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Until He Gets It Right

Chapter 4: Chapter 3 If At First You Don’t Succeed Try, Try Again.

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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. He sat up abruptly, his heart racing as he looked around the room. It was the same as it always was—the same arrangement of furniture, the same faint chill in the air. But something felt off.

He turned to the settee where Fitzwilliam had fallen asleep the night before. It was empty.

Darcy frowned, his gaze darting to the window. It was slightly ajar, just as it had been the previous morning. They had closed it during their vigil. He stared at the candle on the side table, its wax once again half-melted despite having burned to nothing the night before.

His breath hitched. It wasn’t over. Midnight had brought hope, but morning had stolen it away.

"Richard?" he called, his voice hoarse with dread.

He threw off the covers and strode to the door, yanking it open. Fitzwilliam’s room was only a short distance down the hall, and Darcy covered the ground in moments. He knocked sharply, his heart pounding.

"Come in," came Fitzwilliam’s groggy voice from within.

Darcy pushed the door open. Fitzwilliam was sitting up in bed, his hair disheveled and his expression puzzled as he tugged on his dressing gown. "What on earth, Darcy? It’s barely dawn."

Darcy stared at him, his thoughts churning. Fitzwilliam was here, in his own room, as though the previous night had never happened. The reset was complete.

"Never mind," Darcy muttered, stepping back. "It’s nothing."

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching as Darcy turned and retreated to his own room. Darcy closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it as the weight of his reality pressed down on him once more. He was still trapped, and Fitzwilliam, like everyone else, remembered nothing.

"Damn it," Darcy whispered to the empty room, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The faintest chill seeped through the window, the morning light creeping across the floor as though mocking him. Time had reset, and he was alone in his knowledge once more.

Darcy’s throat tightened. "No," he whispered, stepping back. "No, no, no."

A soft knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts, and he turned sharply as Wentworth entered, his valet as calm and unflappable as ever.

"Good morning, sir," Wentworth said with a slight bow, his movements measured and precise. "I trust you slept well? Your bath is ready."

Darcy stared at him, his mind racing. He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to speak. "Wentworth, what day is it?"

The valet paused, surprised by the question. "Thursday, sir."

Darcy closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as despair surged anew. "No," he murmured to himself. His voice broke slightly. "No."

"Sir?" Wentworth’s voice carried a note of concern.

Darcy shook his head. "Nothing," he said sharply, dismissing the thought. "Proceed as usual."

Wentworth hesitated but then continued about his tasks with quiet efficiency, straightening Darcy’s desk and ensuring the morning routine was seamless. "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 nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere. The weight of the endless repetition bore down on him, but he forced himself to move, to go through the motions. Perhaps today would bring something different. It had to.

Darcy’s chest tightened, the word striking like a blow. He turned away, muttering under his breath, “No.”

“Sir?” Wentworth asked, concern flickering in his voice.

Darcy shook his head, his expression stony. “Nothing,” he said curtly, dismissing the subject.

Wentworth gave a slight nod, though his eyes lingered on Darcy a moment longer. He 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 barely acknowledged him, his thoughts racing. He rose and moved toward the adjoining dressing room, where a steaming bath awaited. The faint scent of lavender rose with the steam, offering the promise of brief reprieve.

“Shall I assist, sir?” Wentworth asked.

“No,” Darcy replied, his tone clipped. He waved a hand dismissively. “That will be all, Wentworth. Leave me.”

“Very good, sir,” the valet said, bowing slightly before leaving the room.

As the door clicked shut, Darcy gripped the edge of the porcelain tub, his knuckles whitening under the strain. The warm water beckoned, but he felt as though he stood on the edge of a precipice, his anguish an unrelenting weight pressing him down.

Elizabeth would not remember. Fitzwilliam would not remember.

All the progress of the previous day—the subtle apology, Fitzwilliam’s intervention with Elizabeth—had been erased in the suffocating monotony of repetition. Darcy leaned heavily against the wall, staring into the bathwater as his thoughts spiraled.

Why? Why was this happening? Was it some punishment, divine or otherwise? What purpose could this endless loop serve other than to torment him?

Elizabeth’s face flashed in his mind, her hesitance, her fleeting smile, her quiet apology for what had passed between them. His chest ached at the thought. She had begun to see him differently—or so he had dared to hope. But today, she would look at him with the same guarded expression, the same prejudice.

And it would be as if yesterday had never happened.

