Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Frerichs
Cross-posted on elizabethfrerichs dot com and wattpad
Day 32/4
The next morning, Elizabeth eschewed her customary ramble and went to Meryton. Mr. Darcy had spoken to the woman several times at the bench by the milliner's, so Elizabeth made her way to that part of town.
Not five minutes after entering the town, the old woman came into view, hobbling down the road away from her. Elizabeth immediately gave chase. However, the woman tripped over her dragging shawl and fell over; Elizabeth rushed to assist.
"Oh, goodness, all these skirts and things," Miss Engel muttered.
Elizabeth helped the woman up. "Are you injured?"
The woman gave her a smile, and Elizabeth nearly stepped back at the smell that came from her open mouth. "No, not at all."
"May I talk to you for a moment?"
"I rather thought I would be seeing you this morning," Mrs. Engel said. "I am Mrs. Engel, if Mr. Darcy has not already informed you."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Elizabeth returned, curtseying.
"Shall we sit?" Miss Engel gestured to the bench. "Now, what can I do for you, Miss Elizabeth?"
Elizabeth walked with the woman and then sat down. "Is it true that you are aware of—of the way this Tuesday is behaving?"
"Oh yes," the woman said with a smile. "It is very like a Tuesday, is it not?"
"No, I mean, that this Tuesday is apparently repeating."
Miss Engel's smile did not falter. "Why yes. I went to a great deal of trouble to arrange it thus, so I am quite aware of the repetitions."
"You? Arranged it this way?" Elizabeth asked with some disbelief. "I did not know that time could be arranged."
"Well, it is not something that we do often, but when the need arises—" She laid a withered hand on Elizabeth's. "Is that truly what you wish to discuss, my dear? I do not believe that the nature of time is one of your hobbies, is it?"
Elizabeth shook her head, trying to force her thoughts into some kind of order. She had been prepared to shake the answers from this woman, to badger her until she broke. After Mr. Darcy's reticence, her sudden openness was entirely disconcerting. "Mr. Darcy seems to believe that you have arranged time into this—pattern for his benefit. Is that true?"
"Well, yes and no. It is for his benefit, but if he succeeds, it will benefit a number of other people, including you."
"It will benefit me?" Elizabeth asked. "How?"
"That depends entirely upon you, my dear."
"How so?"
The old woman cackled. "That is a question to which you will have to determine the answer when the time comes."
Perhaps she was mistaken—this woman was not more forthcoming than Mr. Darcy. "Why exactly am I aware of these repetitions?"
"Mr. Darcy requires assistance with his quest, and you are just the sort of person who can best provide that aid."
Elizabeth nearly snorted. Her? Assist Mr. Darcy? "I doubt the man would accept help from anyone, least of all me."
"Why?"
"His pride prevents him from even recognising problems, let alone accepting help."
The woman tapped a finger on her chin. "It is difficult to see past the masks that others wear, is it not? You yourself wield your impertinence and wit like a sword, wounding those who have wounded you, and hiding your hurt feelings from the world, do you not?"
Elizabeth stiffened. If she poked fun at someone who deserved it, that was not for the purpose of wounding.
"Mr. Darcy's pride is—well, it is his business, is it not?" Miss Engel continued. "But I would urge you to try to see the man underneath." She looked deeply into Elizabeth's eyes, and Elizabeth seemed to see the ghost of Mr. Darcy's smile in the old woman's eyes.
"I—I will try," Elizabeth promised, dropping her gaze to where her hands sat in her lap.
"Good. Now, I must be off. I imagine I shall see you again."
"I—but what about Mr. Darcy's quest? What—" Elizabeth turned to look at the woman, but Miss Engel was not there.
Elizabeth looked around wildly—where had the woman gone? She could not have simply disappeared, could she? Elizabeth put a hand on the bench where the woman had been sitting—it was stone cold, as though no one had been sitting there at all. She stilled.
Apparently, she would have to ask Mr. Darcy precisely why Miss Engel had seen fit to arrange time this way and to help him with his quest, whatever it was.
Darcy spoke little while preparing for the day and hurried to the stables as quickly as he could. He needed the solitude of his morning ride to allow his thoughts to settle. Last night, he had been up late, pacing and attempting to make sense of Miss Elizabeth's accusation. She had seemed so sincere when she said that he had been proud and disagreeable from the first moment she had met him.
What did that mean?
The wind ruffling his hair, he considered the first time he had met Miss Elizabeth, attempting to recall precisely how the evening had gone.
He had been annoyed that Bingley had decided to attend a ball mere days after his arrival—but, dash it all, he had come to Hertfordshire in hopes of sufficient peace and quiet to get his legs back under him. Wickham's betrayal had unsettled his world nearly as much as it had Georgiana's. He had—once again!—misjudged Wickham. He had—once again!—trusted someone he should not have in the person of Mrs. Younge. And he had almost lost Georgiana in the worst way imaginable. His sister would have been held for ransom, trapped in a loveless marriage to someone who would likely drain her dry and leave her in misery.
