Chapter Text
The clock chimed six, each note reverberating through the room like the echo of inevitability. Darcy sat at his desk, his pen poised above the crisp sheet of paper. The dim light of dawn filtered through the slightly open window, carrying with it a faint chill. He dipped his pen into the inkwell, the deliberate action grounding him as he began to write.
My Dearest Georgiana,
It is always a joy to write to you, though I confess it cannot fully ease the ache of your absence. How often I find myself wishing we could walk together through the grounds at Pemberley or sit in the music room while you play. Still, writing gives me some semblance of connection, and for that, I am grateful.
There is a tenant family here at Rosings with a remarkable young girl named Violet. She is a lively child, full of curiosity and courage. Just this morning, I came upon her climbing a tree, far too high for safety, in pursuit of a bird's nest. Thankfully, I arrived in time to ensure she came down unharmed. Her boldness reminds me of someone I know quite well—you, my dear sister.
Do you recall how you would explore the gardens at Pemberley with such determination, proclaiming yourself the queen of some hidden grove or secret corner? Violet has that same spirit. There is something inspiring in her willingness to face the world without hesitation, though I wish she would show a bit more caution! Watching her often makes me think about the joys of our shared childhood, and how much I long for those simpler times.
Her energy and independence also remind me of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Bennet possesses a lively wit and a strength of character that is truly singular. She challenges me in ways I did not expect, and I suspect you would find her as fascinating as I do. In her presence, I am often reminded of how important it is to see the world with fresh eyes and an open heart—qualities I know you possess, even when you are uncertain of them.
I hope you are keeping up with your music, Georgiana. There is something about Mozart's compositions that always seemed to suit you, though I wonder if you have discovered any new favorites. If so, I should love to hear of them in your next letter.
Please know that you are never far from my thoughts. Whatever the distance between us, you remain my constant source of pride and affection.
With all my love,
Fitzwilliam
Darcy reread the letter, a faint smile touching his lips as he folded it carefully and sealed it with his crest. Rising, he summoned John, handing him the letter along with a list of the items needed from Gardiner Imports.
"John," Darcy said with quiet authority, "deliver this letter to my sister in Mayfair first. Afterward, proceed to Gardiner Imports and pick up these items. Once you've retrieved them, return to my sister's residence and collect her reply before heading back here."
"Yes, sir," John replied with a dutiful bow, taking the letter and list before departing.
As the sound of the horse's hooves faded into the morning air, Darcy allowed himself a moment of reflection. Georgiana's words had been a source of strength yesterday, and he found himself yearning for that connection once more. The thought of her letter arriving later that day brought a flicker of hope.
He straightened his waistcoat, steeling himself for another Thursday. He reflected briefly his choice, the act of writing to his sister always brought a peculiar mix of solace and longing, a connection to the outside world he felt was slipping further from his grasp with every passing Thursday. Yet he knew what the act meant for the rest of his carefully structured day.
By writing the letter and sending John to London, there would be no time to intercept Fitzwilliam before breakfast. And without Fitzwilliam joining him, his cousin would inevitably take his usual walk, meet Elizabeth, and relay the information that would leave her too angry to attend tea.
But what choice did he have? He couldn't forgo the letter to Georgiana—he needed her words, her presence, even if it was only through ink and parchment.
As the clock struck seven, Darcy descended the stairs for breakfast, his expression composed but his mind a storm of conflicting emotions.
The breakfast room was bright with morning light, the table already set with the usual array of dishes. Anne was seated at her place, stirring her tea with practiced grace. She greeted him with a faint smile.
"Good morning, Fitzwilliam," she said softly, her pale features showing a hint of color that hadn't been there in days.
"Good morning, Anne," Darcy replied, his tone steady as he took his seat.
Anne studied him with a knowing gaze that made Darcy shift uncomfortably. Ever since she had begun recalling fragments of their repeated days, her perception of him seemed sharper, more discerning.
"Is something troubling you?" she asked lightly, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer.
"Not at all," Darcy said quickly, reaching for his tea. "Why do you ask?"
Anne's faint smile returned. "No reason, Cousin. You just seem...preoccupied this morning."
Darcy avoided her eyes, focusing instead on the buttering of his toast. He knew Anne would not press the matter further with Lady Catherine soon to arrive.
