I declare I do not know a more awful object than myself on particular occasions, and in particular places; at my desk especially, and of a Sunday evening, when I have nothing to do. After all, what else does one do but write twenty pages of a novel when boredom strikes? So, as a result, I'm sharing an early chapter with my faithful reader, who has been so supportive.
Chapter 2: Blood Brothers
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… no, not a dream. A memory, a warning, a curse. He had avoided the parsonage, steeled himself against his heart's foolish desires. He had done it. This had to be Friday.
His gaze darted towards the candle. He had taken care the night before, ensuring it was freshly lit, its wax pristine and untouched. Now, the faint glow caught his eye, the melted wax a telltale sign of time passed. The wick leaned precariously, its blackened tip threatening collapse.
A wave of dread washed over him, cold and unrelenting, like the wind rattling the panes. He sat up abruptly, the bedclothes pooling at his waist as he stared at the candle in disbelief.
No. It cannot be.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. His chest tightened as he scanned the room, searching for proof, for reassurance, for something to confirm that the day had indeed moved forward. His eyes fell on the chair near the fireplace, where his coat hung precisely as he had left it.
Darcy's hand ran through his disheveled hair as he stood and moved to the window. The world outside was shrouded in gray mist, the early hour betraying nothing of what day it might be. His fingers pressed against the glass, the chill grounding him as his thoughts spiraled.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to feel the certainty he had clung to just moments before. He had done it. He had resisted the urge to go to her, to bare his heart, to face her inevitable rejection. That should have been enough to break the cycle.
But as his gaze returned to the candle, the dread morphed into a suffocating certainty. This was not Friday. It could not be Friday.
"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's throat tightened. "What day is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The valet straightened, his expression neutral. "Thursday, sir."
The world tilted. The walls seemed to close in around him as the words echoed in his mind. Thursday.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake from what must surely be a cruel dream. But when he opened them, the faint outline of the same candle, the same window, the same room greeted him. The wax dripped steadily, and the morning light crept past the edges of the drawn curtains.
He clenched his hands into fists, the dread giving way to a crushing weight of inevitability, of hopelessness. He had avoided the parsonage, avoided the proposal, avoided the rejection. And yet, here he was, back where he had started.
Darcy stumbled to the window, needing air though none seemed to reach his lungs. The muffled sounds of the house stirring, the chirp of birds outside, the distant hum of life—all of it felt wrong, too familiar.
"Why?" he whispered, his breath fogging the glass. "Why is this happening?"
He turned, his gaze falling on the faint glow of the candle on the nightstand. The flickering flame seemed almost alive, mocking him, taunting him with its persistence.
Memories stirred unbidden in the corners of Darcy's mind—of bonds once forged, promises once made. Darcy gripped the windowsill, his thoughts turning to Richard. If there was anyone who might understand, who could anchor him to some semblance of reality, it was his cousin. They had been more than family; they had been brothers once, bound by loyalty and a pact sealed in their youth.
The thought brought with it a pang of longing and an ache of regret, and before he could stop himself, he slipped further into the past.
It was a summer long ago, the kind of day that seemed to stretch endlessly, unmarred by responsibility or care. The fields at Pemberley shimmered golden in the sun, and the three of them—Darcy, Richard, and George—ran as though the world itself belonged to them.
The stream at the edge of the woods was their sanctuary. The water sparkled under the sunlight, a ribbon of silver winding through the greenery. Richard stood chest-deep in the cool water, laughing as George hurled another stone to splash him. Darcy, perched on the bank, watched with a mixture of amusement and caution.
"You're going to catch it if you ruin his coat," Darcy said, grinning.
Richard shook water from his hair like a dog. "Only if I'm caught," he retorted, diving under the surface to avoid George's next attack.
George turned, flashing one of his easy, charming smiles. "Darcy, come join us. What's the worst that could happen?"
Darcy hesitated, always the one to consider consequences before leaping into action. "Someone will have to explain to the steward why three sets of boots are soaked through," he said, though the laughter in his tone betrayed his lack of true concern.
"Worry later!" Richard's voice rang out as he surfaced, flinging water in all directions.
Before Darcy could answer, George climbed onto the bank beside him, shaking water from his sleeves. "You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "there's something we've never done. Something that will make this day unforgettable."
Darcy arched a brow. "And what would that be?"
George plucked a stick from the ground, twirling it idly in his hand. "A pact. A brotherhood. The kind that can't be broken."
Richard waded to shore, curiosity lighting his face. "Go on, George."
"A blood oath." George's grin widened, though there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes—something Darcy couldn't quite place at the time.
The suggestion took root, and before long, Richard produced a small pocket knife. There was an air of solemnity about the three of them as they pricked their thumbs, pressing them together in a bond sealed by youth and shared trust.
"We swear," Richard declared, his voice ringing with certainty. "Brothers from now until the end of days."
"No matter what," Darcy repeated with a small grin.
"No matter what," Georg echoed, clapping Darcy on the shoulder. "And when we're grown, we'll remember this day—blood brothers forever, bound by fate and…" He hesitated, glancing at Richard with a sly smile. "…well, mostly by our impeccable taste in company."
Richard rolled his eyes but didn't pull away as George leaned against him, grinning like a fox. "Oh yes, Wickham, how fortunate we are to be graced by your charm," Richard quipped dryly.
Darcy smiled faintly, though his grip on the knife remained tight. His younger self would have laughed more freely, but something about George's playful boast felt different now—like an edge hidden beneath the jest.
The moment passed, their hands clasped together in solemn promise, the freshly drawn lines of blood drying on their palms.
It was the summer holidays, and the three of them—Darcy, Richard, and George—were returning home after their first year at Eton.
