I debated about posting I know I am late but I live in Los Angeles County and though I am not near the fires I have been without electricity since just shortly after I posted the last chapter about 7ish pm Tuesday until this afternoon, and since I write on my computer...no writing has been done for the last few days, and I am going away this weekend, so the gap of prewritten chapters is closing...so posting may slow down.
PixieKayGirl: I like you thought process.
Zenodb: I thought it was too, actually in my first writing of this story, I had Mrs. Collins wake up first to help Darcy with Thomas but it just wasn't working out, they can't talk open and honestly with each other the way I see he can with Anne. So I changed it.
AussieFicReader: yes its hard for me to balance between wanting my readers to feel the endless loop but also needed to not let it last too long, I tried to always have some sort of progress of the story in each chapter showing a brief move ahead, even it if was very little.
Jansfamily4: no Elizabeth won't be the first nor the last. I hope you like how they grow in this chapter
Peperuda: Yes she will continue to remember and her memories will become more solid over time. Elizabeth does not have memories...yet...you will know when she does. With my outline I was debating about leaving Mr. Colins and Lady Catherine ignorant the whole time but you make a good point if I slip it in the story it would be because you inspired me to, cause I love your point.
EmlynMara: I will say Violet did not remember not because Fitzwilliam was there, the next chapter will answer that question, as for your second comment, I don't know why but I absolutely personally HATE it when a female character calls a male character just by their last name to me its always been a bro type of comment something men do to each other out of friendship and nothing more, so if a character is calling him Darcy than it just means they are bro or deep male type friendship, thus my Elizabeth would NEVER call him Darcy. Besides Lady Catherine detests nicknames or shorting of any name.
Chapter 13 Letters, Echoes, and Lingering Hope
A dog's bark pierced the early morning stillness, sharp and insistent, carried by the low groan of wind slipping through the ever-slightly open window. Darcy stirred, the familiar sounds weaving their way into his consciousness. He blinked against the pale light filtering through the curtains, his heart already heavy with the weight of another Thursday.
The clock chimed six, each note ringing like a pronouncement of sameness. Darcy sat up, rubbing his temples as the realization settled firmly over him. Another day. Another chance. Or another failure.
Wentworth entered promptly, bowing slightly as he moved toward the window to draw back the curtains. "Good morning, sir. Your bath is ready," he said, his tone as even and detached as it was every morning.
"Send John to Gardiner Imports as soon as the horses are ready," Darcy instructed, barely acknowledging the valet's presence.
"Yes, sir," Wentworth replied, his expression unchanging as he exited.
Darcy dressed quickly, his mind already racing. His plans for the day were set: Fitzwilliam, breakfast, Violet, and then the rest of the meticulously mapped routine that had come to define his ceaseless cycle. But today, Anne—Anne was the anomaly. She had remembered.
As Darcy descended the stairs, his anticipation mingled with unease. Could it have been a trick of her mind? A coincidence? Or was it truly the breakthrough he so desperately needed?
Entering the breakfast room, Darcy found Anne already seated at the table. She stirred her tea with an air of calm that seemed almost calculated.
"Good morning, Cousin," she greeted softly, her voice as faint as ever.
Darcy inclined his head, taking his seat across from her. "Good morning, Anne," he said, his tone measured but tinged with an undercurrent of urgency.
Anne met his gaze, and for a moment, her calm mask slipped. There it was again—that flicker of recognition, a spark of something unspoken yet undeniable.
"Anne," Darcy began cautiously, lowering his voice, "do you... recall what we spoke of yesterday?"
Anne set her spoon down, folding her hands in her lap. Her expression turned thoughtful, her eyes searching his face. "I do," she said slowly, her words deliberate. "But it's strange—it feels more like a dream than reality. The details are unclear, yet I know we spoke."
Darcy's pulse quickened. "What do you remember?"
Anne hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Tea with Miss Bennet. A conversation that felt... important. But there's more." She glanced at him, her voice quieter now. "It's as if I've lived this day before, but not with the clarity you describe. It's like catching glimpses of a painting through a veil—recognizable but incomplete."
Darcy leaned forward, his tone insistent but not unkind. "You're not imagining it. This is real, Anne. You're remembering because something is different."
Anne tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "If this is real," she said softly, "then why me? Why do I remember when no one else does?"
