Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Frerichs

Cross-posted on elizabethfrerichs dot com and wattpad

Day 4

When Hawkin reported that it was—yet again—Tuesday, Darcy decided he would not, could not, endure encountering Wickham again today. The night before, he had lain in bed for hours, unable to sleep as a parade of Wickham's misdeeds proceeded through his mind.

He had despised the man before Ramsgate; however, it had been akin to how one felt about a mosquito—Wickham was an annoying blood-sucker, but not worth lying awake in bed over. After Ramsgate, after watching the light in Georgiana's eyes die when she realised that Wickham would not be coming to ask for her hand, after she learned that he had loved only her dowry, that hatred had grown, twining its roots deep into Darcy's being. Only his father's love for the man and his fear for Georgiana's reputation had prevented him from taking strong measures against Wickham.

And now he was being forced to cross paths with the man over and over again.

Why in God's name was Tuesday repeating at all? And if a day had to be repeated, why this one? He could have repeated any number of enjoyable days from his past or even days when he had made grave mistakes that he wished he could rectify, but no; he was trapped in this meaningless, miserable day.

Yesterday, madness had seemed the likely culprit, but today, it seemed less likely: mad people were irrational and prone to flights of fancy. He was perfectly capable of responding properly to the situation, simply caught in Tuesday.

If he was not going mad, it must be a dream—a wretchedly long nightmare. What mattered that the sights, sounds, smells, and sensations were so vivid? He had never heard of such vivid dreams, but that meant nothing. The alternative was impossible. Ergo, he was dreaming and just needed to figure out how to wake up.

After his morning ride, he once more took breakfast in his room but then pleaded a headache. Bingley went to Longbourn and presumably on to Meryton without him. After several failed attempts to read, Darcy finally settled on writing a letter to his cousin; he did not wish to appear unoccupied when his valet checked on him lest the man cross over from concern into real worry and ask uncomfortable questions.

November 19th (the fourth)

Netherfield

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I doubt you will ever read this letter. Truly, if I thought I could keep myself occupied in any other manner, I would not be writing to you. However, my excuse of an indisposition would wear a bit thin were I to go for another ride, and I have been unable to content myself with reading.

I am trapped in a dream, apparently repeating November 19th. The events of the day remain the same except when I change my behaviour. I may choose to breakfast with the Bingleys (and to endure Miss Bingley's machinations and fawning) or I may choose to breakfast in my room.

Wickham is in Meryton today. Do not ask me why that scoundrel thinks it wise to come within reach; I do not know. I suppose I have never truly injured him, much as I have wished to do so.

I must confess that my resolve is wavering.

Darcy paused, his jaw clenched as once more Wickham's mountain of sins filled his mind—Georgiana's pain at the forefront. His left hand clenched into a fist where it sat upon his writing case. Brawling was certainly not befitting a Darcy, but, oh, how he wished it was. The pain that man had inflicted deserved more than just cutting ties with the Darcy family or sending him to debtor's prison. Wickham deserved to bear bodily the evidence of the many wounds he had inflicted, and Darcy wished he could be the one to mete out that justice.

Beating him senseless is a nice thought, is it not? Wickham's features finally clear of that smirk that he wears near-perpetually?

I must confess that repeating today has not helped the situation at all. In fact, it occurred to me in the late watches of the night that I could simply pound Wickham and when today restarted, no one would be the wiser. I wonder if that is why my dream is repeating—perhaps my mind simply wishes for an opportunity to punish the man without consequences.

There is little else of consequence that occurs today. I go for my customary morning ride (in solitude), breakfast in my room, ride with Bingley to Meryton where we encounter the Bennets and Wickham, inspect Netherfield's east fields, and then dine at Netherfield before retiring to my room and to bed. Last night, I could not stomach the thought of listening to the Bingley sisters complaining yet again about the neighbourhood—what would they say were I to tell them precisely what I thought of them?