The ride back to Pemberley was filled with bursts of laughter, their youthful voices weaving stories of triumphs and mischief. George, ever the storyteller, recounted how he had bested an older boy in a game of skill.
"…and just like that, the queen fell to her knees!" George exclaimed, pantomiming a dramatic gesture.
Richard raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "You mean the chess piece, not the queen of England, Wickham."
George shot him a wounded look. "Must you ruin everything, Fitzwilliam?"
"It's a gift," Richard replied smoothly, leaning back against the carriage wall.
Darcy watched the exchange with a quiet smile. He had missed this—the easy banter, the feeling of being part of something unshakable. Yet as George launched into another tale, Darcy noticed a subtle shift.
There was a polish to George's words now, a calculated charm that had not been there before. He spoke not just to amuse but to impress, weaving praise for himself into the fabric of his stories. Darcy tried to ignore the uneasy feeling creeping into his chest.
When they arrived at Pemberley, the bond between them seemed intact—at least on the surface. The days that followed were filled with long rides across the estate and evenings spent in the library. But Richard was less patient with George's tales, quick to call out embellishments, while Darcy remained loyal, brushing aside his cousin's growing unease.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Darcy said one evening, as the two cousins stood in the stables.
Richard crossed his arms. "You don't see it? He's not the same, Darcy. There's a hunger in him now. He wants something—and it's not friendship."
Darcy frowned, brushing a hand along his horse's mane. "You're imagining things. He's still George. Still Wickham."
Richard sighed, shaking his head. "Maybe. Or maybe you're too loyal to see it."
Darcy didn't reply.
The winter of Lady Anne Darcy's death had left a heavy mark on Fitzwilliam Darcy. Where once he had been the steady, often stoic son of Pemberley, now there was a quietness to him, a distance in his eyes that had not been there before. He spent more time in solitude, withdrawn from the conversations and gatherings that once had been a part of his daily routine. His mother's death had struck him deeply, and in its wake, he seemed to lose the sense of direction he once held so firmly.
Richard, on the other hand, seemed to grow more resolute, more protective of his cousins. While Darcy withdrew into himself, Richard stepped up to fill the void left by Lady Anne. He had always been the more outgoing of the two, but now there was an added sharpness to his demeanor, a quiet vigilance in his gaze. He kept a close watch on Wickham, whose behavior had begun to take on a more scheming and less innocent tone, and Richard was no longer willing to let things slide as he once might have.
Wickham, too, was changing. His charm remained, but there was something darker in it now—a cunning that hadn't been there before. What had once been light-hearted mischief began to edge toward manipulation, and Richard saw it clearly. Darcy, however, was slower to acknowledge it. He had always been loyal to those he considered family, and despite the growing unease he felt in Wickham's presence, he found it difficult to confront the reality that his once-close friend was now a man capable of deceit.
One evening, as the fire crackled in the drawing room, the three of them—Darcy, Richard, and Wickham—sat together. Richard and Darcy had been discussing the upcoming estate matters, though Darcy was far less engaged than usual, his mind far away. Wickham had been unusually quiet, which was out of character for him, but Darcy knew better than to assume all was well with his friend.
Wickham leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the hearth. "You know, Darcy, I've been thinking about a new venture. Something that could be quite profitable for all of us," he began, his voice smooth and confident, as always.
Darcy looked up from his papers, his brow furrowed. "What sort of venture?"
Wickham's smile widened. "One that requires a bit of boldness. Perhaps a little... flexibility with the rules."
Darcy's stomach tightened. He didn't like where this conversation was heading, but he couldn't bring himself to cut Wickham off. After all, he had always trusted him, hadn't he? But as the words lingered in the air, a voice—a voice he knew well, but which had lately seemed more like a distant echo—spoke up.
"That's enough, Wickham," Richard said, his tone low but firm. He didn't look at Wickham directly, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice.
Wickham raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh? What's this? Richard, you've become a bit too serious for your own good, haven't you?"
Richard stood from his seat, his gaze finally meeting Wickham's. "It's not seriousness, George. It's called integrity. Something you seem to have forgotten."
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Darcy shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the conversation bearing down on him. He had seen this dynamic before—the growing tension between Richard's directness and Wickham's sly charm—but it had never felt so pronounced. He knew Richard was right, but part of him still wanted to defend Wickham. After all, they had once been so close, had shared so much.
"Richard, I don't think you understand," Darcy said, his voice quieter than usual. "Wickham is still our friend. He's just... had a rough time. There's no need to be so hard on him."
Richard's gaze softened for a moment, but his voice remained unwavering. "I understand more than you think, Darcy. It's you I'm worried about. You've always been loyal to him, but loyalty can't blind you to the truth. Wickham is no longer the man we knew. He's playing a dangerous game, and it's time someone said it out loud."
Wickham's easy smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Now, now, Richard, you've always had a way of making everything sound like a dire consequence. Let's not forget, Darcy and I have been through quite a bit together. Surely that means something."
Darcy felt a pang of uncertainty. Wickham's words were tempting. He wanted to believe that their bond, their shared history, meant something more than Richard's accusations. But as he glanced at Richard, who stood tall and resolute, Darcy felt the weight of his cousin's concern.
"I'm not saying you're wrong, Richard," Darcy murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't just turn my back on him. Not yet."
Richard sighed, a deep, resigned sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "You don't have to turn your back on him, Darcy. But you do have to face the truth. And the truth is, George Wickham has changed. Whether you want to admit it or not."
Darcy didn't answer immediately, his mind swirling with the conflict between loyalty and what was right. He knew Richard's words held weight. He knew that the man who had once been his friend—his brother—was now someone else. But the bond they shared, the history they had, was not so easily severed.
