And that was the crux of the matter—everything, save the things he himself had altered, had proceeded precisely as it had Before. And now it remained only to see if he awoke in his own bed or at Netherfield once more.
After some searching, he had located the most recent newspaper, and it sported last year’s date. Therefore, this was a dream, or the entire last year had been a dream or a vision. He had never heard of such detailed dreams—nor had he experienced such a thing. His memories were clear—every interaction with Elizabeth highlighted and embedded due to repeated recollection. The pain of her loss still caught him at odd moments, preventing him from breathing, and the horror that Wickham had perpetrated such evil on the family of the woman he loved still bubbled in his stomach, preventing him from eating his fill. It reminded him of an old wound.
He rubbed subconsciously at the scar on his index finger where he’d injured it during the spring floods at Pemberley. Something sharp had sliced his finger while he’d been wading into the mess, trying to rescue Johnny Harris, one of the village boys who had been out exploring and gotten caught in the rising water.
Except . . . his thumb stopped moving, and he held his hand up to the candlelight. It had been a raised bump in the shape of an arrow. But it had disappeared. Its absence seemed to indicate something, but Darcy had no idea what.
He shook himself. If he didn’t go to sleep soon, he would be exhausted tomorrow and whether he woke here or in a world without Elizabeth, he needed his wits about him. Settling into his pillows with a tome on farming techniques one of his associates had recommended, he opened it. Though he recalled the essence of the book, reading it again would provide a soporific.
Chapter 5
Darcy awoke with a start, his fingers clutching at the bedclothes. Faint early morning light filtered in through the gaudy gold bed curtains. Where was he? Was Elizabeth still—here? He swung his legs out of bed, and his eyes strained to make out the shapes in the room. Netherfield. He was still at Netherfield. He pinched himself, wincing at the pain. He was awake.
Which meant what?
He was tempted to rush out the door in hopes of gaining information about Elizabeth’s condition. What if he were ill? This might all be a fever-dream. But no, even fever-dreams required being unconscious—pain would appear elsewhere than the place he’d pinched. Or what if he were losing time and it was now a month from yesterday?
He steeled himself and sat in the stiff upholstered chair by the window, awaiting his valet’s presence. He had instructed Penn to wake him early so he could go for a ride. Though if Elizabeth were dead once more, his ride might involve fleeing from the knowledge, pressing it out of his consciousness through hard riding and rushing wind. If she remained, could he bear to leave Netherfield?
The sun rose and finally, finally! Penn arrived. He started upon seeing Darcy awake but continued with the routine of bringing coffee and a small breakfast—something to tide him over until the Bingleys decided to serve breakfast. Miss Bingley’s refusal to accept country hours was yet another reason Darcy would never marry her.
Darcy waited until the maid left and then stood, moving to look out the window lest the anguish in his soul leave him wild-eyed and unfit to be seen even by his valet. “And how is Miss Bennet this morning?”
“I do not know, sir. Miss Elizabeth has not sent for a physician or apothecary during the night so perhaps she is no worse.”
Darcy’s eyes slid closed. Elizabeth lived. If this were not a dream . . . he shivered as a tingle brushed down his spine. “Do you have the current newspaper?”
“No, sir. Did you not read it yesterday?”
“Yes—no—,” Darcy spluttered. He had looked at the paper yesterday, but he had not bothered to read it. Besides, he did not desire to read it! He just wanted to look at the date.
Penn studied his employer. “Would you like me to request it?”
“Please,” Darcy said hoarsely.
Penn rang for a maid and requested the current paper.
Darcy tried to pull himself together and fixed a cup of coffee. If he was here to stay, he needed to make a plan. He needed to deal with Wickham, woo Elizabeth, rescue Elizabeth’s family, and protect Georgiana. It was a daunting list. When had Wickham arrived? How much time did he have? He had already begun to show Elizabeth that he had taken her reproofs to heart and become a better man. Perhaps that would give him leverage to speak to her about Wickham—or at least give her pause before she swallowed the infidel’s lies like so many choice morsels.
