Chapter Text
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—was it a dream? It was vivid, almost painfully so. He could still feel the sting of Elizabeth's words, the echo of her refusal playing over and over in his mind like a haunting refrain. "You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
His breath hitched, and he pushed himself upright in bed. Was it still the same day? The weight in his chest told him it must be. The scene in the parsonage—the way her eyes had blazed with defiance, the sharpness of her refusal—it was all too real to be mere imagination.
This could not continue. He would not endure another day of her scorn, of watching her slip further out of his reach. No, if this endless repetition would not release him, then he would take matters into his own hands. He would leave Rosings immediately.
When Wentworth arrived with his customary greeting, Darcy barely acknowledged it. "Prepare my carriage," he said abruptly, his tone sharp with urgency.
"Sir?" Wentworth hesitated, confusion flickering across his features.
"I intend to leave for London within the hour," Darcy continued, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "There is no reason to remain."
"As you wish, sir," Wentworth replied, though his uncertainty lingered. He bowed and left the room, his steps brisk.
Darcy dressed swiftly, his movements fueled by a determination to escape the relentless cycle. By the time he descended the stairs, his carriage awaited him, the horses already harnessed and ready.
The ride through the Rosings estate passed without incident. The air was crisp and carried the scent of budding blossoms, a reminder of the season's renewal. He crossed the gates and urged the driver to move faster, desperate to put distance between himself and the memories that clung to him like a shadow.
But as the small village came into view, the first obstacle appeared—a wheel of the carriage splintered with a loud crack, sending the entire vehicle lurching to one side. The horses reared in alarm, and Darcy was jolted violently within.
The driver leaped down, inspecting the damage with a grim expression. "We'll need to return to Rosings, sir," he said, shaking his head.
Darcy clenched his fists, his jaw tight with frustration. "No," he snapped. "Find another solution."
"Begging your pardon, sir," the man replied, "but the axle's snapped clean through. We've no choice but to repair it at the manor."
Darcy stepped out of the carriage, his boots crunching against the gravel. He surveyed the quiet road and the looming expanse of trees beyond. For a fleeting moment, he considered walking, but a sudden storm clouded the horizon, the wind picking up with a ferocity that promised rain.
Reluctantly, Darcy relented. He climbed back into the carriage, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. As the horses turned, carrying him back toward Rosings, the oppressive weight of his predicament settled over him.
Reluctantly, Darcy relented. He climbed back into the carriage, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. As the horses turned, carrying him back toward Rosings, the oppressive weight of his predicament settled over him.
But as the carriage rolled through the gates, Darcy's resolve stiffened. He would not be bested by whatever invisible hand sought to trap him here. The following morning, he ordered his horse saddled before the sun had risen, determined to make his escape before the day could take its familiar course.
Wentworth hesitated at the unusual request. "Your horse, sir? At this hour?"
"Yes," Darcy said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "And I expect it immediately."
The valet bowed and left the room, though his hesitation was evident. Within minutes, Darcy was mounted and riding away from Rosings at a gallop. The brisk morning air whipped against his face, and the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the dirt road seemed to mirror the racing of his heart.
For the first few miles, he allowed himself to hope. Each tree that passed felt like a small triumph, each bend in the road a victory. But as the village came into sight, a sudden jolt broke his momentum—his horse stumbled, a sharp clink of metal signaling a thrown shoe.
Darcy swore under his breath, dismounting to inspect the damage. The animal snorted and shifted uncomfortably, its gait unsteady. The shoe lay several paces back, a cruel reminder of his apparent fate.
"Fine," Darcy muttered through gritted teeth. He led the horse toward the village, the innkeeper greeting him with a sympathetic shake of the head.
"We can get it fixed, sir, but not until tomorrow," the man said. "The smithy's gone off to his cousin's and won't be back until morning."
Darcy, unwilling to return to Rosings yet again, decided to stay the night. He took a modest room at the inn, its sparse furnishings a stark contrast to the opulence he was accustomed to.
As he settled into the narrow bed, he allowed himself a faint flicker of satisfaction. For once, he was away. Surely this would break the cycle. He closed his eyes, exhaustion and frustration weighing heavily on him.