Wickham's eyes flicked from Darcy to Richard, and for a fleeting moment, something cold passed between them—something that had not been there before. Then Wickham smiled again, but this time there was no warmth in it. "Well, if you're both going to be so serious, I'll leave you to it."
Richard didn't respond, but Darcy's gaze lingered on Wickham as he walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of the fire.
Finally, Darcy turned to Richard, his voice quiet but steady. "I don't want to lose him, Richard. I don't want to lose either of you."
Richard placed a hand on Darcy's shoulder, his grip firm. "You don't have to lose anyone, Darcy. But you can't keep excusing the things that are wrong, no matter how hard it is. Loyalty has its limits. And right now, the right thing is not always the easy thing."
Darcy nodded, the weight of Richard's words sinking deep into him. For the first time, he felt the tension between his loyalty to Wickham and the reality of the man he had become. He wasn't sure how he could navigate this, but one thing was clear: the time had come to face the truth.
It was at Cambridge that Darcy's eyes were finally opened fully to the true nature of George Wickham—a revelation that came with a sting of betrayal and left a bitter taste in his mouth. The years of camaraderie, the shared confidences, the laughter—they had all seemed so real, so genuine. But as he watched Wickham manipulate another group of students for his own gain, something within Darcy snapped.
He had always known that Wickham could be charming, that he could be persuasive, even deceitful at times. But this? This was different. Wickham wasn't just playing at mischief; he was actively deceiving, using others for his own benefit without any regard for the consequences. The ease with which he twisted the truth, the way he manipulated those around him—it was no longer something Darcy could ignore.
The confrontation had been swift, if not particularly forceful. Darcy had found himself in the quiet corner of the library, trying to make sense of the newly discovered facts that painted Wickham in a light he could no longer deny. The truth felt like a weight on his chest, something that pressed down on him, suffocating him.
"Wickham, I cannot allow this to continue," Darcy had said, his voice tight with frustration. "What you are doing is wrong."
Wickham's reaction had been one of mock surprise, his charming smile never wavering. "Darcy, old friend, you're taking things too seriously again. You know how I am—I enjoy a little fun now and then."
But Darcy could no longer excuse him. He knew that Wickham's "fun" had consequences for others, real consequences that ruined lives. He could no longer rationalize or minimize his actions.
It was then that the full weight of their bond hit him—a bond he had once believed unbreakable. He had been a fool. Wickham had used his trust, his loyalty, for selfish gain. The shock of it had hit harder than he could have imagined, and it left him reeling.
But in the midst of that crushing realization, it was Richard who appeared, as if summoned by some unspoken call, to steady him.
Richard had always been there, hadn't he? Darcy realized now that Richard had always seen what he had been unwilling—or perhaps unable—to see. He had called Wickham out time and time again, warning Darcy that his friend's charm was nothing but a mask, hiding a deeper, more dangerous nature. Darcy had dismissed it, his loyalty blinding him to the truth.
But Richard? He had never wavered. He had been there, ever loyal, ever true to his family, his blood brother.
"Darcy," Richard had said, his voice steady and calm, even as he understood the gravity of the situation. "I know this hurts. You trusted him. But you have to see it for what it is now. Wickham has played us both for fools, and I'm sorry it took so long for you to realize it."
Darcy had looked at his cousin, his heart heavy with the burden of his own naiveté. "I never wanted to believe it, Richard," he had murmured, the words thick with regret. "But now I can't deny it anymore. I've been blind."
Richard's hand had clapped gently on his shoulder, offering what comfort he could. "You're not the first man to be deceived by someone you care about, Darcy. It's painful, I know. But you're stronger than you think. And I'll be here. I'll always be here. You don't have to carry this alone."
For the first time in a long while, Darcy had allowed himself to lean on his cousin, his blood brother. Richard had always been there—brash, bold, and unwavering in his loyalty. In this moment, Darcy understood the depth of that loyalty. While the sting of Wickham's betrayal would take time to heal, he knew that Richard's support would never falter.
And for the first time, Darcy allowed himself to truly feel grateful for it. Richard's loyalty, his unwavering presence in the storm of Darcy's emotional turmoil, had been the one constant, the one thing he could rely on. As the years went by, as the pain of losing trust in Wickham gradually faded, the bond between them had only grown stronger. Richard had remained steadfast, a beacon of loyalty in Darcy's world, and Darcy had come to cherish him as more than just a cousin—he was a brother, in every sense of the word.
Now, as the day began again, as the world tilted on its axis and the familiar, oppressive weight of repetition settled in, Darcy's mind reached out for something to ground him, to remind him that not all was lost. That there was still someone who would understand.
He could no longer bear the feeling of being adrift in a sea of confusion and isolation, and so, without thinking, he sought out his blood brother. He needed Richard—needed the comfort of knowing there was someone who had stood by him through everything, someone who could look at him with the understanding only a true brother could have.
Darcy's gaze fell to the door of his study, where Richard's rooms lay just a few steps away. It was the natural place to turn, the one place where Darcy might find solace, even in this strange, unexplainable torment of reliving the same day over and over.
Perhaps, Darcy thought with a growing sense of resolve, Richard would have some answer. Or, if nothing else, he would offer the steady presence that had always been Darcy's anchor. In a world where nothing seemed real anymore, perhaps Richard would be the one to remind him what it meant to be human, to have a purpose, to be more than just a man trapped in a cycle.
Without further hesitation, Darcy moved toward the door. He had always been able to count on Richard in the past—today would be no different.
