story34: Remember this is supposed to be from Darcy point of view and the book is mostly from Elizabeth's. In my mind Darcy has come upon Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam when she is teasing him playfully about needing 50,000 pounds, so she would have a soft smile because she was teasing a friend, Darcy in jealous would see that smile as flirtation. At least in my mind. To each reading I guess you could see other things. It was just one more thing I wanted to add to Darcy growing determination to over come his objects to the lady. I have turned up Darcy pride and stubbornness a bit high in this story.
For the guess that says YEARS, it takes Darcy a long time, I will have to admit, I am being a bit hard on him but I grew up loving the movie Groundhog Day and I have to say that movie influences this story a lot at least at the start of the story, and in that story loop, he was in it for YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS. I don't know if I will go that far for Darcy, I am almost thinking a full year, but then again, I stopped counting the days, and I am on Darcy upswing at least in my writings though not in the posting. If anyone watched that movie they will probably see some shout out to the movie as I used some of it to inspire me. A big hint is Mr. Colin's is so Ned in this story, perhaps I should have had Darcy step in a puddle but I thought that would go to far. And though I said years I don't see this story having more than maybe 20 chapters, because as I said Darcy is already on the up swing so unless a side story inspires me to push it further I don't see this story having more than 20 chapters, though I will tell you each chapter is about this length.
To everyone else, thank you for the support and comments. Enjoy Chapter 1.
Chapter 1
Today was yesterday's tomorrow, or was it tomorrow's yesterday?
A dog's bark pierced the silence first, sharp and distant, like an echo from a place he could not name. Then came the low groan of wind rattling the windowpane, accompanied by the faintest chill seeping through the cracks. The sounds swirled together, tugging at the edges of Darcy's subconscious, anchoring him in the liminal space between dream and wakefulness.
A clock chimed six. The first note was muffled, but the reverberation drew him further from the warmth of sleep. One. Two. Three. The rhythm became more distinct, resonating in his chest. Four. Five. Six.
Darcy blinked against the dim light, the final echo of the clock fading into silence. The dream came flooding back to him—the proposal, the refusal, her words, so clear in his mind, the sting still sharp. He shot upright in bed, his heart pounding as though the weight of it had just happened. His breath came in short bursts.
But as the seconds ticked by, a disorienting realization gripped him. He looked around the room. Wait—how did I get to bed? He had been so certain that he would write the letter. He had meant to justify himself. He had just closed his eyes for a moment after recalling the events of last night. He had planned to defend his actions—to explain himself to her.
The room seemed unchanged, the light still pale, the shadows clinging to the corners. His gaze darted to the desk. There, just as he had left it, sat the unfinished paper, ink bottle, and quill—but no letter written.
When had he undressed? When had he fallen asleep? He raked his fingers through his hair, confused, the memory of her rejection still clinging to him. No matter. I must write the letter now. His thoughts were frantic, but his resolve firm. He would not waste another moment.
As if on cue, the door opened, and his valet entered. Darcy glanced up, but the disorientation still clouded his mind.
"Good morning, sir," the valet said, unbothered by the apparent confusion on Darcy's face.
Darcy's eyes narrowed, though his tone remained clipped. "Morning? No... no, I—" He glanced back at the desk, then towards the valet again. "A tray. I need a tray. Immediately. And leave me to my writing."
The valet hesitated, giving Darcy an uncertain look, but nodded and quietly left the room.
Darcy stood up and crossed to the desk, a surge of urgency propelling him forward. It must be done now. The weight of what had transpired yesterday pressed upon him. He could not let it go. He would explain himself, make her see the man he truly was.
With trembling hands, Darcy took the quill and dipped it into the ink, his mind clouded, his heart still raw. This letter would be his redemption, and he would not fail.
April 17, 1812
Rosing, Kent
The words came more easily now. Darcy's hand flew across the paper, his thoughts tumbling out in a stream as he defended his character. He explained, in careful detail, the painful events surrounding his sister Georgiana, hoping beyond reason that his words might undo the damage he had caused. The ink flowed from the quill with steady precision, each line a layer of conviction, a plea for understanding.