Darcy lowered himself into the bath, the water enveloping him in its warmth. Yet no solace came. He would endure Lady Catherine’s breakfast, Fitzwilliam’s quips, and Elizabeth’s refusal or not showing jsut as before, because they would not know.

But he would.

And somehow, he had to make her see the truth.

Darcy moved through the day with a practiced stoicism, performing each duty and interaction with the precision of a man determined to maintain control, even as the oppressive weight of familiarity settled over him. He dined with Lady Catherine, engaged briefly with Fitzwilliam, and spent hours in his study, his mind circling the unsettling repetition of events. Yet, when the hour of Fitzwilliam’s habitual walk arrived, Darcy hesitated, his thoughts fixed on Elizabeth. This time, instead of retreating or distracting himself, he resolved to follow. As he neared the grove, the faint murmur of voices reached his ears. Carefully, he stepped closer, the sight of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth in earnest conversation drawing him forward. Concealed by a cluster of trees, Darcy stilled, his heart pounding as he strained to hear their words, the tenor of their discussion igniting a mixture of curiosity, dread, and an unshakable pull toward Elizabeth.

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”

“Are you indeed? And pray, what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

As she spoke, Elizabeth observed Mr. Darcy looking at her earnestly. There was an intensity in his gaze that made her falter, though she kept her composure. The manner in which he immediately asked her, “Why do you suppose Miss Darcy likely to give us any uneasiness?” convinced her that she had somehow or other touched upon a subject of some delicacy.

Before Elizabeth could respond, Darcy stepped closer, his voice sharper than intended. “Miss Bennet, what precisely do you mean by your remark about my sister?”

Elizabeth started, unprepared for his abruptness. Fitzwilliam turned toward his cousin, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Darcy, surely you don’t mean to—”

Darcy held up a hand, his gaze fixed solely on Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth, though startled, recovered quickly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of confusion and defiance. “I meant nothing beyond a general observation, Mr. Darcy. Young ladies, I find, often have their own minds about matters, as I am sure Miss Darcy does. Was I mistaken?”

His jaw tightened. “If you mean to imply that my sister is willful or difficult, then yes, you are entirely mistaken. Miss Darcy is the most amiable and compliant of young women.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her expression now colored with mild amusement. “I see my light comment has struck a nerve, Mr. Darcy. Surely you cannot think me so presumptuous as to claim to know her character from a mere jest.”

Fitzwilliam, sensing the growing tension, interjected. “Darcy, there’s no need to be so grave. Miss Bennet only means that young women of Georgiana’s age may naturally exhibit some independence.”

Darcy ignored Fitzwilliam’s confused expression, his gaze fixed firmly on Elizabeth. His voice was low and edged with steel as he said, “And yet, Miss Bennet’s words were not chosen without thought. It seems clear to me that she speaks from some... information.”

Elizabeth stiffened, her composure faltering under his scrutiny. “Mr. Darcy, I assure you, I speak only from general experience. I know nothing of your sister beyond what has been shared in polite conversation.”

Darcy’s eyes darkened. “Yes, and I know precisely who could give you such information, and for you to believe it—” He stopped abruptly, his hands clenched at his sides.

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam exchanged puzzled glances, their mutual confusion deepening. “Mr. Darcy, what are you insinuating?” Elizabeth asked, her tone guarded.

Darcy exhaled sharply, his control fraying. “Wickham,” he said, his voice bitter. “Wickham must have spoken to you. What lies has that man told you about my sister?”

Fitzwilliam started at the name, his brows furrowing. “Wickham?” he exclaimed. “How does Miss Bennet know that scoundrel?”

Elizabeth drew herself up defensively, her cheeks flushing. “Mr. Wickham told me nothing about Miss Darcy that puts her in an ill light,” she said firmly. “Nothing, except that she is proud, like you. But perhaps you do not consider that a flaw.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Do not deflect, Miss Bennet,” he said harshly. “Wickham has poisoned you with lies. Whatever he has told you about my sister is false. I will not allow her good name to be sullied by his deceptions.”

Elizabeth’s color rose, indignation flashing in her eyes. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wickham said nothing to degrade Miss Darcy’s name. But if you are so concerned about lies, perhaps you should ask yourself why he would speak so ill of you.”

Fitzwilliam interjected, his voice rising. “Miss Bennet, I must warn you—George Wickham is a man of little honor. Whatever he told you, consider it with great skepticism. Darcy speaks the truth: Wickham is not to be trusted.”

Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his tone steely but restrained. “Miss Bennet, I would very much like to know—what does Wickham accuse me of? What version of events has he shared with you?”

Elizabeth hesitated, searching Darcy’s face for any hint of disingenuousness. Finally, she said, “He has only told me that you denied him the living your father left him in his will.”

Fitzwilliam let out a derisive laugh, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Ah, yes, I am certain he conveniently omitted the part where Darcy paid him £3,000 in lieu of the living. A rather critical detail, wouldn’t you say?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. The room seemed to tilt slightly as she processed the revelation. Jane and Charlotte’s voices from months ago echoed in her mind, their gentle cautions urging her to consider that Wickham’s story might not be complete. Why did I not listen? she thought.

Darcy’s voice cut through her thoughts, calm but tinged with bitterness. “A year after my father’s death, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage in lieu of the preferment, by which he claimed he could not be benefited. He expressed an intention of studying law, though he had insufficient funds to support himself. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere, but I agreed to his proposal. I knew, even then, that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman.”

Elizabeth, still reeling, found her voice. “Why do you say he was unfit for the clergy?”

Fitzwilliam answered in Darcy’s stead, his tone grave. “Wickham has a long history of vice, Miss Bennet. Gambling, debts, and worse—he preys upon others to satisfy his insatiable appetite for indulgence. Trust me, his faults are neither minor nor excusable.”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch as the full weight of his words sank in. She had known Wickham to be charming, affable, even persuasive, but she had never considered the darker possibilities that now loomed before her.

Fitzwilliam continued, his voice steady but tinged with disdain. “When Darcy gave him £3,000, Wickham squandered it within three years. He then had the audacity to write again when the living became vacant, demanding it be given to him as though nothing had happened. Naturally, Darcy refused.”

Darcy’s expression darkened, and his voice dropped to an ominous quiet. “That, Miss Bennet, was not the last time Wickham crossed my path.”

Fitzwilliam stiffened and shot Darcy a warning glance. “Cousin, perhaps now is not the time—”

But Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth, his anguish and anger battling for dominance. “No, Fitzwilliam. She deserves to know the truth, all of it.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened further, her pulse quickening. “What truth?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Darcy’s voice grew tight with controlled fury as he said, “Wickham’s most grievous transgression was not merely directed at me. It was aimed at my sister. At Ramsgate, he sought to elope with Georgiana, then but fifteen years of age, for the sole purpose of obtaining her fortune.”

Elizabeth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as Fitzwilliam muttered under his breath, “Darcy, this is too much.”

Darcy pressed on, his voice trembling with emotion. “He charmed her, deceived her into believing he cared for her. Had I not arrived unexpectedly and intervened, the consequences would have been catastrophic. Georgiana was devastated, her trust betrayed in the most cruel manner.”

Elizabeth stared at him, horrified. The Wickham she had trusted and pitied now appeared in a starkly different light. “I... I do not know what to say,” she murmured, her voice faint.

Darcy’s gaze softened slightly as he saw the turmoil in her expression. “I do not tell you this to demand your approval or pity, Miss Bennet,” he said quietly. “I tell you because you deserve to know the truth about the man you have been inclined to believe.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze. For the first time, Elizabeth found herself questioning not only Wickham but her own judgment as well.

Colonel Fitzwilliam offered his arm to Elizabeth as they turned from the clearing. She hesitated for a moment, her mind clearly occupied by all she had just heard. But then, with a small sigh, she accepted.

The walk back to the parsonage was quiet at first, the usual ease of conversation between them replaced by a lingering tension. Fitzwilliam, ever observant, glanced at Elizabeth. “You are very quiet, Miss Bennet. I hope my cousin did not upset you unduly.”

Elizabeth forced a thin smile, her expression unreadable. “Your cousin and I often misunderstand one another. It is a fault we share, I think.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, though her evasiveness did not escape him. “If there is anything unclear in what Darcy said about Wickham, Miss Bennet, I urge you to speak with me. I know my cousin’s temper can be... formidable at times, but on this matter, he is entirely honest. Wickham has caused more harm than you could imagine.”

Elizabeth stopped abruptly, turning to face him. “Do you think me such a fool, Colonel, that I cannot recognize sincerity when I see it? No, I believe Mr. Darcy. It is myself I doubt.”

Her words startled him, and he softened. “I see. Then I commend your willingness to reflect, Miss Bennet. Many would not.”

They walked the rest of the way in contemplative silence. As they reached the parsonage door, Elizabeth offered Fitzwilliam a faint smile. “Thank you for accompanying me, Colonel.”