Darcy shook his head, frustration and hope warring within him. "I don't know. But if you're remembering, it means change is possible."
Before Anne could respond, Lady Catherine swept into the room, her commanding presence as unyielding as ever. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed close behind, his easygoing demeanor masking any deeper curiosity.
"Good morning, Darcy. Anne," Lady Catherine said briskly, seating herself at the head of the table. "You are both punctual today—most commendable."
Darcy's attention drifted as the familiar script unfolded. Lady Catherine's authoritative pronouncements, Fitzwilliam's lighthearted quips—everything about the breakfast was routine. Yet Anne's steady gaze held a subtle intensity, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared secret.
As breakfast continued, Darcy observed Anne closely. Though her demeanor remained outwardly composed, he could see the faint cracks in her usual mask—the way her gaze lingered on him a moment too long, the slight tension in her fingers as she held her teacup.
When the footman entered to clear the plates, Darcy leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Anne could hear. "We'll speak later," he murmured.
Anne nodded imperceptibly, her expression giving nothing away.
Darcy sat back, his mind racing. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself a flicker of hope. If Anne could remember, perhaps this day would not remain the same forever.
Darcy quickly navigated his morning routine, saving Violet had become second nature to him now—a mission he carried out with the precision of a seasoned rider. Today, however, the moment was tinged with impatience. He didn't linger with the Bendricks as he had in previous repetitions; his mind was firmly fixed on Rosings and what awaited him there.
Fitzwilliam, ever obliging, joined him on the ride out of habit, though Darcy barely engaged in their usual banter. By the time they returned to Rosings, Fitzwilliam, with his typical ease, declared his intent to stretch his legs on a walk. Darcy merely nodded, relieved to have a moment unaccompanied.
His steps quickened as he ascended the stairs and approached Anne's sitting room. Knocking lightly, he entered to find her seated by the window, a faint smile playing on her lips as she gazed out over the gardens.
"Fitzwilliam," Anne greeted, her voice carrying a warmth that had been absent in many of their earlier conversations.
"Anne," Darcy replied, taking a seat across from her. "I need to know—do you recall Miss Bennet's advice during tea yesterday?"
Anne set aside the embroidery she had been working on, her cheeks flushing slightly at the mention of the conversation. She glanced down, picking at the fabric nervously before answering. "Y-Yes," she began, her voice soft, almost hesitant. "She... she suggested a few remedies that might help. For... well, for women's concerns, as she put it."
Darcy, sensing her discomfort, leaned forward a little. "You needn't feel embarrassed. Miss Bennet is a sensible young woman, and I'm certain her advice was based on sound knowledge. What was it she recommended?"
Anne's gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers fumbling with the embroidery thread. "She spoke of several herbs that could help with... heavy flow and the other discomforts that accompany it," she said, her voice growing softer still. "One, in particular, stood out to me. Dong Quai. I understand it can help regulate... everything," she finished awkwardly, her face turning a deeper shade of red. "But it is not something easily found, I think. It's rather rare."
Darcy, not entirely understanding the depth of Anne's embarrassment, nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard of it, but I don't believe I've ever seen it in any apothecary. Is there another remedy she mentioned?"
"Yes," Anne said quickly, glad to be talking about something else. "There was also Red Clover, and a mixture of Raspberry Leaf and Sage. All of them have their uses, but Dong Quai seemed the most beneficial." She bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable. "I hate to ask you, Fitzwilliam, but I believe Miss Bennet mentioned that her uncle—Mr. Gardiner—has a way of acquiring such rare herbs. I'm sure it would be uncomfortable for me to ask him directly. But, if... if you could speak to him on my behalf, I would be most grateful."
Darcy's eyes softened at her unease, and he quickly reassured her. "Anne, you need not worry. There is no shame in seeking remedies for your health. I will write to Mr. Gardiner. If he can procure the herbs, I will make sure you have them."
Anne looked up at him, her expression a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. "Thank you, Fitzwilliam," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do not wish to trouble you with such matters, but Miss Bennet's knowledge is something I trust. I only wish I could speak of it more openly, but..."
"Of course," Darcy interrupted gently, giving her a reassuring smile. "Consider it taken care of. I will have John ride to Mr. Gardiner's with a note and money and ensure that you have everything you need. He probably won't get them until tomorrow night as he has already left for today to go to Gardiners."