He knocked on Fitzwilliam's door and was quickly bid to enter. Batman, Fitzwilliam's valet, was just finishing shaving him when Darcy stepped inside. The soft scrape of the razor on Fitzwilliam's skin added an oddly calming rhythm to the room, but it did little to quell Darcy's anxiety.
Fitzwilliam's gaze flickered up, meeting Darcy's with an expression that was both curious and amused. "Good morning, Darcy. I trust you've managed to get some rest?" he asked, his voice light but laced with concern.
Darcy hesitated, his eyes darting to Batman, who was finishing his work with a practiced, unhurried efficiency. The valet gave a polite nod before stepping back, finishing the task without a word.
"I—" Darcy's voice faltered as he struggled to find the right words. The familiar warmth of Fitzwilliam's presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the walls Darcy had built around himself over the years. He couldn't afford to lose his resolve now, not when everything seemed so fragile.
Fitzwilliam leaned back slightly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, clearly waiting for Darcy to speak.
"You look as though you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, old friend. What is it?"
The words hung in the air between them. Darcy felt them pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating. How could he explain what was happening? What was really happening? He could not ask Fitzwilliam to believe him.
Part of him wanted to confess everything—everything about the repeating day, the unrelenting cycle of moments that felt like a cruel mockery of his existence. He wanted to shout it out, to let it all spill free. But then the absurdity of it all hit him like a cold wave. How could I possibly explain that I am reliving the same day? Darcy thought. It sounds mad.
Still, the weight of his secret grew unbearable. Fitzwilliam was perhaps the only person he could trust with something so unthinkable. Darcy took a deep breath, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words.
"I hardly know where to begin," he admitted, his voice low and tense. "But I must. You are the only one I can turn to in this."
Fitzwilliam straightened slightly, his brow furrowing in concern. "Darcy, you're beginning to worry me. Is it Georgiana? Has something happened?"
"No, it is not Georgiana," Darcy said quickly, though the mention of his sister added another pang of guilt to the turmoil in his chest. "It is... something else. Something I can scarcely explain, even to myself."
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his sharp gaze locked on Darcy. "Try. Whatever it is, you have my word I will hear you out."
Darcy hesitated for a long moment, staring down at the floor as though the patterned carpet might offer him some clarity. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Fitzwilliam's.
"Do you believe in providence?" he asked abruptly.
Fitzwilliam blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "Providence?" he echoed. "In what sense?"
"In the sense that... that time might not be as fixed as we assume it to be. That events might repeat themselves—forcefully, inexplicably." Darcy's voice wavered, the words sounding strange even to his own ears.
Fitzwilliam tilted his head, his expression one of both curiosity and growing unease. "Darcy, what are you talking about?"
Darcy stood suddenly, crossing the room to the window as if the movement might steady him. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and stared out into the misty grounds of Rosings.
"This is the fourth Thursday," he said finally, his tone brittle with suppressed emotion.
Fitzwilliam's brows knitted together. "The fourth... what?"
"The fourth Thursday," Darcy repeated, turning back to face him. "I have lived this day three times already. Each time I wake, it is as though the day has reset itself—unchanged, untouched by the actions I took the day before. It is the same morning, the same routine, the same conversations. No matter what I do, the day begins anew."
For a moment, Fitzwilliam simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. "Darcy," he began carefully, "you cannot expect me to—"
"I knew you would not believe me," Darcy interrupted, his voice rising slightly. "I would not believe it myself if I had not experienced it." He stepped closer, his eyes dark with intensity. "But I swear to you, on everything I hold dear, it is the truth."
Fitzwilliam rubbed a hand over his face, clearly struggling to process what he was hearing. "You say you've relived this day three times already," he said finally. "What happened on these... previous Thursdays?"
Darcy let out a slow, unsteady breath. "The first day, I..." He paused, his throat tightening. "I proposed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
Fitzwilliam's eyes widened slightly.
"She rejected me," Darcy continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was unprepared for it—staggered by it. The next day, I thought I had been given a chance to explain myself, to justify my actions. I wrote her a letter—"
"You wrote her a letter?" Fitzwilliam interjected, his tone sharp.
"Yes," Darcy said, his expression darkening. "I wrote to her of my role in separating Bingley from her sister, of Wickham, of Georgiana's near elopement."
Fitzwilliam inhaled sharply. "You wrote about Georgiana?"
"I did," Darcy admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "But the letter was never delivered. When I awoke the next morning, it was Thursday again. And I knew then that none of it had mattered. Nothing I had done the previous day had made any difference."
Fitzwilliam sank back into his chair, his expression a mixture of alarm and disbelief. "You are serious."
"I am," Darcy said firmly. "And yesterday, when I realized the day would begin again no matter what I did, I chose to do... nothing. I thought perhaps it was providence stepping in—that I was being told to wait, to let events take their course. But now... now I do not know what to think."
Fitzwilliam was silent for a long moment, his gaze searching Darcy's face as though trying to determine the truth. "This is madness," he said finally.
"Perhaps," Darcy said quietly. "But I can prove it to you."
Fitzwilliam's brows rose. "Oh?"
"Come to breakfast with me," Darcy said. "A servant will drop a tray, and Lady Catherine will say..." He paused, his voice tightening with frustration. "I know precisely what she will say. If it happens exactly as I predict, will you believe me then?"
Fitzwilliam hesitated, his skepticism still evident but tempered by curiosity. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. Let us go to breakfast."
The breakfast room hummed with the familiar sounds of quiet conversation and the occasional clink of silverware. Darcy sat rigidly in his chair, his eyes flickering toward Fitzwilliam. His cousin, seated across from him, appeared calm—too calm—though Darcy could sense the tension in the slight crease of his brow.