The paper arrived, and Darcy snatched it from Penn’s outstretched hand, his eyes already frantically searching for the date. November 14, 1811. Elizabeth was alive. Mr. Collins hadn’t taken possession of Longbourn. He had time to change things.
Penn gave him a concerned look. “Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy smoothed the paper out and sat at the table, attempting to alleviate Penn’s concern. “Yes?”
“Are you all right? Did you sleep well?”
Darcy nodded. “It has been a difficult few days, but yes, Penn, I am all right.” Elizabeth’s presence broke over him like water over parched earth. The woman he loved had come back from the dead. He grinned. He was more than all right.
◆◆◆
Shortly after breakfast, Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest girls arrived, immediately attending Miss Bennet. Darcy waited with bated breath lest she decide to take Miss Bennet (and Elizabeth) home with her. He doubted very much that such a mercenary woman would do aught but grasp the opportunity to leave her girls with eligible young bachelors, but his heart refused to listen to reason. Someday he would have to endure Elizabeth-less days, but he was not yet ready for such an event.
Before long, Mrs. Bennet returned with Elizabeth and the two younger girls in tow. Scarcely had they seated themselves when Bingley anxiously inquired after Miss Bennet, expressing hopes that she was not worse than Mrs. Bennet had expected.
“Indeed she is, sir,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
Darcy almost sagged with relief. Elizabeth would remain—unless Mrs. Bennet would substitute another daughter, but no, she had not done so Before and events had not changed unless he interfered.
He studied this flighty woman. Even in repose, she seemed to flutter about, her eyes shifting from one item to the next as though valuing the furniture like an auctioneer. He suppressed the uncharitable thought. Given her circumstances, could he blame the woman for her grasping ways? Jane Bennet had married a clerk. Certainly, if events continued on as they had, Mrs. Bennet would lose her status, her comfort, and her husband. She lived with the constant threat of penury hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. Though he had recognised Mr. Bennet’s laissez-faire attitude towards his family, he would never have expected the man not to put money aside for his family’s provision after his death.
“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility. “Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”
Profuse thanks overflowed from Mrs. Bennet like water overflowing the Ere at flood stage, but Darcy tuned her out. How had such a woman mothered his beloved? He studied her, trying to trace the lines of Elizabeth’s face in hers or to find any inkling of the sense and wit Elizabeth possessed in such large quantities.
“—not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.” Mrs. Bennet leaned forward as though she could force the answer from Bingley.
Darcy shook himself, recalling his wandering mind back to the conversation. That was the difficulty with having lived these days previously—it was easy to drift away from what was occurring as nothing was new.
“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied Bingley, “and therefore if I should resol
ve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself quite fixed here.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you.”
“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her.
Elizabeth’s smile widened. “Oh yes, I understand you perfectly.”
Darcy’s lips twitched. Indeed, Bingley was much as he presented himself. One might know him for an hour and immediately know all about the man. He wore his heart on his sleeve, so to speak. It was something Darcy envied now as much as he had deprecated it Before. To be so open and comfortable with all—he wished he might become half so easy with strangers.
Elizabeth’s voice echoed through his thoughts: “My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
Bingley chuckled. “I wish I might take that for a compliment, but to be so easily seen through, I am afraid, is pitiful.”
“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
“Lizzy!” cried her mother. “Remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched as Elizabeth blushed and wilted. He had forgotten Mrs. Bennet’s reproof. Miss Bingley looked as though someone had just smeared stable muck through the room. His response had been similar Before—how vulgar to correct her daughter in public, how obnoxious to reprove the daughter who least deserved it when she let her younger two daughters run wild. His resolve to separate Bingley from the Bennets had grown.
Now, however, he only wished to help Elizabeth, to comfort her. This—favouritism was part of what had ruined the family. Indeed, he could save the youngest from Wickham but without her changing, she might run off with the next soldier. Clearly, his task was more difficult than he had imagined.
Bingley jumped into the void, providing a bridge over the comment as though it did not exist. “I did not know before that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”
Elizabeth looked up, a faltering smile on her face. “Yes, but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage.”