By the time the first page was filled, he found himself continuing onto a second. His writing hand moved mechanically, the weight of the task pressing down on him. Each sentence seemed to carry a heaviness he could scarcely bear. His thoughts were still clouded by the sting of her refusal, and yet, he felt compelled to continue, as if the mere act of writing might somehow restore his honor.
Elizabeth's words echoed in his mind. "You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes as the words reverberated in his ears. Would this letter change anything? Could it undo the rejection that had shattered him? The silence of the room seemed to answer him, the stillness heavy with doubt. What if it doesn't matter? he thought bitterly. What if this is futile?
But still, he pressed on.
When at last the final words were written, the exhaustion of the morning weighed heavily on him. He blinked, only now noticing the late hour. How long had it been? The clock on the mantle told him it was well after 11 am. He had lost track of time entirely, so absorbed had he been in his task.
Darcy sealed the letter with a final flourish, his mind a tumult of conflicting emotions. The task was done. Now, he only needed to deliver it and face whatever consequences awaited.
He called for his valet, his voice hoarse from the hours spent in silence. The servant entered, offering a respectful bow before attending to his needs. Darcy barely registered the valet's movements as he dressed. His thoughts were elsewhere, already on the task ahead—delivering the letter to Elizabeth. Perhaps this will change her view of me, he thought, though doubt still lingered.
The moment the valet left, Darcy grabbed his coat and headed out the door, determination setting his pace. He would find Elizabeth, give her the letter, and perhaps—just perhaps—begin to undo the damage his previous actions had caused.
As he stepped outside into the cool morning air, he could not have predicted what awaited him. The quiet lane seemed eerily calm as he hurried through it, but soon, a familiar voice cut through the stillness.
"Mr. Darcy! How fortuitous to see you this morning!"
Mr. Darcy's patience was wearing thin as Mr. Collins approached him for the second time, blathering on about Lady Catherine's grounds and virtues. Though he greeted the man stiffly, Darcy was only half-listening, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of Elizabeth. His thoughts were elsewhere—far from the clergyman's endless praise for Lady Catherine and her supposed excellence. As Mr. Collins rambled on, Darcy's agitation grew, and with a quick, curt interruption, he excused himself, eager to escape before the conversation could circle back to the same tiresome topics. Only once he was free did he turn towards the path, where he spotted her at last. Had he heard this all before? It was a fleeting thought, but it was enough to add to his unease as he quickened his pace.
There, just ahead, was Elizabeth. She stood with Colonel Fitzwilliam, her face alight with a smile he had never before seen directed toward him, there was a vague familiarity to it. Fitzwilliam, too, seemed to be in good spirits, his easy laugh rising above the quiet rustling of the trees.
Darcy froze, his heart lurching in his chest. Not again, he thought, his grip tightening around the letter in his hand. What is this? Why does she—why does she look so... happy?
The sight of her smiling, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she spoke with Colonel Fitzwilliam, struck him like a physical blow. How could she look so carefree after the cruel rejection of the night before? After everything he had bared to her, every emotion laid open, she appeared completely untouched.
The words from their conversation echoed in his mind—You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. They had burned through him with the force of a scalding fire, and yet, here she stood, laughing, as if nothing had happened, as if the rejection had no more meaning to her than a passing breeze.
A cold bitterness twisted in his chest. He had assumed, foolishly, that his feelings—his admission of love—would make a difference. That, at the very least, she would consider him seriously. But now, watching her so at ease with Fitzwilliam, the weight of her rejection pressed harder against him.
Did it really matter to her? Had his words, his feelings, made no more impact than if he had spoken to her of the weather?
A sharp pain flared in his heart, the sense that all of his efforts, all of his vulnerability, had been for nothing. She seemed untouched, unaffected by the rawness he had shared with her, as if his offer had never mattered at all.
He stood there for a moment longer, watching her laugh, watching Fitzwilliam's easy smile, the two of them so natural, so comfortable in each other's presence. It hurt more than he could have imagined. Darcy's breath hitched, and for a moment, he almost felt as though he might choke on the bitterness rising in his throat.
He wrenched his eyes away, forcing his legs to move as he stepped past Mr. Collins, whose prattle now seemed distant and faint, drowned out by the rushing sound of his own thoughts.