As the meal continued, Lady Catherine entered the room, her presence as commanding as ever, followed by Fitzwilliam, who greeted them all with his usual good-natured banter. Darcy managed to conceal his irritation as his cousin recounted some trivial observation about Rosings' grounds, unaware of the walk that lay ahead and its inevitable consequences.
By the time breakfast ended, Darcy felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. If he had masked his frustration well enough to avoid Anne's further probing, he considered it a small victory.
Outside, the morning air was cool as Darcy mounted his horse and set off toward the Bendrick farm. The routine was familiar now, but his focus on saving Violet never wavered. As Darcy approached the great oak tree by the Bendrick farm, his eyes instinctively scanned the branches. There, as always, was Violet, perched far too high, her legs swinging carelessly over the edge of a precarious limb.
He barely had time to call out. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled.
Darcy spurred his horse forward, reaching out just in time to catch her in his arms. Her laughter bubbled up, startling in its brightness, as she clung to him.
"You're here again, Mr. Darcy!" she said, her voice light and filled with delight.
Darcy froze, his pulse quickening. Her words struck him like a thunderclap. "Again?" he asked, his voice sharp and uncertain.
Violet nodded, grinning as though she'd just announced something terribly clever. "Yes, you always catch me when I fall!"
Darcy set her gently on the ground, crouching to her level as he held her shoulders. "You remember me catching you before?" he pressed, his tone almost disbelieving.
Her smile faltered, and she tilted her head as if trying to piece together a puzzle. "I think so," she said slowly. "It feels like... like it's happened before. Lots of times. But I only remember when I'm falling."
"Every time?" Darcy asked, his voice low and urgent.
Violet nodded earnestly. "Every time! When I wake up, it's like I forget everything, so I climb the tree to save the bird's nest. But then, when I slip and see you, I remember. You're always there."
Darcy's grip on her shoulders tightened slightly. His mind raced, grappling with this revelation. "Violet, this is important. Do you remember anything else? Anything before the tree or after? Do you remember the voice as you fall?"
She scrunched her nose, clearly trying to think. "I don't remember before the tree, but I know you, you are my knight come to save me and baby Thomas."
Darcy straightened, his thoughts spinning as he tried to make sense of it. "Violet," he said firmly, "you must promise me something. Tomorrow, when you wake up, I want you to think about today. Try to remember this conversation."
Violet's eyes widened with solemn determination. "I'll try, Mr. Darcy. I really will."
He exhaled deeply, brushing a hand through his hair as he tried to steady himself. "Good. And no more climbing trees," he added with a stern but gentle look.
Violet giggled, her brightness returning. "I'll try that, too," she promised, skipping ahead toward the cottage.
Darcy followed at a measured pace, his thoughts swirling. When he reached the Bendrick home, Mrs. Bendrick greeted him warmly, but their conversation unfolded exactly as it had every other day. She did not recall their prior exchanges, her words unchanging, as predictable as the sun rising over Rosings.
When Darcy returned to Rosings, his mind lingered on Violet's startling revelation. Her ability to remember fragments of their encounters, even as fleeting as they were, gnawed at him. Was it a sign of progress, or merely an anomaly in this endless cycle?
He barely had time to sit and gather his thoughts when Anne entered his sitting room unannounced, a determined set to her features. She moved with more confidence than usual, settling herself gracefully in the chair across from him.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Anne? Shouldn't you be resting?"
"I'll rest later," she replied with a wave of her hand, her gaze sharp and probing. "You've been avoiding me."
Darcy sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I've been busy."
"Busy brooding, perhaps," she said with an uncharacteristic edge of teasing. "You asked me to observe today, Fitzwilliam, and I have. I've noticed something."
He stiffened slightly but said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"Fitzwilliam used to ride with you every morning, did he not? Yet now he walks, and each time, Miss Bennet seems to miss tea. That didn't happen before and yet I think it did." She leaned forward slightly. "Why is that?"
Darcy hesitated, unsure how much he wanted to divulge. But Anne's patient, unwavering stare wore him down.
Finally, he sighed, his voice quiet but edged with frustration. "Because Fitzwilliam tells her things he shouldn't. Things he doesn't even realize are hurtful."
Anne tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her expression. "What kind of things?"