Anne nodded, her shoulders relaxing as she let out a small sigh of relief. "I appreciate your kindness more than you know, Fitzwilliam. I don't know why you're doing all this, but... thank you."
Darcy held her gaze, his voice steady. "Because it matters," he said simply. "Because you matter."
Anne's cheeks flushed faintly, and she turned her head slightly, as though to hide the reaction. "Then I suppose I'll look forward to tomorrow," she murmured.
But instead of rising immediately to leave, Darcy hesitated. Anne noticed and tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her pale eyes. "John manages the journey every morning?" she asked, her tone light but inquisitive. "What errand could possibly require such routine haste? And how is it that you know this Mr. Gardiner well enough to rely on him so often?"
Darcy exhaled, his brow furrowing slightly. "The truth is," he began, "I had not known of Mr. Gardiner's existence until... today. Or rather, one of the todays."
Anne's confusion was evident, but she remained silent, urging him to continue with a small nod.
Darcy paced to the window, looking out over the gardens as he spoke, his words slow and deliberate. "Every morning begins the same: the chime of the clock at six, the barking of a distant dog, the faint draft from a window slightly ajar. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, the day resets." He turned back to her, his expression serious. "For what feels like an eternity, Anne, I've been reliving the same Thursday."
Anne's brows knitted together, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.
"At first," Darcy continued, "I was paralyzed by confusion, anger, and disbelief. But eventually, I began to see patterns, opportunities to make even the smallest changes. One of those changes began with Violet."
"Violet?" Anne echoed.
"A tenant's child," Darcy explained. "Every morning, I rescue her from a fall. A tree branch snaps, and if I do not intervene, she could be gravely injured. From there, I learned of her family's troubles—her father injured, her brother Thomas gravely ill. Seeking a solution, I discovered, through you," he added with a faint smile, "that I should speak to Mrs. Collins. She, in turn, mentioned Elizabeth's knowledge of herbal remedies and her connection to Mr. Gardiner's warehouse."
Anne's eyes widened slightly. "And so you've been sending John to procure medicine?"
Darcy nodded. "Every day. He should return just before tea with the tincture. I'll deliver it to the Bendrick cottage immediately after. It's become... routine."
Anne sat back, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she absorbed his words. "And all this began with a little girl in a tree?"
Darcy's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "It seems so."
"You've become quite the rescuer, Fitzwilliam," Anne remarked, her tone lightly teasing. But then her voice softened. "It's remarkable. You've taken what could drive anyone to despair and turned it into... purpose."
Darcy shook his head, his expression shadowed. "It doesn't feel remarkable, Anne. It feels like survival. Every day I try to help, to make things better, but nothing changes. Not really."
Anne studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps," she said quietly, "the change you seek isn't in the day itself but in what you learn from it."
Darcy said nothing, her words echoing in his mind as he tucked the list into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Anne," he said at last. "I'll see that you have what you need."
As he turned to leave, Anne's voice stopped him. "Fitzwilliam," she said, her tone hesitant but sincere, "you may be caught in this day, but that doesn't mean it's meaningless. Don't lose sight of what you've achieved. And don't lose hope."
He paused at the door, glancing back at her. "Hope," he repeated softly, as though testing the word. "Perhaps tomorrow."
Anne offered him a small, encouraging smile, and with that, Darcy left the room, her words lingering in his thoughts as he prepared for the tasks that lay ahead.
Darcy sat in the quiet of his study, Anne's words still echoing in his mind. Spending time with her had stirred something he had long tried to suppress—a deep, aching reminder of Georgiana. The resemblance between the two women was uncanny, not just in appearance but in their quiet, gentle manners. Both took after the Fitzwilliam side of the family, more specifically his mother, Lady Anne Darcy.
Looking after Anne these past days had forced Darcy to confront memories he had buried. Georgiana had been so young when their mother died—a mere toddler of two. She had wandered the halls of Pemberley, clutching her nurse's hand, her wide, tearful eyes silently asking the question no one could answer: Where had her mother gone? Where had her father gone?
Darcy exhaled sharply, the weight of those days pressing on him. His father, shattered by grief, had withdrawn from the family. He had been a towering presence of authority but no longer a source of comfort. And then there was Darcy himself—barely thirteen, abruptly sent off to Eton, the last place he wanted to be when his family was falling apart.