Fitzwilliam's skepticism was evident, though he masked it with his usual nonchalance. Darcy could almost hear the wheels turning in his cousin's mind.
Anne sat silently, as she always did, her delicate frame almost blending into the chair. Lady Catherine, however, presided over the table with her usual commanding presence, offering her opinions on the day's plans without waiting for input.
Just as Darcy had predicted, a footman entered with a tray laden with dishes, his movements precise yet hurried. Darcy's heart quickened, his eyes fixed on the young man.
Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the routine tranquility of the morning. Everyone's eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a footman had dropped a silver serving tray, its contents scattered across the polished floor. The man froze, his face pale as he stared at the mess, a teapot still spinning on its side.
Lady Catherine's sharp intake of breath made the tension in the room nearly palpable. Her voice, imperious and cutting, sliced through the stunned silence. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing at the trembling servant.
"I-I beg your pardon, your ladyship," the man stammered, bending hastily to gather the fallen items.
Before Lady Catherine could unleash further scorn, Fitzwilliam chuckled softly, his voice light and teasing. "Come now, Aunt. Even the best of us has clumsy moments. Shall we chalk it up to the influence of Rosings' grandeur?"
Lady Catherine turned her glare on him, her disapproval clear. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, you would do well to take matters more seriously. The servants at Rosings must conduct themselves properly, no matter the circumstance."
Darcy watched this exchange, his heart pounding in his chest as he looked across the table at Fitzwilliam. He could see it in his cousin's face: the growing realization, the dawning disbelief. Fitzwilliam's humor faltered as his gaze flicked from the servant to Lady Catherine and then—finally—to Darcy.
Darcy gave a slight, knowing nod.
Fitzwilliam stared at him for a beat longer, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came. Lady Catherine, apparently satisfied with her reprimand, turned her attention back to Anne. "It seems impossible to find competent help these days," she muttered.
Fitzwilliam, suddenly uncharacteristically quiet, pushed back his chair and stood. "If you'll excuse us, Aunt," he said smoothly, though his voice held an edge Darcy knew well. "Darcy and I have a matter to attend to."
Darcy rose as well, his movements measured, though his pulse still thundered in his ears. "Indeed, Aunt. We shall return shortly."
Lady Catherine barely glanced at them. "See that you do not neglect your obligations for the day," she replied dismissively.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam left the room in silence, walking briskly down the hallway. As soon as they rounded a corner and were out of earshot, Fitzwilliam turned sharply toward Darcy.
"What in God's name was that?" Fitzwilliam hissed, his voice low but fierce. "You knew! You knew that tray would fall, and you knew what Lady Catherine would say."
Darcy held his gaze, his expression grave. "I told you, Richard. This day has happened before. Four times now. I knew it because it has already occurred, precisely as you just witnessed."
Fitzwilliam stared at him, dumbfounded. "You cannot be serious. How is this even—" He shook his head as though to clear it. "No. It cannot be possible. And yet…" His voice trailed off, the memory of Lady Catherine's words and the servant's blunder clearly replaying in his mind.
"I wish I were mad," Darcy said quietly. "But you have seen it for yourself. The day repeats—everything repeats—no matter what I do."
Fitzwilliam began pacing, his hand raking through his hair. "This is madness. Complete madness." He stopped and fixed Darcy with a hard look. "So what now? If you are telling the truth—and God help me, I think you might be—what do we do?"
Darcy sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "That is precisely why I brought you here. I need your help. I believe this day repeats because something must change, and I think it concerns Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Bennet?" Fitzwilliam's brows shot up. "What does she have to do with this?"
"Wickham." Darcy's voice was grim. "If she is not warned, he may… harm her, as he nearly harmed Georgiana."
Fitzwilliam's expression darkened, the mention of Georgiana's near-elopement striking a nerve. "And what do you propose? That I tell Miss Bennet all about Wickham's misdeeds?"
Darcy straightened. "Yes. She would listen to you. You are more agreeable—more charming."
Fitzwilliam snorted. "So agreeable that I'm to ruin a man's character to a lady I hardly know? Do you realize how this will sound?"
Darcy clenched his fists. "You must try. If she believes you, it could prevent disaster."
"And why not you?" Fitzwilliam shot back. "You know the details better. If this concerns you so greatly, speak to her yourself."
Darcy's face tightened, his usual composure faltering. "Because she hates me," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "She thinks me proud, arrogant—insufferable. If I were to warn her, she would dismiss it as interference or spite. You, however, could persuade her."
Fitzwilliam groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You do realize how absurd this all sounds, don't you? You, reliving the same day. Me, warning a young woman about a charming rake. And yet…" He looked up at Darcy, his disbelief softening into reluctant acceptance. "And yet I saw it. I saw it."
Darcy met his gaze steadily. "Then you will do it?"
Fitzwilliam let out a long breath. "Fine. I will go on my usual walk, as you suggest. If I find Miss Bennet, I will speak to her about Wickham. But if this backfires—"
"It will not," Darcy interrupted. "Thank you, Richard."
Fitzwilliam pointed at him. "You owe me for this, cousin. Twice."
Darcy allowed himself the faintest smile. "If this works, I will owe you far more."
"Let us hope it is worth the effort," Fitzwilliam muttered, heading for the door. "God help us both."
Darcy sat in his study, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows and pooling on the carpet. His desk was piled with correspondence, though he hadn't glanced at a single letter. His thoughts had been consumed with the morning's events and Fitzwilliam's decision to speak with Elizabeth.
The door opened, and Fitzwilliam stepped inside. His boots were dusty, his cravat slightly askew, and his expression one of thoughtful satisfaction.