I must speak with her, Darcy thought, but even as the words crossed his mind, he wasn't sure what he would say. What could he say? What was left to say?
Unable to bear the sight any longer, Darcy turned on his heel, his heart aching with each step, and retreated to his rooms. The weight of Elizabeth's indifference pressed down on him with an unbearable heaviness. The pain was too much to bear, and for the first time since his father's death, he reached for the decanter on the sideboard with the intent to get drunk. His hand trembled slightly as he poured himself a glass, the amber liquid swaying inside the crystal tumbler. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating the solace it might offer.
The idea of inebriation, of dulling the sharp, jagged pain in his chest, seemed a simple one. A momentary escape. Without a second thought, he downed the drink, the warmth flooding him as he poured another. The familiar burn slid down his throat, but it did little to quell the storm raging within him.
His mind spun in a haze, and for a moment, he simply stared into the fire, letting the flames flicker in a dance that mirrored his tumultuous thoughts.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, Darcy turned on his heel and retreated to his rooms, the pain in his chest unbearable. The rejection, the laughter—it all stung so deeply. How could she laugh so freely after everything? After what I offered for her?
He moved toward the decanter, his hand shaking as he poured himself a glass. The warmth of the alcohol slid down his throat, offering temporary relief from the confusion and heartache. He poured another, and then another, until the world around him seemed a little softer, and his thoughts, though still muddled, didn't hurt quite so much.
The door creaked, and Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in, his eyes scanning the room quickly before resting on Darcy, who looked anything but himself. His cousin's face shifted from surprise to concern as he took in the state of him.
"Darcy," Fitzwilliam said, his tone light but edged with worry. "Missed you at breakfast. And at lunch too. Was wondering if you'd join us for tea. The Colins and Miss Bennet will be there."
Darcy looked up at him with a confused, bleary gaze, the words slipping from his mouth before he could think to stop them. "No, no," he muttered thickly. "Tea... tea was yesterday... with the Colins. Miss Elizabeth... I... I remember." He faltered, his mind hazy. "She didn't come. Miss Bennet didn't come. I was... I was writing the letter... but I couldn't give it to her..." His voice trailed off as he looked at Fitzwilliam, the confusion growing more evident on his face. "I was... going to defend myself, but I couldn't. I proposed... and she rejected me. And then... she laughed with you."
Fitzwilliam blinked, a frown pulling at his brow. He was clearly taken aback, unsure of what his cousin was saying. "What? Darcy, what do you mean? You're saying you proposed... yesterday? That was Wednesday night, but I spent the whole evening with you, Darcy. You didn't propose to her. We were together the entire night, you couldn't have."
Darcy stared blankly at him, still holding the glass. "But... I saw her. I saw her laughing with you, Fitzwilliam. This morning. She laughed. She didn't care. I proposed, and she didn't care. You don't understand. She—she rejected me."
Fitzwilliam took a cautious step closer, trying to make sense of the situation. "Darcy, I don't know what you're talking about. Yes, Miss Bennet and I had a pleasant conversation this morning—just this morning. But she didn't laugh at you. We weren't... laughing with each other. You... you proposed to her last night?"
"No—" Darcy's voice was bitter and thick. "It's Friday today, Fitzwilliam. I—I proposed yesterday, and she laughed. She laughed at me, and I wrote the letter, and I was going to give it to her, but she didn't care. She didn't care at all."
Fitzwilliam shook his head slowly, still processing the oddity of Darcy's words. "Darcy, it's Thursday. We spent the entire night Wednesday together, you and I. You didn't propose, because you didn't—"
Darcy's eyes narrowed in frustration. "I... proposed. She laughed. I was going to give her a letter, but she didn't care. You saw it. She was laughing with you, this morning!"
Fitzwilliam's eyes widened as he tried to piece together the situation. "What are you saying, Darcy? We didn't spend the night apart. I saw Miss Bennet this morning, yes. We had a pleasant conversation. But laughing? She didn't laugh at you. She didn't even know what you were talking about. Darcy, tea hasn't happened yet. Miss Bennet is coming for tea today, not yesterday."