Darcy hesitated, his fingers tightening on the armrest of his chair. "I once confided in Fitzwilliam about... saving Bingley from an imprudent match," he admitted. "I truly believed Miss Bennet's elder sister, Jane, did not care for him and was simply yielding to her mother's pressures. I thought I was doing the right thing."
Anne's brow furrowed. "And what does that have to do with Fitzwilliam?"
Darcy's jaw tightened. "He thought he was highlighting my character—showing me as a caring, loyal friend. He told Miss Bennet about my actions, not knowing that her sister was the imprudent match I spoke of. It hurt her deeply. She doesn't come to tea because of it."
Anne's lips parted in surprise, her expression softening. "That's why you've been keeping Fitzwilliam occupied in the mornings."
Darcy nodded. "It's my only way to prevent the conversation. But even when I manage to stop him, she still dislikes me. She... she despises me."
"Do you think she'll always hate you?" Anne asked gently.
Darcy's gaze dropped to his hands, his voice thick with regret. "I don't know. Perhaps I've given her every reason to. And yet..."
"And yet, you still care for her," Anne finished for him, her tone thoughtful.
Darcy didn't answer, but the silence that followed was telling.
Anne studied him for a moment, then said softly, "Fitzwilliam, you miss Georgiana too, don't you?"
His head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face.
Anne smiled faintly, her voice tinged with understanding. "You write to her every morning. I see the change in you after. You carry so much for her... and for yourself."
Darcy exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I miss her terribly. I can only write to her in the morning. It's a choice I've had to make—whether to stop Fitzwilliam or to write to her. Every day, I choose, but it never seems to matter."
Anne reached across the space between them, placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe it does matter," she said quietly. "You're trying. That's more than most would do."
Darcy looked at her, a flicker of gratitude in his otherwise weary expression. "Thank you, Anne."
Anne tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady and thoughtful. "You know," she began softly, "I've talked to Elizabeth twice now. I don't think she hates you as much as you think. I believe she's confused—and perhaps hurt—by the way you were in Meryton. But hate?" She shook her head. "I'm not so sure."
Darcy stared at her, caught between disbelief and a yearning hope. "Confused?" he echoed.
"Yes," Anne said, her tone firm but kind. "You can be... difficult, Fitzwilliam. Reserved. Proud, even. But I think Elizabeth sees more in you than she wants to admit."
Darcy rubbed his jaw, the weight of her words settling heavily on him. "And what would you suggest, Anne?" he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "Every time I try to change the course of events, I only seem to make things worse."
Anne's expression softened. "We can come up with something. I'll learn more at tea."
Darcy shook his head, a bitter smile touching his lips. "She won't be there. Fitzwilliam has already told her today."
"Then tomorrow," Anne said resolutely.
"But tomorrow—" Darcy began, then stopped, his voice lowering. "Tomorrow, I need to write to Georgiana. I can't skip it again."
Anne gave him a knowing smile. "Don't worry. I'll make sure Fitzwilliam doesn't take his walk in the morning. Trust me, Fitzwilliam. We'll figure this out."
Darcy regarded her for a long moment, the faintest trace of a smile softening his features. "Thank you, Anne. Truly."
Just then, a knock at the door heralded John's arrival. He entered with a small parcel of medicine and a neatly folded letter. Darcy took them both, his eyes lingering on the letter as he placed it carefully on his desk.
Anne watched him, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Last night, I felt better after taking the tea Elizabeth recommended," she said. "I hope tonight it will help again."
"It will," Darcy assured her, his voice firm. "And tomorrow, we'll make more progress."
Anne tilted her head, studying him. "I take it you won't be coming to tea?"
Darcy shook his head. "No, I have to deliver this medicine to the Bendricks, and then I wish to read my letter."
Anne offered a small smile. "Well then, I will see you tomorrow, Fitzwilliam."
With a nod of agreement, Darcy watched her leave the room before collecting the medicine and setting out for the Bendrick cottage. The ride was brisk and familiar, the road well-trodden from countless days of repetition. At the cottage, Mrs. Bendrick greeted him warmly, her gratitude as effusive as ever. Little Thomas was improving, his breathing steadier with each new tincture Darcy brought. Violet grinned at him from her perch by the hearth, her mischievous energy a welcome balm to his weary soul.
