherine, attend to me,” I said fiercely. “You will not remember this, but we had a conversation yesterday—today—it doesn’t matter. About the pocket watch.”
She sat up straight in bed, her eyes wide. “Oh, Lord, Fitzwilliam, you have that infernal watch!”
“Not anymore,” I said. “It left me. Or… I don’t know how it happened, but someone had it and that someone died whilst it was in his possession, and now, I think… Tell me, please, what that final day was like. You said Anne didn’t remember anything that day?”
“Oh, dear, dear. That watch is a malevolent thing. If you have it, you must realize, it will make you its plaything. It thrives only on suffering.”
I set my mouth in a firm line.
Yes, I suffered.
“You said it was as if that final day, that everything was fated ,” I said.
“Is that what I said?” She furrowed her brow at me. “It is quite odd, your having a memory of a conversation that I have no memory of. But I well remember how that was, how many times I had various versions of various conversations with people, and they never knew that I had spoken to them at all.”
“Is it impossible for you to simply answer my question?”
She huffed at me. “I could not save him that last day, no. I did try. But it was all done at that point. Is this what you wished to know?”
I sighed. “Yes, thank you.”
I tried to speak longer with her, but she was not much help. She kept trying to tell me the things she had already told me, retell the same tale I had already gotten from her.
Eventually, I left the room.
The day began to unfold.
When the colonel left, I knew he would intercept Elizabeth on her walk, and I tried to interfere. I asked him to come with me and see to something in the stables, but he put me off. I tried to accompany him, and I tripped on the stairs and fell flat on my face and got a nosebleed for my trouble.
Undeterred, I followed him at a distance. I didn’t interfere further. I only listened to their conversation, listened to him telling Elizabeth about what I had done with Bingley and her sister.
I grimaced, thinking that I must undo all of this again.
For I had to have her again. This woman was my wife, and if I must woo her again, I would do it. I would do anything to have her.
I followed her back to the parsonage, thinking that I would enter and speak to her.
But I was accosted by one of the gardeners who engaged me in a long conversation about the flowers we were cultivating on the grounds of Pemberley. Apparently, he had been told by my aunt to get my opinion on such things, though he had never spoken to me before. I tried in vain to get free of the man, but he would not stop speaking. At one point, when I tried to simply walk away, he seized me by the arm and prevented me from leaving.
I could not get out of luncheon either.
Richard would not hear of it, and I began to realize it was as my aunt had said. This day was now set, and I could no longer alter it.
Of course, the first time the day had happened, I had sat through the tea, the tea in which Elizabeth was notably absent from.
And this time, when I did not go down, no one came for me.
I made my way back to the parsonage.
I entered and spoke to the servant there, inquiring about Miss Bennet. Soon enough, I was shown into the sitting room where I had once proposed to her.
I wanted to gather her into my arms, but she was regarding me with an expression that was most perplexed at my presence there. I stood on the opposite side of the room then, and I said, “In vain have I struggled to get to you today. I have been prevented at every turn. But here I am, and we cannot be separated. I tell you, Elizabeth, it will not do.”
“Elizabeth?” she broke in, eyes widening. “Have I given you leave, sir, to call me by my first name?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, indeed, I suppose you have not. I vowed that I would not lose you, you see, but it seems I was powerless in that regard. However, my feelings can not be repressed.”
“You are not talking sense, I’m afraid, Mr. Darcy.” She tilted her head to one side.
“You must allow me to tell you, over and over, every day, always, how much I ardently admire and love you,” I said.
Her lips parted in something like shock.
“You have no notion of my feelings, of course, because you have…” She did not remember. “But I must say they are longstanding ones. The depth of my devotion to you cannot be overstated. And even if it may appear as if there are obstacles in the way of our union, I will allow nothing to get in the way of it, regardless of the difference in our circumstances socially, regardless of what anyone in my family may think, regardless of it all. You are my wife.”
“I am your what? ”
I grimaced. “I mean, you must consent to be my wife.”