Darcy stood, swaying slightly, his thoughts spinning. "No... no, it was yesterday! I proposed, and she rejected me! I saw her laughing with you."
Fitzwilliam was utterly confused now, his voice tentative. "Darcy... you proposed? No, no you didn't. Miss Bennet didn't reject you yesterday. Tea is today. It hasn't happened yet. I... I don't know what you're talking about."
Darcy clenched his fists, a feeling of helplessness welling up in his chest. He stared at Fitzwilliam, but nothing made sense. He had clearly seen it—the rejection, the laughter. But Fitzwilliam was right in front of him, telling him the opposite.
"It's Friday, Fitzwilliam," Darcy muttered, the confusion clouding his words. "It must be. Yesterday, I proposed, and she rejected me. Then she laughed with you. Why doesn't anyone understand?"
Fitzwilliam sighed, stepping closer and placing a hand on Darcy's shoulder. "Darcy, it's Thursday. We've been through all of this together. You didn't propose last night. You're mistaken, old fellow. Today is Thursday. You're thinking it was yesterday, but... you're not making sense."
Darcy's head swam as he tried to make sense of the words. "But... tea... it's today... she rejected me yesterday. She laughed—she laughed with you."
Fitzwilliam could only shake his head, his concern growing. "Miss Bennet didn't laugh with me. You're confused, Darcy. You've had too much to drink. You'll feel better once you rest. But... tea is today. Miss Bennet is joining us. I'm sure she didn't reject you—"
But Darcy wasn't listening. His mind was in a whirlpool of confusion, the events of last night—no, yesterday—and the laughter from this morning, still fresh in his mind. He couldn't understand why it all seemed to be slipping through his fingers, as though none of it mattered.
A dog's bark pierced the silence first, sharp and distant, like an echo from a place he could not name. Then came the low groan of wind rattling the windowpane, accompanied by the faintest chill seeping through the cracks. The sounds swirled together, tugging at the edges of Darcy's subconscious, anchoring him in the liminal space between dream and wakefulness.
A clock chimed six. The first note was muffled, but the reverberation drew him further from the warmth of sleep. One. Two. Three. The rhythm became more distinct, resonating in his chest. Four. Five. Six.
Darcy blinked against the dim light, the final echo of the clock fading into silence. The memories of the night before came crashing into his mind: the bitter rejection from Elizabeth, his drunken argument with Colonel Fitzwilliam—It's Friday, Fitzwilliam, you fool!—and his failure to send the letter he'd written to defend himself. His mind felt cloudy, as though it was still trapped in that foggy haze. He looked over to the desk where the letter should be, but it was gone. For a moment, he felt deep confusion, trying to make sense of what had happened. Where is the letter? Why did Fitzwilliam insist it was Thursday? It's Friday. Today is Saturday. The weight of it all pressed down on him, the aching uncertainty gnawing at him.
"Good morning, sir," Wentworth said with a slight bow as he entered the room, his movements measured and precise. "I trust you slept well? Your bath is ready."
Darcy turned away from the desk where he had been searching, his mind still lost in the haze of his disjointed thoughts. "Well enough," he replied tersely, though the truth was far from it. Sleep had evaded him; his mind had been plagued with fragments of last night's events.
Wentworth moved about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening Darcy's desk as he continued, "John returned late last evening with correspondence from London. I've placed it here for your attention. Lady Catherine has requested your presence at breakfast at seven."
Darcy gave a noncommittal hum, barely acknowledging the message, his thoughts too tangled to focus on Lady Catherine's summons. He moved toward the adjoining dressing room, hoping the bath would offer some respite from the relentless barrage of his mind. The warmth of the water soothed his tense muscles, though it did little to quiet the storm within.
As he sat, his mind wandered back to the events of the two days, both of them equally agonizing. The first Thursday, the proposal—how it had stung, her rejection, and the hurtful dismissiveness with which she had treated him. The second yesterday, the cruel realization that her careless disregard had continued into the next day, as though he had never mattered to her at all. His memories of that night—getting drunk, arguing with Fitzwilliam about it being Friday, the confusion swirling in his head—clung to him like a fog he could not escape.