"When I came home on breaks," Darcy murmured to himself, his voice tinged with regret, "I tried to be everything for her. A brother, a protector... even the father she lacked. But then Father passed away, and it all fell to me."
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. "I failed her," he admitted softly. Wickham's betrayal was the bitter proof of that failure. The thought of how close Georgiana had come to ruin because of his inattention still haunted him.
But more than his guilt, Darcy realized, was how much he missed her. His bright, sweet sister, who had always looked at him with unwavering trust. His heart ached at the thought of her, and for so long, he had pushed that ache aside, burying it under duty and propriety. Now, with the endless repetition of days, that ache was impossible to ignore.
Darcy sat forward, determination flickering to life. With John leaving every morning for London to visit the Gardiner warehouse, there was something more he could do. If he couldn't see Georgiana, at least he could write to her.
But then a bitter realization settled over him: the letter wouldn't last. Just like every effort he made to change the day, it would vanish the moment he woke again to Thursday's unyielding grip. No, the letter would have to wait until the very first moments of the day—only then would it stand a chance of reaching her.
His thoughts turned to John, and as if summoned, John arrived, dusty and resolute, clutching the small parcel of medicine. Darcy stood immediately, pushing thoughts of Georgiana aside as he accepted the tincture.
"Well done, John," Darcy said curtly, dismissing him with a nod before heading for the Bendrick cottage.
At the cottage, the familiar scene unfolded: Thomas struggling for breath, Mrs. Bendrick's worried eyes, and the cautious relief that came with the medicine's immediate effects. Darcy lingered just long enough to ensure the child's improvement before heading back to Rosings.
The drawing room was already lively with the usual scene of tea. Darcy entered, scanning the room instinctively, but his heart sank—Elizabeth was not there. He took his seat, his movements measured, though his mind was anything but composed.
Why wasn't she here?
He had made certain Fitzwilliam accompanied him on their morning ride, they skipped stopping at Hunsford Cottage together, as Darcy did not need to encourage Elizabeth to talk to Anne and he was anxious to speak to her himself. Fitzwilliam had gone off on his own soon after they returned. Could he have taken it upon himself to visit Elizabeth? Could he have, once again, told her about Bingley?
The possibility gnawed at Darcy, making it hard to focus on Lady Catherine's dominating conversation. Her words were as sharp and commanding as ever, matched by Mr. Collins' eager affirmations. Darcy's gaze drifted to Anne, who was seated across from him, her usual pale demeanor giving way to a faintly amused expression.
Anne was watching him, a puzzle in her eyes. She had not said a word yet, but her look conveyed more than words ever could: she was waiting for something, trying to piece together the changes she sensed but could not fully articulate.
Darcy wanted to speak with her, to ask her outright what she was thinking. Did she suspect what had happened that morning—or more importantly, what hadn't? But with her mother in the room, dominating every conversation and leaving no space for subtlety, there was no opportunity.
For the rest of tea, Darcy remained silent, his thoughts spinning in a web of uncertainty. Did Fitzwilliam need to see Elizabeth every morning a permanent thing, since he was not with Fitzwilliam this morning preventing Fitzwilliam from speaking, would it always occur? Did Fitzwilliam have feelings for Elizabeth, he once thought so, suspected so but since then he had like so many things tried not to think of it but now, a nagging thought.
Anne's gaze lingered on him once more before she turned to answer one of Lady Catherine's sharp comments. Darcy caught her faintly raised brow, her lips twitching as if she meant to say something but thought better of it.
He clenched his jaw, knowing there was no resolving anything today. His chance with Elizabeth had once again slipped through his grasp, and now all he could do was wait for the day to begin anew.
The clock had barely struck six when Darcy sat at his desk, quill in hand. Outside, the faint rustle of wind mingled with the distant barking of a dog. He stared at the blank parchment before him, the weight of countless unwritten thoughts pressing against his mind. How many days had it truly been since he last saw Georgiana? For her, it might seem just days or weeks; for him, it felt like an eternity.
Finally, he began.
My Dearest Georgiana,
I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying the comforts of Mayfair. How is Mrs. Annesley? I trust she remains the kind and steady presence you need. I know her gentle nature has always been a balm to your spirit.
Life at Rosings continues much as you might imagine. Lady Catherine is as commanding as ever, though there are moments of calm when I find myself reflecting on Pemberley and our time together there. I cannot help but think of you often.