"Well, it's done," Fitzwilliam said, closing the door behind him. He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of brandy, and sank into the armchair opposite Darcy. "I told her about Wickham."
Darcy set his pen down, leaning back in his chair. "And?"
"She was shocked, naturally. More than that—disbelieving at first. She'd heard quite the opposite story. Apparently, she thought you denied him the living left to him by your father."
Darcy's lips pressed into a thin line. "That is what he would have her believe. Did you correct her?"
"Of course." Fitzwilliam took a sip of brandy before continuing. "I told her the truth—that you paid him £3,000 outright upon giving up his rights to the living, and that it was in addition to the £1,000 left to him in your father's will. She seemed astonished when I told her that Wickham squandered it all within three years and then demanded the living. And, naturally, you refused."
Darcy was silent for a moment, processing this. "Did she believe you?"
"I believe she did, though it took some effort to convince her. The man is a master of twisting truths to suit his purposes." Fitzwilliam's expression darkened. "But I made sure to warn her about his… less savory activities. She should know to guard her sisters against him."
Darcy's shoulders stiffened. "Did you say anything about Georgiana?"
Fitzwilliam hesitated, then shook his head. "I didn't need to. The mention of his 'seductions' was enough. Besides," he added, his tone gentler, "that's not a burden she needs to carry unless absolutely necessary. She seemed... concerned, though. I think it struck her that there may be more to Wickham than she first thought."
Darcy nodded, his gaze distant. "If she believes you, that is enough."
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Do you think it will change her opinion of you? Now that she knows the truth about Wickham?"
Darcy didn't respond immediately. The question lingered in the air between them. Finally, he exhaled softly, his voice measured. "I do not know. I cannot presume to understand her feelings, but… it is a relief that she knows the truth, at least. For that, I thank you."
Fitzwilliam waved a hand dismissively. "It was nothing. She deserved to know, and Wickham deserves to have his lies unravel. The man is a menace."
Darcy offered a faint smile, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. He reached for the decanter on his desk, pouring himself a drink. "Still, I am grateful. What happens next, I suppose, is out of my hands."
Fitzwilliam studied his cousin for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps. But I have a feeling this isn't over—not yet."
Darcy raised his glass in silent acknowledgment, though his thoughts were far from the study. He couldn't help but wonder how Elizabeth would look at him now, armed with the truth. Would she see him differently? Would it matter?
Fitzwilliam's voice broke through his reverie. "What now?"
Darcy sat stiffly in the drawing room at Rosings, his unease masked by his impeccable posture. The anticipation of the upcoming tea made his chest tighten with every passing moment. It was, of course, an unavoidable social obligation, but the presence of Lady Catherine—who was holding court, as always—made it especially irksome today. Her voice, a steady drone, filled the room as she expounded on the merits of proper estate management, a subject she considered herself an unparalleled authority on. Mr. Collins nodded fervently at every pronouncement, his obsequious responses eliciting a flicker of irritation from Darcy, which he quickly tamped down.
He had no real desire to be here, but the knowledge that Elizabeth Bennet, the source of much of his discomfort, would not be attending this afternoon made it bearable. After Fitzwilliam's words to her that morning, Darcy was certain that she would refuse the invitation, and so he settled into his chair, bracing himself for another round of Lady Catherine's endless speeches on topics that scarcely interested him.
Fitzwilliam, seated nearby, exchanged a knowing glance with Darcy, clearly amused by the farce unfolding before them. Darcy gave him a tight-lipped smile, though he could not quite summon the energy to indulge in the humor.
The door opened suddenly, and the footman announced the arrival of the party from the parsonage.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. and Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas," the man intoned, his voice cutting through the murmur of Lady Catherine's voice.
Darcy's heart stilled, then quickened in an almost imperceptible shift. Elizabeth.
He had not expected her to come. After all that had transpired between them—her obvious discomfort, his own internal turmoil—he thought she would avoid this gathering altogether. And yet, there she was, stepping into the room with her calm, composed demeanor, though he could see the faintest shadow of hesitation in her eyes as she entered.
Elizabeth paused briefly at the door before stepping fully into the room, her gaze flicking briefly toward Darcy, before she seemed to school her features. Mrs. Collins hurried forward, beaming with her usual sweetness, ushering Elizabeth into the room with a touch of prideful propriety. Miss Lucas followed silently, her presence always a quiet contrast to the more conspicuous personalities around her.
Darcy's eyes lingered on Elizabeth for a moment too long, his thoughts spinning. Her posture was composed, but there was something in the set of her shoulders—something that spoke of restraint, of effort. She had made the decision to come, but Darcy could not yet discern what it meant.
Lady Catherine, seemingly oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere, continued her lecture without pause. "Ah, Mrs. Collins," she began, "do tell me that your garden is thriving. I trust you have followed my suggestions for the proper arrangement of the vegetable beds? I have always said that the key to a successful estate is in the proper management of one's crops."
Mrs. Collins, eager to please, nodded vigorously. "Of course, Lady Catherine! We have already made improvements to the vegetable beds, just as you suggested."
Elizabeth, taking her seat near the edge of the room, made a faint sound of acknowledgment, though Darcy could see that her attention was elsewhere—perhaps lingering somewhere between discomfort and quiet resolve. Her gaze occasionally flicked in his direction, but it was fleeting, as if she were unwilling to hold his eye for too long.
Fitzwilliam, ever considerate, seemed to sense Elizabeth's unease. His voice broke in, light and warm, "Miss Bennet, it is good to see you again this afternoon. I trust the walk from the parsonage was pleasant?"
Elizabeth glanced up at him, her expression softening just a fraction. "It was, Colonel. A lovely walk, thank you."