But when he awoke, the bark of a distant dog pierced the silence. The low groan of wind rattled the windowpane, and a familiar chill seeped through the cracks.
A clock chimed six. One. Two. Three.
Darcy sat bolt upright in his bed. The same bed. His bed at Rosings.
Four. Five. Six.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He clenched his fists against the covers, his mind racing. Not even leaving the estate had freed him from the relentless repetition.
He muttered a curse under his breath. "This is absurd," he growled.
Wentworth entered at his usual hour, bearing the same quiet efficiency. "Good morning, sir," he said with a slight bow. "I trust you slept well? Your bath is ready."
Darcy barely looked at him, his thoughts a whirlwind of anger and disbelief. "Saddle my horse," he snapped, cutting off the valet's usual routine.
Wentworth blinked, then recovered. "Of course, sir."
And so, Darcy tried again.
This time, he took a different route, avoiding the village entirely. He pushed his horse harder, refusing to slow even as the forest paths narrowed and became more treacherous. But as the sun reached its zenith, the horse abruptly reared, startled by something unseen. Darcy managed to keep his seat, but the animal was lathered and breathing heavily. Reluctantly, he turned back, knowing it could go no farther without rest.
When he reached Rosings once more, it was as if the house mocked him with its unchanged façade.
The next attempt was no different. Whether by carriage or by horse, by dawn or by dusk, every path seemed to lead him back to Rosings.
On the fourth attempt, his stubbornness reached its peak. Only ten miles from Rosings, with the light fading, Darcy again sought refuge at an inn. The room was plain, the mattress lumpy, but he was too drained to care. Surely, he thought, surely this time...
But when the distant bark of a dog pierced the silence, he did not even have to open his eyes to know.
Six chimes.
He groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes. No matter where he went, no matter how far he traveled, the same day began anew, trapping him within its inescapable grasp. For over a fortnight, he had tried to escape Rosings in every conceivable way. He had taken the main road, the back roads, and paths scarcely fit for travel. He rode his horse until its hooves nearly gave out, only to find himself inexplicably back at the estate before nightfall. Once, he had even taken a rented carriage from the village, pushing the driver to go faster and faster, but the wheels broke barely ten miles from the manor. In his stubbornness, he had taken shelter at an inn for the night, only to wake the next morning—here, in his bed at Rosings.
He had considered walking, for what good were horses and carriages when the world itself conspired against him? Yet even on foot, he never made it beyond the nearby hamlet before a sudden storm or a broken bridge forced him to turn back. At times, he had entertained the notion that this was some cruel jest or dream from which he would awaken, but the cold ache in his limbs and the weight of each moment proved otherwise. His frustration grew with every failed attempt, but no matter his resolve, Rosings held him fast like a cage.
Darcy let his hands fall to his sides, staring blankly at the ceiling as despair coiled tighter within him. It was as though time itself mocked him, forcing him to endure this singular, unbearable day again and again.
Defeated, Darcy rose once more, his mind churning as he tried to piece together the puzzle of his predicament. If leaving would not release him, then what, in heaven's name, would?
Darcy stood at the window of his room, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the rolling hills beyond Rosings Park. The frustration of his predicament gnawed at him, but his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a memory long buried beneath the weight of years and duty. If he was destined to relive a day endlessly, why could it not have been that day? The last perfect day.
It was a golden afternoon at Pemberley, the kind of day that seemed crafted by nature itself to linger in memory. The sun cast its warm light over the estate, dappling the emerald lawn with patches of gold. He could hear the faint laughter of his mother, melodic and carefree, carried by the soft breeze from the lake.
He was just a boy then, running alongside his father toward the picnic laid out beneath the great chestnut tree by the water's edge. His mother sat on the blanket, her parasol casting delicate shadows across her features. She had been so vibrant that day, her eyes alight with mischief as she teased his father about his less-than-perfect aim during their earlier game of lawn bowls.
Georgiana, only two, toddled unsteadily across the grass, her chubby hands reaching out toward him, her giggles like music. He remembered scooping her up and twirling her around, her soft curls brushing against his cheek as she squealed in delight.
His father had laughed, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to resonate through the very earth. "Steady now, Fitzwilliam! You'll make her dizzy," he'd chided, though there was no real reprimand in his tone.