It was like someone had smashed him to bits and, try though he might, the pieces would not quite fit back together; every time he thought he had made progress, seeing Georgiana would bring the whole thing crumbling down again.
Seeing Wickham had only compounded the destruction.
With a wrench, he drew his thoughts back to the night of the assembly ball. Within moments of their arrival, whispers of his wealth and speculations concerning his annual income had circulated throughout the room like thousands of wasps. It had been intolerable, listening to them natter on about the very thing that had nearly cost him Georgiana—and he had been conscious only of an intense desire to escape. Though he could not leave the dance, he did spend the evening avoiding his pursuers—and, of course, he had not danced with anyone but Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.
Was that Miss Elizabeth's primary complaint? That he had refused to dance with the locals?
Perhaps she did not understand that dancing with a young woman was enough to guarantee her matchmaking mama would not cease hounding him until the young woman married another.
Was she offended that he did not dance with her?
Bingley had tried to introduce them—something about not being willing to allow Darcy to continue standing about stupidly. Or, at least, he assumed it was something like that. His friend enjoyed the pastime so much that he was convinced Darcy would enjoy the balls much more if he would simply spend the time dancing.
What else might she object to? He cast his mind back to the ball and when he had first seen Miss Elizabeth. Fool that he had been, he had not taken any care to guard against her. When he had first seen her, he believed she was lovely, but not as beautiful as her sister; she lacked symmetry in her form and face, and her mouth was too wide.
But her eyes . . . . He recalled seeing the laughter lurking in their depths even that night when she had looked at him.
"Not handsome enough to tempt me." The words came back to him with the force of a sledgehammer. Now he recalled desperately trying to fob Bingley off without hurting his feelings. He had not considered that he might grow to care about the young lady's feelings. In fact, he had not considered her at all in that moment.
She could not have known that.
He attempted to see things from her eyes—he had attended the ball, presumably because he had wished to be there (none could know that he was avoiding an evening at Netherfield alone with Miss Bingley and her sister), had refused to speak to anyone but his own party, had not danced with anyone outside his own party, had actively avoided all the people who attempted to chase him down and had then insulted her appearance and refused specifically to dance with her.
No wonder she considered him proud and disagreeable.
Darcy cringed. She could not have known the pain that he was dragging with him that night. Nor was it in her power to discern that he was uncomfortable and desperate to be alone in his own room, instead of wishing to escape her and her neighbours.
He owed her an apology. If she had overheard his comment, she might have believed that he disliked her—though one would hope that his behaviour since had clarified the truth.
When they reached the Bennets, Bingley flew toward Miss Bennet. Darcy slowly dismounted, trying to present an untroubled front. The moment he reached the group, he nodded at Wickham, his hands still clenching at his sides as he recalled how wonderful and how insufficient it had felt to punch the man; no matter how many times he punched Wickham, he would always hunger for further retribution.
Miss Elizabeth turned to him with a hesitant smile. "Good morning, Mr. Darcy."
"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth." He stepped closer. "Would it be possible to beg a moment of your time today? I should like to continue our conversation from last night." He held his breath, hoping that she would not simply avoid him as she had done the previous evening.
Miss Elizabeth gave a minute nod. "I, too, would like to continue our conversation."
"Mr. Darcy! I am astonished that you would grace us with your presence; truly, your condescension is equal to your aunt's. I have the pleasure of informing you that your aunt, Lady Catherine, was in excellent health when I saw her Sunday last," Mr. Collins put in.
Darcy took a small step back, wishing he could recoil entirely. "Thank you for your assurances." He turned his back on the man, hoping Mr. Collins would get the hint. "May I escort you to your aunt's house, Miss Elizabeth?"
Miss Elizabeth frowned. "Of course."
Why would she be upset by his treatment of her cousin? Surely she herself chaffed at his annoying verbosity.
The walk to Mrs. Phillips's was once more conducted to the jarring notes of Mr. Collins's homilisations and compliments—truly, Elizabeth did not know how the man had any words left to speak, considering that he appeared to use his lifetime allowance in the space of mere days.
As soon as they reached her aunt's home and Mr. Collins was distracted, she turned to Mr. Darcy. "I do not know when we may continue our conversation—I intend to walk out to Oakham Mount this afternoon and after that I shall be at my aunt's dinner."
Mr. Darcy's eyes widened as though he were startled, and then he nodded. Hopefully, she had not just made a wretched mistake. But she had to give him the opportunity to explain himself—something she had failed to do last night.
A/N: I love when Darcy recognizes that he was rude and needs to apologize. :) Anyway! Thanks for reading and engaging—knowing that other people care about this story definitely helps my motivation! And thanks to Emme for beta-ing. As usual, if you notice something amiss, please pass it along. See you next week!