Wentworth entered the dressing room then, carrying Darcy's shirt and waistcoat. Darcy's gaze fell to the clothes, and without thinking, he spoke, his frustration boiling over. "I wore these on Thursday. I cannot wear them again so soon."
Wentworth paused, glancing at Darcy with a slightly puzzled expression. "Sir, today is Thursday."
Darcy froze, blinking as the words sank in. Today is Thursday? But he had already lived this day. Hadn't he? He was certain it was Saturday. He was sure he had argued with Fitzwilliam about it being Friday just the night before.
"No," Darcy muttered, shaking his head as confusion and frustration began to settle in. "It can't be. Yesterday—" His voice faltered, his thoughts jumbled. The haze was thick again, and the uncertainty pressed down on him with an almost physical weight.
Wentworth, still perplexed but unwavering, repeated calmly, "It is Thursday, sir. Shall I assist you in dressing for breakfast?"
Darcy's mind reeled, but he said nothing more, instead stepping into the shirt and waistcoat, though he still felt a deep dissonance between what he thought was true and what Wentworth had just stated. Something was terribly wrong, but what? How had he failed to see it? The familiar routines, the seeming continuity of time, only added to his disorientation.
He stared into the mirror for a long moment, trying to pull together his fragmented thoughts. Thursday. It cannot be Thursday. Again.
"Good morning, Anne," Darcy said, inclining his head politely as he moved toward his place at the table.
"Good morning, Cousin," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She gestured lightly toward the dishes laid out on the sideboard. "Do help yourself. The eggs are quite warm still."
Her words echoed in his mind with unsettling clarity. Familiar. Too familiar. They sounded exactly like Thursday morning's exchange—not just the content but the tone, the rhythm, even the slight hesitation before "eggs."
Darcy froze for a fraction of a second, his hand stilling above the silver tongs on the sideboard. His stomach twisted, a flicker of unease quickening his pulse. No, it cannot be the same. It's Saturday, he reminded himself, though the thought came weakly, as though repeated too often to hold weight.
He acknowledged her suggestion with a faint nod, choosing a modest plate of food. Returning to the table, he seated himself opposite her, his movements deliberate in their effort to appear normal.
The quiet that settled over the room should have been calming, but to Darcy, it felt suffocating. The nagging feeling clawed at him, growing stronger with each passing second. He tried to shake it off, focusing on the clink of silverware, the faint rustle of Anne's skirts as she shifted in her chair.
It must be Saturday. It had to be.
The peace, however, did not last.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the breakfast room with all the regal authority of a queen holding court, her sharp eyes immediately assessing the scene. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed close behind, his easygoing demeanor a stark contrast to his aunt's commanding presence.
"Good morning, Darcy. Anne," Lady Catherine said briskly, her tone precise as she moved toward her place at the head of the table. "You are both punctual today—most commendable."
Anne dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing. Darcy, ever formal, replied, "Good morning, Aunt. I trust you slept well."
Lady Catherine did not bother to answer. Instead, she turned her assessing gaze on her daughter, her sharp features softening only slightly. "Anne, you look quite well this morning. The country air agrees with you, I am sure. Do you not think so, Darcy?"
Darcy glanced at Anne briefly, the faintest flicker of discomfort passing across his face. "She looks as well as ever," he replied, his tone carefully neutral.
Before Lady Catherine could press further, Colonel Fitzwilliam intervened with a grin. "Indeed, Aunt, it is a wonder Anne does not venture out more often. The fresh air does seem to work miracles."
Though this conversation had been repeated countless times over the years, today, it struck Darcy differently. The precise sameness, the very repetition of it all, pressed in on him.
It was exactly like Thursday.
Darcy's stomach churned. He had heard these words—these exact words—before. He wasn't merely imagining it; he was certain of it now. The earlier nagging sensation swelled, heavy and insistent, like an unseen weight pressing against his chest.
His gaze dropped to his plate, but his food was forgotten. How could this be possible? Each word, each gesture, every inflection—it was as though the day had slipped backward without his consent.
Then, a loud crash shattered the routine.
The sound was sudden and jarring, sending a silver teapot and several cups skittering across the polished floor. A footman stood frozen near the sideboard, his face pale and his hands trembling as he stared at the mess.