Darcy noted the shift in her tone, the faint trace of warmth in her voice as she spoke to his cousin. There was no such warmth directed toward him, though, and his chest tightened in response.
Lady Catherine, having finished her lecture on estate management, turned her sharp gaze toward Elizabeth. "Miss Bennet," she said in a tone that was less a question and more a command, "I hope you have not been neglecting your studies in all this talk of walking and gardening. I am sure you would do well to follow my example and occupy yourself with pursuits that sharpen the mind."
Elizabeth's lips parted as if to respond, but before she could, Mr. Collins piped up eagerly, "Indeed, Miss Bennet, I have often said that a young lady's mind must be properly exercised, and I believe no one has more to offer in that regard than our dear Lady Catherine!"
Lady Catherine nodded, pleased by the obsequious praise, while Darcy could feel his own discomfort rising at the familiar and irritating interaction.
Fitzwilliam, ever the smooth talker, seemed to notice the slight tension between Elizabeth and Darcy. He gave Elizabeth a friendly smile, attempting to ease the discomfort. "Miss Bennet, might I inquire if you are still enjoying your book of travels? I would be interested in hearing your thoughts."
Elizabeth gave him a polite smile, though there was a fleeting hesitation in her eyes. "I am, Colonel. Thank you for asking."
Before Darcy could react to the unexpected warmth in her response, Lady Catherine's voice cut through the air, commanding attention once more. "Miss Bennet, I trust you still play the piano?" she asked, her sharp gaze studying Elizabeth as though scrutinizing her very soul. "It would be a shame if such a talent were left unused."
Elizabeth, caught off guard, hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I do, Lady Catherine, though I am hardly as accomplished as you might hope."
"Nonsense!" Lady Catherine declared, waving her hand dismissively. "I am sure you play very well, or at least well enough for a drawing room performance. You will play for us, I am sure."
Elizabeth glanced around, her eyes meeting Darcy's for the briefest moment. The tension between them felt thicker than ever, but for reasons she couldn't quite understand, a small part of her was compelled to do as Lady Catherine wished. She rose from her seat and moved toward the piano, her steps deliberate but not without an edge of reluctance.
Fitzwilliam, ever the gentleman, rose quickly as well. "Allow me to turn the pages for you, Miss Bennet," he said with a smile, his tone light, though there was an undertone of mischief in his voice.
Elizabeth nodded her thanks, settling onto the piano bench. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the nervous flutter in her chest as her fingers hovered over the keys. She knew the piece well enough, but the weight of the moment, the pressure of being watched by the very people who had never quite accepted her, made it feel as though every note would be scrutinized.
As she played, Darcy could not help but be drawn to the sound. He had heard Elizabeth play before, at Netherfield, but there was something different now. He could not explain it, but it was as if the music spoke to him in a way it had never done before. Each note echoed in his mind, and for the first time, he found himself listening not just to the music, but to her—to the way she sat with such grace, the subtle way her fingers danced over the keys. There was an intimacy to the act, a vulnerability in her performance that stirred something deep inside him, despite the lingering anger and frustration he felt toward her.
He still could not fathom how she had ever believed Wickham's lies, how she could have accused him of such a thing, but at that moment, the anger seemed distant. In its place was a quiet, unresolved yearning. He loved her. He couldn't deny it, no matter how much he tried to. The thought felt as sharp and painful as it had the first time he realized it. He could not look away from her, and yet he remained silent, unsure of what to say or why he even cared to say anything at all.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, felt a quiet ache in her chest as she played. Her fingers were steady on the keys, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't help but wonder if he had heard the music, felt the subtle apology she was offering with each note. She had been so certain, so confident in her judgment of him all those months ago, and now—now she was riddled with regret. She couldn't fully explain why she had believed Wickham, why his words had cut through her reason, but in that moment, the shame was undeniable. It wasn't just about Wickham anymore—it was about her own pride, her own misunderstanding. She had been wrong, and now, perhaps, it was too late to make amends.
When the final note of the piece hung in the air, Elizabeth's hands stilled on the keys, and the silence in the room felt suffocating. Lady Catherine was the first to speak, clapping her hands together in approval. "Well done, Miss Bennet! Very well done," she declared with a satisfied nod. "You may not be a virtuoso, but you play well enough for a woman of your station."
Elizabeth simply nodded, standing from the piano bench and turning toward the others. Fitzwilliam smiled at her, clearly pleased with her performance. But Darcy, who had been watching her with an intensity he could not suppress, was unsure of what to feel.
The apology he had expected from Elizabeth had not come in words, but it had lingered in the music, in the quiet tension that hung between them. It was as though they were both waiting for something, for the other to make the first move, but neither could bring themselves to break the fragile silence.
Elizabeth avoided his gaze as she returned to her seat, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't know how to face him, how to explain herself, or if she even could. She was ashamed of the things she had said, the judgments she had made, but the distance between them now seemed insurmountable. She had no reason to believe he could ever forgive her, and she didn't know if she could ever forgive herself for being so foolish.
The evening stretched on, though Darcy could hardly remember the passing time. He was lost in his own thoughts, consumed by the unresolved feelings that he couldn't quite place. He hated the way Elizabeth made him feel—desperate for her approval, for her understanding—and yet he could not walk away, could not ignore the pull he still felt toward her.
Eventually, the tea ended in a quiet, subdued manner. Lady Catherine made her usual pronouncements, Mr. Collins eagerly agreeing with her on every point, but Darcy barely heard a word. His mind was elsewhere, caught in a whirlwind of regret and longing.