They'd feasted on simple delights: freshly baked bread, ripe strawberries, and cool lemonade poured from a crystal pitcher. His mother had recited poetry, her voice like a melody, as his father leaned back on his elbows, watching her with an expression that spoke of quiet devotion.
Darcy had felt invincible that day, wrapped in the unbreakable bond of family, secure in the love that surrounded him. It was the last time he had seen his mother truly well. Within months, illness had taken hold, and the light that had shone so brightly in her dimmed, leaving their family forever changed.
He closed his eyes, the memory both a balm and a torment. What he would give to relive that day, to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, to hear his mother's laughter again, to see his father's steady presence beside him, and to hold Georgiana as a child, untouched by the sorrows of the world.
Darcy exhaled sharply, the weight of the present crashing down upon him. Instead of the idyllic afternoon by the lake, he was trapped in this endless loop, replaying a day rife with misunderstandings, frustrations, and unspoken regrets.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why this day? Why not that one?"
But no answer came, only the rustle of the trees and the distant bark of a dog—a cruel echo of a time he could never reclaim.
He could not leave. He could not relive the perfect day. No one else recalled what happened when the morning came again, their lives reset to the same script while he bore the crushing weight of memory alone.
Trapped. Frustrated. Resigned.
What did it matter what he did? Nothing changed. The day would reset no matter his actions, and all roads led back to Rosings.
Darcy sat at breakfast, his untouched coffee cooling in its cup as Lady Catherine expounded—again—on the virtues of Anne, her voice rising and falling in its familiar, imperious cadence. "Anne, you know, would make the most excellent wife for any sensible man of fortune and standing. A perfectly suitable match—duty, family, propriety—what more could one require?"
Something in Darcy snapped. Perhaps it was the weight of her endless words or the futility of reliving this day yet again, but all reason abandoned him. The biting irony of Lady Catherine's assumptions—and the hopelessness of his situation—spurred him into action.
He turned his gaze toward Anne, who, as usual, sat quietly, her pale face expressionless as she absently pushed at her toast. The room seemed to still as Darcy spoke, his voice clear and deliberate.
"Anne," he said, drawing every eye to him. "Will you make me the most miserable man on earth but fulfill your mother's dream and consent to be my wife?"
Silence crashed over the room like a thunderclap.
Anne's fork clattered to her plate, the sound loud and jarring. She stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, her pale cheeks flushing an alarming shade of pink. "What?" she whispered, as though uncertain she'd heard him correctly.
Fitzwilliam choked on his tea, coughing violently as he turned to gape at Darcy. His expression hovered between horror and incredulity.
Lady Catherine, however, reacted with immediate and unrestrained delight. Her face lit up, the sharp features softening with rare satisfaction. "At last!" she exclaimed, rising halfway from her seat as if she might embrace them both on the spot. "This is as it should be! I knew you would come to your senses, Darcy."
Darcy barely heard her. He held Anne's gaze for a moment longer—an apologetic flicker passing through his otherwise impassive expression—before shifting back to his plate.
Anne blinked, visibly recovering herself. "You cannot be serious," she said flatly, her voice trembling slightly.
"Oh, but he is!" Lady Catherine interjected, ignoring the shocked disbelief on her daughter's face. "Serious and wise! Such a union—oh, how it has always been my greatest wish! Darcy, you have pleased me beyond measure."
Fitzwilliam, regaining his composure, leaned toward Darcy, his tone low and incredulous. "Are you quite mad?" he demanded, the tension in his voice barely suppressed.
Darcy said nothing, stabbing a piece of toast with far more force than necessary. What did it matter? Tomorrow—or this very moment—would be erased. He could do or say anything, and the day would reset itself as if it had never happened.
Anne, still staring at him in alarm, spoke again, more firmly this time. "I do not accept."
Lady Catherine's smile faltered. "Anne, do not be ridiculous—"
"I do not accept!" Anne repeated, her voice shaking as she pushed back her chair and stood. "This is madness. I will not be used as part of anyone's—" She trailed off, looking at Darcy with a mix of confusion and anger before sweeping from the room without another word.
Lady Catherine gaped after her, speechless for the first time in Darcy's memory. Fitzwilliam gave Darcy a long, measured look and shook his head in disbelief. "Well done, cousin. You've managed to shock us all."