Darcy's breath hitched. His heart thundered in his chest, louder than the echoes of the crash. He had seen this before.
Lady Catherine's sharp intake of breath broke the stunned silence. Her voice, imperious and cutting, sliced through the tension. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her tone colder than the morning frost.
"I-I beg your pardon, your ladyship," the servant stammered, hastily bending to retrieve the fallen pieces.
Darcy's pulse quickened. He knew what would happen next.
Fitzwilliam chuckled, the sound warm but faintly mocking. "Come now, Aunt. Even the best of us have clumsy moments. Shall we chalk it up to the grandeur of Rosings?"
Darcy's hands clenched into fists beneath the table. He didn't need to see Lady Catherine's expression to know how her lips would thin, how her glare would darken. Her voice came exactly as he expected:
"Nonsense, Richard. If you had been half as diligent as that footman, perhaps you might have spared yourself some of your more regrettable escapades in the army."
Fitzwilliam blinked, his usual confidence faltering for the briefest moment before he recovered with a laugh. "Aunt, I'll have you know my 'regrettable escapades' are what keep life interesting."
The tension in the room eased, but Darcy felt no relief. Instead, he sat frozen, his tea growing cold in his hand as the truth he had been denying loomed larger than ever.
It wasn't just déjà vu. It wasn't coincidence.
It was Thursday. Again.
Darcy remained quiet throughout breakfast, well, as quiet as one could be while being relentlessly nagged by Lady Catherine. Her constant demands for his attention, her relentless poking at his silence, all felt unbearably familiar. The conversation played out exactly as it had on Thursday, yet something about it made his skin crawl. He did not participate as he usually would, offering only short replies or none at all, his mind elsewhere, wrestling with the odd sensation that something was wrong.
Anne, as expected, grew pale, her illness manifesting again. She excused herself from the table with the same fragile smile she had worn before, citing the same complaints of a headache. Lady Catherine, of course, was quick to scold her daughter for not taking better care of herself, but Darcy's attention wavered.
Then, the conversation turned back to the matter that had haunted him since the night before—his non-existent engagement with Anne. Lady Catherine pressed him to admit it yet again, to acknowledge some arrangement that did not exist, while Darcy's jaw tightened with every word. The familiarity of the argument made his teeth grate. He hated this conversation—despised it. The absolute predictability of it all was suffocating, and he couldn't bear the thought of reliving it verbatim.
In a burst of frustration, Darcy stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with an uncharacteristic harshness.
"If you will excuse me, Aunt," he said, his voice tight with annoyance, "as you know, we have to leave today for London."
Lady Catherine and Fitzwilliam both froze at his words, their eyes locking on him as though he had spoken in a foreign tongue.
"No, no," Lady Catherine said, shaking her head in disbelief. "You said you were to leave on Saturday. It is only Thursday. Thursday, Darcy. You have misunderstood, surely."
Fitzwilliam, who had been observing Darcy with increasing concern, finally spoke up, his voice low and hesitant. "Darcy," he began, glancing from Lady Catherine to his cousin, "You said you were to leave on Saturday... today is Thursday, you know."
Darcy's confusion only deepened. "No," he said with more certainty than he felt, his hand gripping the edge of the table, his mind racing. "It is Saturday. It's Saturday, Fitzwilliam."
Lady Catherine looked at him as though he had lost his mind, her expression shifting to one of disdain. "Darcy, you are mistaken. You said yourself you would leave on Saturday. I do not know what nonsense you are speaking now, but it is Thursday, and you will stay for dinner tonight. We will not discuss this any further."
Fitzwilliam glanced between them, a frown deepening on his face. He had always known his cousin to be a man of logic and reason, but something was wrong now. Darcy's eyes were wide, his expression distant, as though his mind was elsewhere, and Fitzwilliam could see the growing distress in his cousin's face.
"Darcy..." Fitzwilliam said carefully, his voice laced with worry, "Are you quite all right? Perhaps you are... not well?"
Darcy, who had never shown such signs of confusion before, shook his head sharply, trying to clear the haze from his mind. "I am fine," he said, though the words felt hollow. "I must have been mistaken. It must be Thursday."