She cleared her throat, searching for words. “In such cases as this, I believe it is customary to express an obligation of gratitude for the sentiments expressed, however little they may be returned. I am sorry, sir, for what discomfort this may cause you. However, I have never desired even your good opinion, let alone your ardent admiration, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.”
I bowed my head.
Fate, yes. I could come here, and I could propose to her, but she was going to refuse me.
I let out a little, bemused laugh. “You know, Eliz—Miss Bennet, I repent of what I did to separate Mr. Bingley and your sister. I thought I understood the way of things in that situation, but it seems I was wrong about it.”
She drew back. “I see that Colonel Fitzwilliam has been faithfully repeating everything that he and I spoke of earlier, then!”
I considered how to respond to that. “Well, I know that you are aware of it, anyway, and—”
“And you do not deny that you have done it? That you have prevented the happiness of my sister, a most beloved sister?”
“I cannot deny what I have done, no, but I must explain that I am the sort of man who feels a deep responsibility to those I care about. Mr. Bingley is younger than me, and he is given to falling head over heels for women, and I have felt it my duty to protect him. I was hasty in this instance, but it was all done with good intentions, and if you but give me some time, and come to know me, you will see—”
“I know you, sir! I have observed you often since the beginning of our acquaintance. We have had a number of conversations—”
“During which you have misunderstood me, seemingly out of spite—”
“Oh? Truly? That is what you think?” She planted both of her hands on her hips. “From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my observation of you, I have observed your manners, your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, which were such as to form the groundwork of what has grown into an immovable dislike .”
I cleared my throat. “This is because you overheard my saying that I did not find you handsome, which is something I had quite repented of by the time you appeared at Netherfield with your cheeks flushed from walking miles, and your eyes, Elizabeth, your bright eyes—”
“You are unbelievable, Mr. Darcy! How dare you? I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could be prevailed upon to marry!”
Oh, that again. Well, that stung even worse the second time I heard it. I winced.
She sighed. “Oh, you have provoked me into making this all much worse than I intended it to be. You do… unnerve me, I must say.”
I smiled. “Oh, yes, I do.”
She huffed. “I am sorry that this has become so heated, but I think this business has concluded between us? You have offered, and I have refused, and now I must send you on your way with my wishes of health and happiness in your future endeavors.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And that of your family and friends, of course,” she said, smoothing out her skirts.
“It took time before, I suppose. There is no reason to think it will not take time again.”
“Again?” she said.
“I shall be patient. You may think about what I have said, and we shall have a continued acquaintance—”
“You, sir, are leaving Kent in two days.”
“I don’t strictly have to leave Kent,” I said. Was I to see Friday? Really and truly?
“It shan’t matter. There is also the inconsiderate and frankly cruel way you have treated Mr. Wickham—”
“Mr. Wickham!” I put my hand to my forehead. “It’s odd I didn’t think of him at all until now. What has become of Mr. Wickham?” Was he dead? Or had he awakened in his tent with the regiment? It wasn’t as if Mr. Wickham were supposed to die, after all. It wasn’t the way it had been with Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
“What has become of him is very little, since you have prevented his affluence. You have reduced him to a state of poverty, comparative poverty. You withheld advantages which were designed for him. And to think I could love a man who treats anyone with such careless disregard is ludicrous. I never could.”
“Quite,” I said. “Yes, this will take a good bit of time and rather a great deal of explanation, and you are not seemingly in the mood to hear me out.” Perhaps I could write her a letter.
It had possibilities.
Yes, if I saw Friday, I should compose a long letter, and afterwards, I should go and find out what had become of Mr. Wickham.
“Well,” I said, gazing at her with a smile, “you do not seem damaged, not at all. You seem as bright and full of spirit as ever. And you have still been the most wondrous spot of my day. I beg you, Miss Bennet, consider me.”
“I have even now explained why I never could.”
“Yes, I have heard what you have to say. But I am convinced that if you continue to consider me, you will see, just as I have, that we are meant to be. Thank you for allowing me to take up your time this afternoon, for giving me your time. I appreciate anything you see fit to give me.”