Darcy sat back, calm despite the chaos he'd caused. Let it reset, he thought grimly. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all.
The next day—though every day was the same—Darcy awoke once again to the same piercing bark and rattling wind. The clock chimed six, and he let out a long, exhausted sigh. He rubbed his face, muttering to himself.
"What's the use?"
But then, a thought struck him. If nothing mattered—if the day reset no matter what he did—why not take some liberty? He had spent the last fortnight suffering through frustration, failed attempts to leave, and emotional turmoil. Perhaps it was time to enjoy this cursed day in his own fashion.
And so, Darcy decided to turn his attention to Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam was everything Darcy was not: affable, lighthearted, and utterly unburdened by the weight of responsibility. Darcy's cousin often teased him about his seriousness, calling him a man "born to frown." What would Fitzwilliam say, Darcy wondered, if he decided to abandon decorum?
Darcy's first prank was minor. As Fitzwilliam arrived in the breakfast room, Darcy—who'd never been the first to the table—sat calmly eating Fitzwilliam's usual plate of food.
"Darcy," Fitzwilliam said cautiously, "you appear… remarkably hungry this morning."
"Indeed," Darcy replied, straight-faced. "I've developed a sudden appreciation for toast. Yours, in particular."
Fitzwilliam blinked, baffled, before bursting into laughter. "Have you gone mad, cousin?"
"Possibly," Darcy replied without elaboration, watching Fitzwilliam grumble good-naturedly to the servant about retrieving a fresh plate.
The next prank took more effort. Darcy paid one of Rosings' footmen to discreetly replace Fitzwilliam's cup of tea with lukewarm water—a swap that went unnoticed until Fitzwilliam's first sip. He sputtered loudly, nearly spilling it down his front.
"Darcy!" he accused, his narrowed gaze darting toward his cousin, who sat smirking behind his own perfectly proper tea.
"I have no idea what you mean," Darcy replied innocently, though his calm tone was betrayed by the faint upward curve of his lips.
"Lukewarm water? I expected you to slip arsenic into my cup before you resorted to this."
"You'll know when the arsenic comes," Darcy quipped dryly.
Fitzwilliam laughed so heartily he nearly fell from his chair. "Who are you, and what have you done with my dour cousin?"
By midday, Darcy's pranks became more elaborate. He had a stable boy hide Fitzwilliam's boots, forcing his cousin to wander Rosings' halls in his stockinged feet until they were returned. Then, while Fitzwilliam was engaged in conversation with Lady Catherine, Darcy quietly slipped a single sugar cube into Fitzwilliam's waistcoat pocket—where it promptly melted, unnoticed.
Fitzwilliam discovered it later, exclaiming in horror, "My waistcoat! It's ruined!"
Darcy allowed himself a rare, unrestrained chuckle.
If he was to be trapped, he could choose how to endure it. For once, nothing mattered.
And, for once, that felt liberating.
Darcy's newfound liberation soon evolved into something far less dignified. The oppressive weight of his predicament had lifted slightly—what did it matter how he behaved when the day would always reset? He had stopped trying to escape, stopped searching for answers. And so, Darcy, the proper, dutiful, serious master of Pemberley, turned his considerable wit and cunning to more juvenile pursuits.
It began harmlessly enough, with Fitzwilliam. Here, the next day he had a bit of fun at his expense again.
One morning, while Fitzwilliam busied himself with writing a letter to their uncle, Darcy entered the study, eyes gleaming with the kind of gleeful mischief he hadn't allowed himself since boyhood.
"Cousin," Darcy said, his tone all too serious. "I've been thinking."
Fitzwilliam didn't look up from his writing, muttering absently, "That's dangerous."
Darcy smirked, folding his arms. "No, really. I've been thinking about Rosings—about Lady Catherine, Anne, and… well, you."
At this, Fitzwilliam paused, finally looking up from his letter with a raised brow. "Me? What about me?"
Darcy paced the length of the room with deliberate slowness, his face a picture of deep contemplation. "I believe," he said gravely, "that it is time you considered a most serious matter."
Fitzwilliam's brow furrowed. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Darcy stopped, turning to face his cousin. "Your duty. To the family. It's time you proposed to Anne."