There is a tenant family here with a little girl named Violet who reminds me of you as you once were—curious, bold, and unafraid to climb trees or explore where others might hesitate. Seeing her has brought back memories of your youthful adventures at Pemberley. Do you recall the day you tried to climb the great oak near the stream and insisted you could do it without help? You were so determined, and I could not dissuade you, though you fell into the stream shortly after. It is a memory that brings me both pride and amusement.
I know that the years since have not been easy for you, my dear, but I hope you still carry some of that boldness within you. Even if it feels distant, I believe it is still there, waiting for the right moment to return. You are stronger than you think, and there is no shame in taking small steps to find your confidence again.
I wonder, have you been practicing your music? Mozart, I hope? His compositions always seemed to suit your touch at the pianoforte. If you find time, I should like to hear about what you have been playing and how you have been spending your days. Your letters are always a comfort to me, and I cherish each one.
You are always in my thoughts, Georgiana. Never doubt how deeply I care for you or how proud I am of the person you are becoming. No matter how far we are apart, know that I am with you in spirit, always.
With all my love,
Fitzwilliam
Darcy folded the letter carefully, his hand lingering on the seal for a moment before affixing it with the Darcy crest. When John arrived, Darcy handed him the letter and spoke with calm authority.
"Take this directly to the townhouse in Mayfair. Deliver it personally to Georgiana. Then proceed to the Gardiner warehouse to order and pick up these supplies. Once the supplies are gathered, return to Mayfair to retrieve her reply before coming back here."
John nodded, tucking the letter securely into his satchel. "Understood, sir. I'll see to it immediately."
Darcy watched from the window as the courier rode away, his horse's hooves echoing faintly against the gravel. A deep breath steadied him. He could imagine Georgiana reading his words, her gentle smile as she considered her response.
Darcy descended the staircase briskly, the echo of his steps resonating through the stillness of Rosings. The fleeting hope he had felt moments ago as he sealed the letter to Georgiana dissipated with the realization that time had slipped through his grasp. Breakfast was beginning, and Fitzwilliam would soon leave for his morning walk. That walk. That inevitable walk where he would meet Elizabeth and unknowingly reveal truths that would stoke her anger against Darcy. Darcy did not have the time to go to his room and ask him to ride with him instead.
He had tried to convince himself that it no longer mattered. That he had long since stopped caring about Elizabeth's opinions, about the way her eyes flashed with judgment or softened in rare moments of kindness. But these past few days—days where he had stolen fleeting moments of amity with her, where hope had rekindled despite his better judgment—they lingered in his thoughts.
No matter, he told himself. This day was already lost.
Darcy entered the breakfast room, his steps measured, his face as composed as ever. Anne was already seated, pale and poised, her hands cradling a teacup as she greeted him with a faint smile.
"Good morning, Cousin," she said softly.
"Good morning, Anne," Darcy replied, inclining his head as he moved toward his place.
Lady Catherine swept in moments later, her presence as commanding as ever, with Fitzwilliam trailing behind her, his usual light-hearted grin in place.
"Darcy," Lady Catherine began imperiously, "I trust you are prepared to see to your correspondence after breakfast. The management of your estate is as vital as the management of mine, though I daresay few have mastered it as thoroughly as I."
Darcy offered a perfunctory nod, her words barely registering. His gaze drifted briefly to Fitzwilliam, who seemed entirely at ease, unaware of the storm his forthcoming conversation with Elizabeth would ignite.
As the meal progressed, Darcy's irritation simmered beneath his composed exterior. He stabbed at his eggs with more force than necessary, his jaw tightening as Lady Catherine droned on about marriage and doing ones duty and estate management.
Anne, however, seemed to notice. Her sharp, observant eyes flicked toward him more than once, her brow furrowing slightly. She had grown more attuned to his moods over the past few days—or perhaps it was the strangeness of their shared predicament, this endless Thursday, that had made her more perceptive.
"Fitzwilliam," Anne said quietly, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Are you quite well?"
Darcy glanced up, startled by her question. "I am perfectly fine," he replied, his tone clipped.
"You seem... preoccupied," she observed, her head tilting slightly as she studied him.
Darcy's gaze flicked to Fitzwilliam, then back to Anne. He offered a faint, dismissive smile. "Merely thinking of matters that require my attention later today."