Lady Catherine, satisfied with this conclusion, gave a sharp nod and returned to her breakfast, though her eyes never left Darcy. Fitzwilliam, however, stayed silent for a long moment, his worry only deepening. He watched Darcy closely, his mind racing with questions he wasn't sure he could ask.
Darcy retreated to his room, his mind still in turmoil, and sat at his desk. The packet of letters from London lay before him, each one exactly the same as he had read on Thursday. Even Georgiana's letter was unchanged, her words as familiar as they had been the day before, if it was the day before.
"No," he muttered under his breath. This couldn't be right. This wasn't possible. He felt as though he were living in a loop, trapped somewhere between time and reality. He had already read these letters, had already considered their contents, yet here they were again, perfectly preserved, as though he were caught in some sort of endless repetition.
He stared at them for a long while, wondering if he should answer them. After all, hadn't he already? Wasn't it possible he had written the responses already? The thought chilled him. But the doubt gnawed at him—had it all been a dream? No, it felt too real to be a mere fantasy. The conversations, the interactions—they were too tangible, too vivid.
He pushed the thought aside, refusing to entertain it. Duty was the only thing that kept him anchored, the only thing that made sense in the overwhelming haze of uncertainty. He reached for the pen, his hand moving as if guided by instinct. But as he wrote, there was a strange dissonance in his mind. Was this the first time he was writing these letters? Or was he merely rewriting them? It was impossible to say. The line between the two was growing indistinguishable.
When the hour struck eleven, he finally set the last letter down and sent John off with them, the familiar sense of accomplishment settling in. But even as the words left his hands, a nagging thought lingered. What was he doing? Was he repeating his actions from the day before? Was it even the same day?
Without thinking, he decided to go for a walk, to clear his mind. The brisk morning air would surely do him some good. He stepped outside, his mind still clouded, and made his way down the familiar path. Before long, he encountered Mr. Collins, as he had done countless times before. And there it was, the same speech. The same prattle about his connection to Lady Catherine and his intention to marry. Darcy stood frozen, listening to the words with a dull sense of déjà vu.
"How could I have dreamed this talk twice?" Darcy wondered aloud, shaking his head in disbelief. It was the same words, the same gestures, the same pompous delivery. Twice. It was as if the conversation had been etched into his memory, replaying itself with exact precision.
Mr. Collins paused mid-sentence, giving Darcy an odd look. "Sir? Is everything well?"
Darcy's gaze turned distant, his thoughts swirling. "Yes, of course," he replied, though his voice sounded far less certain than he had intended. "Just... something on my mind."
He forced a smile, but the discomfort gnawed at him. Had he lived this day already? It was maddening, the repetition, the sheer impossibility of it all. And yet, everything felt so familiar. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was living the same day over and over again, as if caught in some cruel loop.
"Excuse me, Mr. Collins," Darcy said abruptly, his patience thinning. "I must take my leave."
Mr. Collins, unfazed, nodded enthusiastically, continuing his speech to no one in particular as Darcy walked away, lost in his own confusion.
As Darcy walked down the familiar lane, the cool air biting at his face, he soon encountered Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennet once more. They were walking ahead of him, the same easy conversation passing between them, their steps light and unburdened, as if nothing had changed.
The sight struck Darcy with a force that left him momentarily breathless. He stopped in his tracks, watching them with a sense of helpless confusion. The image before him—the same, yet different—tugged at him relentlessly. Fitzwilliam's casual posture, Miss Bennet's easy laugh—it was as if nothing had shifted, and yet everything felt wrong. He had lived this moment before. He had seen this scene before. But now, standing here in the lane, he was unsure. The weight of déjà vu hit him again, wave after wave, and the ground beneath his feet felt as though it were shifting.
The confusion churned in his chest. This has happened before, hasn't it? Darcy thought. But how? Why?
He forced himself to walk past them, though his steps were slow, his mind racing in a storm of questions. They didn't notice him, or if they did, they gave no sign. Fitzwilliam was speaking—again—about some triviality, and Miss Bennet was laughing—again—her eyes sparkling in that same way Darcy had seen yesterday... or was it Thursday?