For a long, uncomfortable moment, Fitzwilliam simply stared at him, blinking in stunned silence. Then, with a snort of laughter, he waved Darcy off. "Don't be absurd."
"I'm not being absurd," Darcy replied, managing to keep his face perfectly straight. "Think about it. The de Bourgh and Fitzwilliam names united. Lady Catherine would be overjoyed. It's practically expected of you."
Fitzwilliam looked incredulous, shaking his head. "You can't be serious. I'm not… I mean… Anne and I? That's the last thing—"
"You say that now," Darcy interrupted, "but imagine the power of her dowry. The estate at Rosings would thrive under your command. And besides," Darcy added with a sly grin, "I hear Anne has always held a soft spot for you."
At this, Fitzwilliam's face turned a shade of crimson. "Darcy," he warned, "if this is some jest—"
"It's not," Darcy lied smoothly, his expression unwavering. "I simply think it's time someone took action. Lady Catherine has been dropping hints for years. She's been waiting for one of us to step up, and, well… perhaps it ought to be you."
Fitzwilliam's eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding his features. "Are you trying to foist this off on me so you can avoid marrying her yourself?"
Darcy pressed a hand to his chest, adopting a wounded expression. "I would never shirk my responsibilities, cousin. But I believe you would make the better match. Your natural charm, your military honor—Anne could never do better."
For a moment, Fitzwilliam seemed to seriously consider Darcy's words, his expression softening just enough to reveal the doubt creeping in. Darcy had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright.
"Besides," Darcy continued, unable to resist pushing further, "Lady Catherine practically told me that she thinks you're the only suitable candidate. She even hinted that Anne would be most pleased to receive your attentions. Why not propose at dinner tonight? It would save us all a great deal of trouble."
Fitzwilliam groaned, running a hand over his face. "Darcy, if you don't stop this nonsense, I swear—"
"Nonsense? I am deadly serious," Darcy replied, his voice smooth as silk. "In fact, I've already told Lady Catherine to expect something tonight. She's going to be quite disappointed if you don't rise to the occasion."
"You what?" Fitzwilliam's eyes widened in horror, his composure finally cracking. "Darcy, please tell me you didn't—"
"I did," Darcy said with a shrug. "But don't worry, you'll do fine. Just give a little speech, mention your admiration for Anne, and everything will fall into place."
Fitzwilliam looked as though he might faint. "You're out of your mind! There is no way I'm proposing to Anne tonight!"
"Suit yourself," Darcy said lightly, turning toward the door. "But do be prepared for Lady Catherine's disappointment. She's already having the servants prepare a special cake."
Fitzwilliam stood abruptly, knocking over his chair in his haste. "You can't be serious, Darcy! You didn't—"
But Darcy was already out the door, leaving his cousin to stew in a mixture of dread and confusion.
That evening, at dinner, Darcy sat back in his chair, casually sipping his wine, watching Fitzwilliam with barely concealed amusement. His cousin was a nervous wreck—shifting in his seat, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief, and shooting panicked glances at Anne and Lady Catherine throughout the entire meal.
Darcy waited, silently counting the minutes, until the moment Lady Catherine brought up the evening's conversation topic, completely unaware of the prank being played on her nephew.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam," she began in her usual imperious tone, "I trust you have something of importance to say this evening?"
Fitzwilliam froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, looking as though he might bolt from the table. His eyes darted to Darcy, who offered him an encouraging nod.
Lady Catherine cleared her throat, expectant. "Well, Colonel? What is it you wish to say?"
Fitzwilliam opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The entire room seemed to hang in agonizing silence.
Darcy could barely keep from laughing, though he hid it behind a cough. He leaned in, feigning concern. "Go on, cousin. Now's your chance."
Fitzwilliam, utterly defeated, mumbled something incomprehensible and quickly rose from the table, excusing himself with a strained, "I need some air."
As the door closed behind him, Lady Catherine turned to Darcy, frowning. "What on earth is wrong with the Colonel? He seems… quite out of sorts."
Darcy only smiled innocently. "Perhaps he's just overwhelmed by the weight of family duty."
And with that, he returned to his wine, thoroughly satisfied with the chaos he had wrought.