He bowed lightly. “It was my pleasure, Miss Bennet. I only hope the day brings you clarity.”

Fitzwilliam returned to Rosings with a resolute stride, heading directly for Darcy’s room. He found his cousin pacing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam began, his tone sharp, “what were you thinking?”

Darcy turned, his expression hard. “What precisely are you accusing me of, Fitzwilliam?”

“You spoke of Georgiana,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice rising. “We swore to keep that matter private. It is not for others to know—least of all Miss Bennet.”

Darcy stiffened. “And yet you seem to forget that Miss Bennet already knew something. Wickham told her lies, poisoned her mind against me. Could I allow her to think the worst of my sister while believing him virtuous?”

“You could have left it to me!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “I would have explained Wickham’s faults without dragging Georgiana into it.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained even. “Perhaps. But it is done now. Miss Bennet needed to understand the gravity of Wickham’s actions. I will not apologize for protecting my sister’s honor, even if that meant exposing the truth.”

Before Fitzwilliam could retort, a knock at the door interrupted them. A footman entered, bowing slightly. “Gentlemen, Lady Catherine requests your presence for tea in the drawing room.”

Darcy and Fitzwilliam descended to the drawing room, where Lady Catherine was already seated with Mr. and Mrs. Collins, her voice commanding the room as usual.

“Where is Miss Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked casually, taking his seat.

Mrs. Collins answered, her tone laced with concern. “She is unwell. She has taken to her room and will not join us.”

Darcy felt his chest tighten. Unwell? he thought. Was it truly illness, or had their confrontation earlier distressed her? Still, he allowed himself a flicker of hope. Perhaps she now saw Wickham’s deceit for what it was. Perhaps this time, she would accept him.

Darcy arrived at the parsonage, his pulse quickening with each step. The door opened before he could knock, and the servant greeted him softly, assuring him that Miss Bennet was within. Darcy scarcely heard her words as his mind was consumed by his purpose. With a determination that brooked no hesitation, he made his way to the sitting room.

Elizabeth rose as he entered, her expression a flicker of surprise, though she quickly masked it with a polite calmness.

“I was told you were unwell,” Darcy began, his voice taut with an emotion he could not quite name. The words came out more clipped than he intended, betraying the tension gnawing at him.

“It’s nothing serious,” Elizabeth replied, her tone courteous but distant. Her manner held a quiet reserve that sent a pang through Darcy’s chest, as though he were already at a disadvantage.

There was a moment of silence between them, and Darcy, unable to ignore the pull in his heart, found himself suddenly unsure of how to proceed. But in that instant, the barriers he had built up came crashing down. She stood before him, poised and unyielding, and it broke something inside him.

He stepped forward, his voice trembling as he spoke, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

For a fleeting moment, Darcy thought he saw a flicker of something in her eyes—a softening, perhaps—a sign that she might understand. Her lips parted, and her gaze met his with an unreadable expression. But it was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

He went on, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He spoke of his struggles, of his reasons for acting as he did, the obstacles he had overcome to make such a declaration. His mind raced as he spoke, his words growing faster, almost frantic.

“I know I have offended you and your family,” he admitted, “but the truth is, I could not allow my feelings to go unspoken any longer. Yes, you and your family are beneath me, but it is my heart that has overruled my judgment. I have fought against it, but I cannot anymore.”

He paused, trying to gauge her reaction, but her face remained stoic, betraying none of the emotions he hoped to see.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and thick, before she finally spoke, her voice calm but sharp. “How could I marry a man who has insulted my family, my position, and yet expects me to be grateful?” Her words hit him like a cold slap. “I think not.”

Darcy’s heart sank. For a moment, he stood there, struggling to find words, but they failed him. His pride bristled, and he spoke in a tone that was colder than he intended. “I thought better of you, Miss Bennet. I thought that once you saw the truth about Wickham, you would understand my actions. But clearly, I was mistaken.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the calmness with which she responded only deepened his frustration. “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it,” she said, her voice firm.

Darcy stood there, stunned. The familiar sting of rejection settled deep within him. He wanted to say something—anything—to make her understand, but the words eluded him.

With nothing left to say, he turned and left, the weight of her refusal heavy on his chest. Her words echoed in his mind long after he had gone, each one a painful reminder of how much he had misunderstood. The bitter truth of her rejection haunted him, and he knew—no matter how much he tried to bury it—that he would never forget the finality of her refusal.