“You are impossible, Mr. Darcy.” She glared at me. “I have such a headache, sir. I must retire. Excuse me.” She swept out of the room.
A headache.
Was she damaged?
God in heaven.
When I arrived back at Rosings, my aunt and I spoke again, that evening.
I asked about Anne’s damage, whether it had involved any physical pain, like headaches, and Lady Catherine avoided the question.
“Where did you go at tea?” she said. “Did you go and see that Miss Bennet? I have some notion about the two of you. I know not where it has come from.”
“Well, you see,” I said, “you told me that Anne was pulled into your repetitive day, and Miss Bennet was pulled into mine. Now, I hope it has ended, but I shan’t truly know until the sun rises on the morrow, a day I have despaired of ever seeing, truly.”
“So, the two of you were together through this?” My aunt massaged the bridge of her nose. “This is all much worse than I had thought, I must say.”
“Aunt Catherine,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle, “I know you have longed for a union between myself and my cousin Anne, but I need you to understand that will never be. I shan’t marry Anne. I cannot marry Anne, in fact.”
“Stop it.” My aunt drew herself up. “Here’s the truth of it, Fitwzilliam. I think that having Anne here, where all of it transpired, and having me close must have made it worse for her.”
“What?” I said, furrowing my brow.
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Catherine. “If I could do it again, I should send her off, somewhere far away from me. I feel it was my presence that would jolt her badly, make her have some sensation—not a memory in the mind, but a memory in the body, you see. If I had sent Anne from me, she would have recovered easily, I believe. And you, if you care about Miss Bennet, you must take your leave of her and cease to think of her. You must stay far away from her.”
I gave my aunt a withering look. “You wish me to marry Anne. You would say anything—”
“If you truly care about Miss Bennet, you must not risk it,” she said, eyes flashing.
I surveyed her. “I don’t think it will matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if today was fated, then there was a notable difference between the first time I lived this day and this time through, and it was that I was able to go to see her and propose.”
“You have not proposed to that woman, Fitzwilliam Darcy!” My aunt was incensed. “You are the most wayward and selfish of boys. You are not even fit to call a man, for you shirk your duties and your responsibilities and—”
“She refused me,” I said. “But she will accept me. Eventually.”
“She refused you.” My aunt put a hand to her chest. “Oh, my heart. The way it pounds. I am ever so relieved.”
“It’s fate, I think, madam,” I said softly. “Some things are meant to be.”
After this conversation, I took my leave of my aunt, even as she raged at me that I must leave Elizabeth Bennet be, that I must never be in her company again.
It was only the fact that I had been awake for ever so long, having not slept at all the night before that allowed me to sleep that night, I believe.
Had I not, I think I might have stayed awake to midnight, perhaps taken a carriage, just to be sure it did not disappear beneath me, just to prove to myself the day would not, in fact, reset.
But I was exhausted, and I fell asleep before it was yet dark, on the top of the coverlet on my bed.
When I awoke, it was to rain.
I sprang up from my bed and went to pull aside the curtains, to stare in awe at the rain pelting the window pane.
“It rains on Friday,” I whispered. “It rains.”
I was shocked at it, the sheer joy of not knowing what might happen, of the future marching on in its way, of uncertainty.
It gripped me in such a deeply profound way that my throat was tight and tears came to my eyes.
Of course, I seized everyone that I could—servants, the colonel, my cousin Anne—and bade them tell me what day it was.
“Friday,” they all said, giving me the strangest of looks. “It is Friday, sir. Are you feeling well?”
The rain had passed by mid-morning.
I passed that time composing the letter I had determined I would write to Elizabeth. I hoped to put it directly into her hands, for I knew she was fond of morning walks on the nearby grounds.
But she was not walking that day, and when I went to inquire after her at the parsonage, I was told that she was abed with a frightful headache.
I paid a servant to deliver my letter, and I felt awash in an awful feeling of dread.
Damage, my aunt had said.
Damage.