Soon, Darcy's gaze turned to the rest of Rosings' inhabitants, and pranks upon them.
At tea one afternoon, as Lady Catherine expounded for the fifth time on her favorite subject—proper estate management—Darcy listened with feigned interest, his fingers idly turning a teaspoon. Just as she launched into another boast about Anne's suitability for marriage, he tipped his chair back slightly and let the spoon fly. It struck Mr. Collins squarely in the middle of his napkin-draped chest with a muffled clink.
Mr. Collins choked mid-sentence, fumbling with his cravat, his face a picture of bewildered dismay. "Oh, dear me! How very peculiar!"
"An accident, I assure you," Darcy said smoothly, biting the inside of his cheek to contain a smirk. Fitzwilliam coughed loudly to mask his laughter.
Lady Catherine gave Darcy a sharp look but seemed to let it pass—after all, Mr. Darcy could do no real wrong in her eyes.
The next day, Darcy decided Anne should share in his mischief. At tea, while Anne sat in her customary silence—her frail hands folded neatly in her lap—Darcy nonchalantly handed her a cup of tea. Only this cup had been filled to the very brim, leaving no way for Anne to pick it up without spilling. She blinked at it helplessly for a full minute before finally whispering, "Thank you, Cousin Darcy," in her quiet monotone.
Fitzwilliam leaned close, his voice dripping with admiration. "Did you do that on purpose?"
Darcy replied with an imperceptible twitch of his lips.
The highlight of his rebellion, however, came when he turned his attention to Lady Catherine herself. One afternoon, as she lectured the company on the proper way to trim hedges—"Only the simplest minds would allow unruly foliage to mar an estate!"—Darcy decided he had heard enough.
"My dear aunt," he interrupted smoothly, his tone as serious as ever, "might I commend you on your great wisdom? Truly, Rosings' hedges are the pinnacle of perfection."
Lady Catherine preened at the praise, waving a hand as though it were nothing. "Indeed, I have overseen every detail myself—"
"But I must ask," Darcy continued, "why you have chosen to trim the western hedgerows into the shapes of donkeys? It's a daring choice. Unique, I dare say."
Fitzwilliam choked audibly, while Anne glanced up from her tea in wide-eyed confusion. Mr. Collins, ever the toady, looked horrified.
"Donkeys!" Lady Catherine sputtered, her eyes narrowing to slits. "What nonsense! My hedges are shaped into classic, elegant forms—none of this modern frivolity!"
Darcy nodded gravely. "Ah, my mistake then. My admiration remains undiminished."
Lady Catherine began to sputter something in response, but Fitzwilliam's barely-contained laughter distracted her. Darcy leaned back in his chair, pleased, and for the first time in weeks, a real smile tugged at his mouth.
Evenings at tea became his playground. He switched Mr. Collins' sugar for salt. He slipped small, harmless notes beneath Lady Catherine's teacup with comments like, "A most excellent hostess always insists upon four lumps of sugar, never three." Mr. Collins followed these suggestions to the letter, much to Lady Catherine's growing confusion and irritation.
For Anne, Darcy began to insert small, inappropriate compliments into their dull conversations. "Miss de Bourgh, your vigor astonishes me," he would say solemnly, watching as she blinked and colored faintly in response.
Fitzwilliam took it all in with open amusement, once cornering Darcy in the drawing room to say, "You know, cousin, I rather think you've lost your mind. But it suits you."
Darcy shrugged, indifferent. "Madness seems preferable to monotony."
Yet through all of this—the laughter, the mischief, the startled glances of his companions—there remained one person Darcy would not approach. Elizabeth Bennet.
Whenever he saw her walking with Fitzwilliam, he would turn away. It was as if she existed outside this strange purgatory he found himself in—untouched by his antics, immune to his attempts to distract himself from his predicament.
And though his pranks brought him fleeting moments of amusement, Darcy still felt the emptiness creeping in. For all his attempts to push the boundaries of his day, nothing ever truly changed. No matter what he did, the sun would set and rise again on the exact same day, trapping him still.
But for now, at least, he could take comfort in the sound of Fitzwilliam's uncontrollable laughter echoing through Rosings' halls.
It wasn't much, but it was enough—for today.