He faltered, his feet feeling heavier with each step. His mind was reeling. Hadn't he already been through this? The same faces, the same words—it was all too much. Am I stuck in some endless loop? he wondered. He couldn't explain the sensation that had gripped him, but it was a feeling of profound disorientation.
As he continued down the lane, he couldn't shake the sense that everything was repeating, like an echo of something already lived. It wasn't until he was a few steps ahead that he realized he had already made this walk before—perhaps not in the same exact way, but with the same steps, the same outcome.
He turned back. Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennet were still lost in their conversation, unaware of his presence. The same casual smiles. The same playful exchange. He glanced at them again, his mind spinning, but the knot in his chest only tightened.
No, I must not... Darcy thought, and with that, he turned sharply, walking away, his heart still heavy with confusion.
Darcy returned to his room, his steps mechanical, as though he were on autopilot. The weight of the confusion pressing on him made it hard to think clearly. His mind was lost in an endless loop, the events of the day repeating in a maddening cycle. Every conversation, every glance, every moment—it all felt like déjà vu, yet none of it made any sense.
The quiet of the room was oppressive, and Darcy's frustration grew. He couldn't make sense of what was happening, couldn't shake the sensation that he was reliving the same day. Hadn't I already been here? Done this? He gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Darcy turned sharply, his mind still swirling as he called, "Enter."
The servant stepped in, bowing slightly. "Mr. Darcy, it is time for tea, sir."
Darcy nodded absently, his thoughts still far from the present. He made his way to the small table by the window, but as he looked out at the view that was becoming all too familiar, a heavy feeling settled in his chest. He didn't want to face the coming routine, didn't want to step through the motions again. But he knew what would happen next.
Darcy nodded absently, his thoughts still far from the present. He made his way to the small table by the window, but as he looked out at the view that was becoming all too familiar, a heavy feeling settled in his chest. He didn't want to face the coming routine, didn't want to step through the motions again. But he knew what would happen next.
As the day waned and tea approached, Darcy resolved to join her there. He would reclaim her attention, prove his worth. But when he descended the stairs, he was met by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Collins and Maria Lucas. Their chatter filled the drawing room, but Elizabeth was conspicuously absent.
"She is unwell," Mrs. Collins explained, her voice tinged with concern. "She has taken to her room and will not join us."
Darcy's heart stilled, and then, unbidden, a flicker of relief swept through him. He remained standing where he was, his thoughts colliding in a swirl of confusion and clarity. On any other day, concern would have driven him forward—compelled him to see her, to ensure her comfort, and, most damningly, to confess his feelings. But not this time.
He would not go. He could not.
Something—Providence, fate, or some greater wisdom—had intervened, offering him a glimpse of what could be, or what would be. A warning. If this was all but a dream, then surely it had served its purpose. He would not seek her out only to have his hopes shattered and his pride laid bare. He would not subject himself to the humiliation of rejection, the crushing pain of her disdain.
Darcy lowered himself stiffly into a chair, ignoring the sudden lull in conversation as Mr. Collins paused to glance at him curiously. The clergyman prattled on a moment later, but Darcy did not hear him. His mind was too consumed with the realization that perhaps he had been granted the rarest of gifts: foreknowledge.
If his dream had indeed shown him what lay ahead, then it was his duty—no, his responsibility—to alter his course. He would not allow himself to make the same mistakes. He would not allow himself to suffer the consequences of his unchecked arrogance and desire.
Elizabeth Bennet alone at the parsonage was no longer a temptation, but a warning.
Darcy remained seated, his decision firm. He would not go. He would remain here, safe from the torment of seeing her and safer still from the vulnerability of laying bare his heart. As the conversation ebbed and flowed around him, Darcy let the hum of voices fade into the background.
He would change what was to come. He had to.
For the first time in he felt a measure of control settle within him. If this was Providence's hand at work, he would not squander it.
And so, as tea was poured and idle talk filled the room, Darcy resolved to stay exactly where he was, sparing himself the rejection he now believed he was destined to avoid.
I don't think I write drunk people well, oh well, I did my best. We still have a stubborn proud Darcy on our hands.