As the guests rose to leave, Elizabeth quickly excused herself, her head held high despite the turmoil within. She was not ready to face Darcy, not yet. She had to find a way to move forward, to make sense of her feelings. But in that moment, all she knew was that the gulf between them, so much wider than she had ever imagined, might never be bridged.
Darcy retired to his study after the guests departed, but the quiet offered little comfort. The tension from the evening clung to him, and no amount of pacing or staring into the fire could shake it. He thought of Elizabeth's expression—guarded, hesitant, as though she carried some unspoken burden. He thought of her music, the unassuming notes that had filled the room with a kind of quiet sorrow. Was it regret he had seen in her eyes? Or was he imagining what he most wanted to believe?
He hated that he cared so much, hated that her opinion of him mattered more than it should. But despite his anger, despite everything that had happened, he still loved her. He always had.
The study door creaked open, and Fitzwilliam stepped inside, his expression one of mild amusement. "Well," he said, dropping into a chair across from Darcy, "that was an interesting tea, wasn't it?"
Darcy raised a brow, his voice clipped. "Was it?"
"Don't pretend you weren't watching her like a hawk," Fitzwilliam said, smirking. "You were so quiet I thought Lady Catherine might accuse you of sulking."
Darcy turned away, staring at the fire. "I don't know what you mean."
Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Come now, Cousin. The way you looked at her—it was as if you were trying to solve a puzzle. Did she say anything to you?"
"No," Darcy replied curtly. He hesitated before adding, "She barely looked at me, save for one or two fleeting moments."
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well, you can hardly blame her. She's likely trying to reconcile everything I told her earlier today. It's not every day someone learns they've been thoroughly deceived by a man like Wickham."
Darcy stiffened at the mention of Wickham. "You believe she understood the gravity of what you told her?"
"I think so," Fitzwilliam said, his tone more serious now. "She seemed...shaken, though she hid it well. I told her the truth, Darcy—about the money, about Wickham's squandered opportunities, and about his unsavory habits. I didn't mention Georgiana directly, but I made it clear that he has a history of preying on young women."
Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "And what did she say?"
"Not much," Fitzwilliam admitted. "She listened. I could see her mind working, though. She's clever, Darcy. She'll piece it all together soon enough." He paused, studying his cousin's profile. "You're hoping this changes her opinion of you, aren't you?"
Darcy didn't answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost pained. "I don't know what I'm hoping for. I only know that I want her to see the truth. About Wickham. About me."
Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. "It's not easy, is it? Caring for someone who doesn't care for you in return."
Darcy's jaw tightened. "I don't need your pity, Richard."
"It's not pity," Fitzwilliam said gently. "It's understanding. I've seen how she affects you, Darcy. And for what it's worth, I don't think she's indifferent to you. But there's a lot of ground to cover between you two. The question is, are you willing to fight for it?"
Darcy didn't answer, but the question lingered in the air, heavy and unyielding.
Richard reached for the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, pouring two glasses without asking permission. He handed one to Darcy and raised his own. "Here's to finding answers—whatever they might be."
Darcy took the glass but didn't drink. His thoughts swirled like a storm, and the weight of Fitzwilliam's understanding only made his burden feel heavier. He rose from his seat and crossed to the window, staring out into the night. The moon hung low, casting its pale light over Rosings' gardens, which had become both a sanctuary and a prison.
"Why are you still here, Richard?" Darcy finally asked, his voice quieter now.
Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out with a casualness that belied his intent gaze. "You're reliving the same day, aren't you? That's what you said. Well, I've decided to see it for myself."
Darcy turned, frowning. "See what?"
"Midnight," Fitzwilliam replied simply. "If what you're saying is true, I want to know what happens at midnight. Do you vanish? Do I vanish? Does the world simply...reset? I'll wait with you."
Darcy's frown deepened, but a flicker of something—hope? Curiosity? Desperation?—crossed his face. "And if nothing happens?"
Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Then we'll know this is all just a result of too much stress and perhaps too much brandy. Either way, I'm staying."
Darcy hesitated for a moment but then nodded. "Very well."
The hours crept by as the two men sat in Darcy's room. The brandy was sipped slowly, its warmth doing little to ease Darcy's growing tension. Fitzwilliam, ever the conversationalist, tried to fill the silence with light-hearted banter, but Darcy's terse replies made it clear his thoughts were elsewhere. Eventually, Fitzwilliam fell silent, watching his cousin with a mixture of amusement and concern.
As the clock neared midnight, Darcy's posture grew rigid, his eyes fixed on the timepiece as though willing the hands to move faster.
"You're staring at that clock as if it holds the secrets of the universe," Fitzwilliam remarked, his tone laced with humor.
"Perhaps it does," Darcy muttered, not taking his eyes off the clock.
The final seconds before midnight seemed to stretch into eternity. Darcy's breath quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his own curiosity piqued despite his earlier nonchalance.
The clock struck twelve.
Darcy exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He glanced at Fitzwilliam, who raised an eyebrow.
"Still here," Fitzwilliam said, gesturing to himself. "And you're still here."
Darcy's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Perhaps it's over," he murmured, more to himself than to Fitzwilliam. "Perhaps I've made it to Friday."
The minutes ticked by, and with each passing moment, Darcy's hope grew. The crushing weight that had pressed down on him for what felt like an eternity began to lift, replaced by a tentative optimism. Fitzwilliam, noting his cousin's change in demeanor, refilled their glasses and raised a silent toast to the possibility of moving forward.
But as the clock struck four, exhaustion finally claimed them both. Fitzwilliam stretched out on the settee, his head resting against the armrest, while Darcy slumped in his chair, his head falling forward as sleep overtook him.
The room fell silent, save for the steady ticking of the clock and the faint rustle of leaves outside the window.