Anne didn't look convinced. She set her teacup down gently, her hands folding in her lap. "Matters that seem to unsettle you greatly," she murmured.
Lady Catherine's voice boomed suddenly, cutting through their exchange. "Anne, if you have nothing of import to contribute, I suggest you focus on your breakfast. Darcy's concerns are his own, and I daresay he handles them with more competency than most."
Anne's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue. She returned to her meal, though her curious gaze lingered on Darcy.
As breakfast drew to a close, Darcy rose swiftly, excusing himself with a brief bow. He needed space, needed air, needed to escape the weight of expectations and the knowledge of what was to come.
Anne watched him go, her own thoughts spinning. There was more to Darcy's mood than he let on, and now that she was beginning to recall the days herself, she was determined to understand what plagued her cousin so deeply.
Darcy's ride to rescue Violet felt like the only predictable solace in his increasingly maddening cycle. The moment he saw her clinging precariously to the tree's branches, a mix of bravery and youthful recklessness etched on her face, his frustration eased just slightly. As always, he rode beneath her, catching her just as she slipped, his arm steadying her as he brought her safely to the ground.
"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," Violet said with a bright smile, brushing the leaves from her dress. Her dark curls were wild, her cheeks flushed from the climb, and her eyes sparkled with a gratitude that warmed his otherwise troubled heart.
"You really must be more careful, Miss Violet," Darcy said, though his tone was softer than usual.
She grinned impishly. "I will try, but the I have to try and save the nest."
Darcy's lips twitched in a faint smile as he dismounted and led her back toward the Bendrick cottage. Her chatter filled the air as they walked, her unfiltered joy reminding him of a time long past—of Georgiana at that age, and yet, more than that, of Elizabeth. There was something in Violet's manner, her wide smile, her earnestness, that brought Elizabeth to mind with startling clarity. He could almost picture Elizabeth as a child, climbing trees and flashing those same bright smiles.
At the cottage, Mrs. Bendrick greeted them with her usual warmth, her expression turning to a mix of gratitude and worry as she thanked Darcy profusely for his continued kindness.
"You've done so much for us, Mr. Darcy," she said, wringing her hands. "I only wish there was more we could do to repay your generosity."
"No repayment is necessary," Darcy replied, his tone clipped but not unkind. "I'll return this evening with the medicine for Thomas. In the meantime, ensure he gets as much rest as possible."
Mrs. Bendrick nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. "You've been a blessing to us, sir. Truly."
Darcy gave a curt nod, his emotions held tightly in check as he mounted his horse and rode back to Rosings.
By the time Darcy returned to his sitting room, the brief reprieve he had felt in Violet's presence had begun to wane. The thought of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth's walk gnawed at him, and the weight of his earlier frustration returned with full force.
Determined to avoid any further interaction for the moment, particularly with Anne, he settled into his chair and opened a book. He barely registered the words on the page, his mind racing with thoughts of Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam, and the endless loop he seemed powerless to escape.
The quiet knock on his door broke his focus. Before he could respond, Anne stepped inside, her pale figure framed by the doorway.
"Fitzwilliam," she said softly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "You're avoiding me."
Darcy sighed, closing the book and setting it aside. "I am merely trying to collect my thoughts."
Anne moved further into the room, her steps unhurried but deliberate. "You're frustrated," she said plainly. "And I suspect I know why."
Darcy arched a brow, his tone carefully neutral. "Do you?"
She nodded, taking a seat opposite him. "It's Elizabeth, isn't it? The way you've been watching her, the way you seem more agitated every time you return from the parsonage or tea—it's clear she's at the center of whatever is troubling you."
Darcy tensed, his jaw tightening. "I assure you, Anne, my concerns are far more complex than—"
"Please," Anne interrupted gently but firmly. "Don't insult my intelligence. I've known you my entire life, Fitzwilliam. You've never looked at anyone the way you look at her."
Her words struck a chord he couldn't entirely suppress. For a moment, Darcy said nothing, his gaze dropping to his hands.
Anne leaned forward slightly, her pale eyes searching his. "If she's causing you this much turmoil, perhaps it's worth asking yourself why."
Darcy's voice was low when he finally replied. "Because she consumes my every thought. Because no matter how hard I try, I cannot let her go."
Anne's expression softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Then perhaps it's time you stopped trying."
Darcy met her gaze, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. "It's not that simple."
"No," Anne agreed. "But nothing worthwhile ever is."