Of course, I would never do so. Darcys are always polite. But the temptation is there—particularly in light of the fact that this is a dream.

I have not told you about the Bennets. As is his custom, Bingley has fallen madly in love with the local beauty; Miss Bennet is the eldest of five daughters. The family is, unfortunately, eminently unsuitable. Their estate is entailed upon a cousin, they are connected to trade, and, as if that were not enough, both parents and the three younger girls entirely lack propriety. Their insipidity and foolishness have frequently disgusted me. One would imagine that given their situation, their mother would at least have raised them to be genteel, winsome girls. Miss Bennet appears to be pleasant enough, though she smiles so often that one wonders if she is ever sufficiently invested in anything around her.

The second eldest daughter, Miss Elizabeth, is—well, I have found myself strangely attracted to her. She is lovely, kind, intelligent, witty . . . . I believe I should be in real danger were it not for the rest of her family's wretched behaviour. As a Darcy, I ought to marry someone who fulfils the requirements of our station, but I must confess that the longer I am in her presence, the less important those things appear to be. As I said, it is a good thing that her family is so wretched.

Hawkin is stationed in the room adjoining mine. Though Miss Bingley has not appeared desperate enough to force a compromise, I am uneasy that she may decide to check on me this morning. And after Miss E.—well, one can never be too careful.

I do not know what I shall do with my time if I continue to repeat Tuesday. Perhaps I should floor Wickham, and then I may awaken.

Fitzwilliam would chortle with glee should Darcy ever punish Wickham in truth. His cousin detested Wickham, seeing him as little more than a bug to be squashed. For the thousandth time, he wished he had asked his father what he had seen in the scoundrel.

Wickham was charming. He could certainly entertain when he wished to. But Darcy's father had never seemed content with shallow people . . . perhaps his father had simply enjoyed the cessation of his cares. The man had always maintained a rapport with Wickham, but it had been after his wife's death that Darcy's father had begun to dote on Wickham. Anne Darcy had been a breath of fresh air to everyone who encountered her. Her kind smile had always reminded Darcy of drinking warm chocolate on a cold winter's day. She had truly loved the people around her, whether they were tenants, servants, or her own family. He had never heard a cross word from her, and she had filled the house with laughter. Perhaps his father had simply missed the laughter.

Mirth had never come naturally to him, and Darcy worried he had forgotten many of the lessons his mother had lived out. Being around Miss Elizabeth had reminded him of his mother's wit and kindness.

Darcy ruthlessly smothered the thought. Dwelling on the past was a waste of time.

With a sigh, he turned back to the letter.

For now, I believe I will go back to attempting to read, and perhaps later this afternoon I shall feign a miraculous recovery and go for a ride. It all just feels so pointless when I do not know if anything I do shall be reset in the morning. Why bother writing letters or dealing with matters of business when I shall just have to do the exact same things tomorrow (or whenever I finally awake)? I would much prefer to spend my time in a less tedious manner. Unfortunately, I have been unable to concentrate on reading or any of my other customary pastimes. I am too distraught by Wickham's presence and my current circumstances to be able to relax.

Darcy sighed again, annoyed now even by the pointlessness of the letter. He had begun it to keep Hawkin from worrying, but he would rather have sat in a chair and stared at a book. At least doing that, while pointless, was not reset the next morning.

He signed the letter, sealed it, and placed it in the pile of correspondence to be taken out. With a mental growl at himself for not bringing more books to Netherfield, he took up one of his newest volumes—a biography of Oliver Cromwell—and attempted to immerse himself in Mr. Cromwell's troubles.

A/N: Lovely to have you here :) Seriously! It's so nice getting to share this story that I love with other people. I hope you guys are enjoying it as much as I am! As always, if you notice something that would make the story better, please pass it along.

I'm still looking for betas: someone to read through the story for consistency, characterizations, extra scenes, etc. and someone to do the line by line edits. So! If you're interested, please PM me. See you tomorrow!