Darcy hesitated, recalling his previous contribution Before. He smiled encouragingly at her, deciding to do his part in smoothing over her mother’s rudeness and easing her anguish. “Do you wish for more subjects to study? The country has fewer opportunities for new character studies.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “People themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them forever.”
“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.”
Darcy was surprised—though he did not recall the exact wording of his comment Before, he did know the substance of it had been softened. Elizabeth had taught him that his position was no reason for pride. Pride had lost him the love of his life, and he had determined (after much anguish and rebelling against the truth) to gain humility. In caring about the wider world, he had seen that, in truth, he was a country gentleman and that those who prided themselves on being part of the ton were rarely the sort of persons with whom he would wish to associate.
“You are quite right, Madam,” Darcy said. “People will be people, wherever one is.”
“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?” Mrs. Bennet appealed.
Did that mean she preferred the country? Or was she merely trying to convince Bingley to stay?
“When I am in the country, I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They each have their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either,” Bingley said diplomatically.
“Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman”—she glared at Darcy— “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. The woman lacked all sense. Yet, if he were to save the Bennets, save Elizabeth, he would have to gain her trust. Censure appeared to roll off her like water off a beaver.
“Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” Elizabeth blurted, her blush returning full force. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”
“It is as you say,” Darcy hastened to agree. “I apologise if I caused offense—none was intended.”
Mrs. Bennet huffed but subsided.
“Mama, has Charlotte Lucas been at Longbourn since I left?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, she called yesterday with her father,” Mrs. Bennet replied. She returned her rapacious gaze to Bingley. “What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody.” Mrs. Bennet sent a glare towards Darcy. “That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”
Darcy held his tongue. He was sorely tempted to open his mouth now, however, he did not want to further discomfit Elizabeth.
“Did Charlotte dine with you?” Elizabeth asked desperately, recalling her mother’s attention.
“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies.” She leaned towards Bingley conspiratorially. “For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very plain—but then she is our particular friend.”
Bingley seemed to hardly know what to say. Few things flustered him, but Mrs. Bennet had managed to make Darcy’s friend uncomfortable. “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” he finally remarked.
Miss Bingley sent Darcy a sneer, inviting him to join in her distaste, but Darcy ignored her.
Mrs. Bennet nodded. “Oh! Dear, yes! But you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking.” She gesticulated wildly. “It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were,” she finished triumphantly.
Fifteen?! Darcy stared at the woman wild-eyed. Fifteen! She was trying to sell her oldest daughter off at fifteen? Georgiana was fifteen, and he refused to countenance any match for her until she was out. Though the Bennet girls had come out by fifteen—at least, he supposed the youngest girls could not be much more than fifteen, and they were out. Suddenly, her rapaciousness seemed only a veneer over desperation and he felt a moment’s pity for the woman. Pity was driven out, however, by a righteous anger over her lack of care for her own children. She had sacrificed them for her comfort. No other explanation was likely for Miss Bennet’s marriage to her uncle’s clerk.
“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. Her eyes glimmered with mirth as though she were on the verge of professing some outrageous opinion. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”
“I imagine
that poor poetry might drive anyone away—love or not—but I have always considered good poetry as the food of love,” Darcy said, his lips quirking up in answer to her challenge.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away,” Elizabeth replied with a laugh.
“Perhaps,” Darcy replied. Someday he would ask her about her taste in poetry, but not now. Not when her mother would only twist the conversation into pressure for Elizabeth. And not when a moment’s silence would result in Mrs. Bennet’s absence.
No one else spoke, so Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane.
Darcy frowned as the woman apologised for “troubling” Bingley with Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a pearl beyond price—yet her mother put her down at every chance, favouring Miss Bennet’s classic beauty over Elizabeth’s substance.
Bingley remained civil and prompted Miss Bingley to also be civil. Before long, Mrs. Bennet requested her carriage be brought around.
Darcy hesitated—hadn’t there been more to the conversation Before? Had he changed it somehow?
But no, the youngest Bennet girl began, jumping into the conversation with the ease of a cat landing on its feet and no thought that her comments might not be well-received. “Mr. Bingley, you have promised to hold a ball. It would be the most shameful thing in the world if you do not keep your promise!”
A Vision of the Path Before Him Page 5