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of their conversation hanging heavily in the air.
Anne rose slowly, her movements graceful despite her usual frailty. "Whatever you decide, Fitzwilliam, just know that I am here for you. I may not remember these days as clearly as you, but I feel them. I see you. And I want you to find peace, whatever that looks like."
With that, she turned and left the room, leaving Darcy to grapple with the truth she had so plainly laid before him.
John returned as expected, his satchel laden with supplies and a sealed letter from Georgiana. Darcy met him at the entrance, taking the items with an efficiency born of urgency.
"Have the herbs sent directly to the kitchen," Darcy instructed a nearby footman, his tone brisk. "Ensure they are prepared immediately for Miss de Bourgh's use."
"Yes, sir," the footman replied, bowing as he took the parcel.
Darcy barely paused to watch the herbs being whisked away before he mounted his horse, the vial for Thomas tucked securely in his pocket. The familiar ride to the Bendrick cottage was marked by the comforting sense of routine. At least here, in these small acts, he could affect some change.
Mrs. Bendrick greeted him with gratitude as he handed over the vial. "Mr. Darcy, you've done so much for us. I don't know how to thank you."
Darcy waved her words aside. "Ensure Thomas takes this as directed. If there are further issues, send for me."
Violet peeked out from behind her mother, her face lighting up at the sight of him. "Will you come again tomorrow, Mr. Darcy?"
Darcy's expression softened. "If I'm needed, I'll be here."
He returned to Rosings, his thoughts torn between the Bendrick family, the perpetual puzzle of Elizabeth, and the letter burning a hole in his pocket. Rather than heading to the drawing room where he knew Elizabeth would not be—her absence at tea had become yet another constant in this endless loop—he returned to his sitting room.
Once seated, Darcy allowed himself a rare indulgence, carefully breaking the seal on Georgiana's letter. Her delicate script greeted him, instantly evoking memories of her shy smiles and soft laughter.
My Dearest Brother,
How comforting it was to receive your letter this morning. It feels as though an age has passed since I last saw you, though I know it cannot have been so long. Life here in Mayfair continues as usual, but I must admit it feels quiet and lonely without you. Mrs. Annesley remains a kind and patient companion, and I try to follow her good advice, though I sometimes find my courage falters when faced with society's expectations.
I have been playing the pianoforte often, and I return to Mozart as you always encourage me to do. His music seems to soothe my nerves when nothing else can. Do you remember how we used to play together? You would turn the pages so earnestly, even though you said you had no talent for the instrument. Those moments are some of my fondest memories.
Your mention of Violet made me smile. She must be a lively child to remind you of me! I hardly think I possess her courage now, but I was once much like her, wasn't I? Perhaps I can be, again, in time. Her bravery sounds remarkable; you must tell me more about her adventures.
You wrote of a family you are helping, and it warms my heart to think of you offering them kindness. You have always looked after me so carefully, and it comforts me to know you extend that care to others as well. I hope you are not burdening yourself too much, though. Please remember to take care of your own well-being, too.
I hope you will return to London soon. I miss our walks and our conversations. You always know how to quiet my worries, even when I cannot voice them. Until then, I will cherish your letter and look forward to the next one.
With all my love,
Georgiana
Darcy leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he reread her words. Georgiana's affection was a balm to his soul, a reminder of what mattered most to him in this seemingly endless trial.
Yet her mention of Elizabeth caused his heart to stir uneasily. Darcy had never told her how deeply he had come to care for Elizabeth, nor had he ever confessed how much Elizabeth occupied his thoughts.
He set the letter down carefully, staring out the window. The weight of his sister's words hung over him. " I hope you will return to London soon."
Darcy let out a slow breath, his hand tightening on the armrest of his chair. He would give anything to see Georgiana again in two days' time. But could he ever escape this loop? Would he ever move beyond this Thursday?
The glimmer of hope Georgiana's letter brought was enough to push him forward. If he could not break free of this day, then he would at least ensure that when the day came to an end, he would have done everything in his power to set things right. And he would write to Georgianne again.
So did Darcy make the right choice? Writing to his sister and leaving Richard to talk to Elizabeth, I thought of having him try to ask during breakfast and Lady Catherine interferes with it but took it out, maybe I should have left it in. But I wanted it to be something else he had to fight with, the struggle of endless time and yet so little time...