After exchanging a few kind words and ensuring the medicine was properly prepared, Darcy made his way back to Rosings. His heart was heavy with the thought of yet another day ending without resolution, yet the letter in his pocket brought a small glimmer of anticipation.
In the quiet of his sitting room, he settled into his chair and broke the seal on Georgiana's letter.
My Dearest Brother,
Your letter arrived this morning, and as always, it brightened my day. Though I miss you terribly, your words bring me comfort and remind me of the bond we share. I can almost picture you at Rosings, writing to me from your desk as the morning light filters through the curtains.
I was amused to read about Violet and her adventurous spirit. She sounds delightful, though I hope she heeds your advice about climbing trees! The way you describe her reminds me of our childhood at Pemberley, where the gardens felt like a kingdom waiting to be discovered. It warms my heart to know you think of those days fondly.
I continue to practice my music, as you encouraged me to do. Mozart remains a favorite, though I have also begun exploring Beethoven. His compositions are challenging but rewarding, and I find them an interesting contrast to the more familiar melodies I have loved. Perhaps one day I shall play them for you and hear your thoughts.
Will I see you this Saturday, or will you delay your trip once again? I know your responsibilities at Rosings keep you busy, but I so look forward to seeing you. It has been far too long since we shared a proper conversation.
Thank you for always writing so faithfully, Fitzwilliam. Your letters mean more to me than I can express. I hope to hear from you again soon, and until then, know that you are in my thoughts always.
With all my love,
Georgiana
Darcy sat at his desk, Georgiana's letter resting on the polished surface before him, its seal already broken. He had read her words twice, yet they still tugged at him as though she were speaking directly to his heart.
"Will I see you this Saturday, or will you delay your trip once again?"
Her question lingered in the still air of the room, a quiet rebuke layered with hope. Darcy ran a hand through his hair, his chest tightening with a familiar ache. He could almost hear her voice, soft and uncertain, echoing the words on the page.
"If only I could see you in two days," he thought, the weight of the impossibility pressing down on him. How many times had Saturday loomed just beyond reach, forever postponed by the unyielding cycle of Thursday?
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the memories rushing in unbidden. Twice, he had put off his trip to London—once because he believed his presence at Rosings was essential to further his courtship of Elizabeth, and again because of his own stubborn pride, thinking his proposal would secure the outcome he desired. At the time, he had convinced himself these were the right choices, but now, trapped in this endless loop, he would give anything to undo those decisions.
"How foolish I was," Darcy admitted silently. "To think I could delay such moments indefinitely. How many more letters must I write before I see her smile again?"
Georgiana's letters were a lifeline, yet they were also a reminder of what he had lost. Her words spoke of music, of her attempts at new composers, of her longing to share her discoveries with him. But beneath her careful phrasing, he could sense the loneliness she tried to conceal.
"I promised her I would always be there," he thought, guilt threading through his resolve. "And yet here I sit, powerless to move forward, reliving the same mistakes over and over again."
His gaze drifted to the window, where the sky had begun to darken with the coming evening. For all his wealth, for all his determination, he could not break free of the cycle that bound him.
And yet, as his fingers traced the edge of Georgiana's letter, a spark of hope flickered. If he could not change the day, perhaps he could change what he did with it. Perhaps, in his repeated efforts, he might uncover a way to keep his promise—not only to Georgiana but to himself.
Darcy exhaled deeply, folding the letter with care and tucking it safely into his desk. The next day would come, as it always did. And when it did, he would write to her again, pouring into his words the love and devotion he could not yet show in person.
"One day, Georgiana," he vowed silently, "I will make it to Saturday. And when I do, I will not delay."
With that thought, he rose, determination settling in his chest like a shield against the weight of the unchanging Thursday.
As the clock chimed softly in the background, Darcy resolved to write her again the next morning. If there was a thread of clarity to follow, he would grasp it. If there was a way to bridge the gap between his endless day and the world beyond, Georgiana might hold the key.
The next morning, Darcy sat at his writing desk, the early light filtering through the curtains as he dipped his pen into the inkwell. His thoughts were clearer than they had been in days—or rather, countless Thursdays—and he poured them onto the page with careful precision.
My Dearest Georgiana,
I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying your time in Mayfair. Mrs. Annesley, I trust, continues to be a steady source of support and guidance for you. Your letters remain a great comfort to me, and I find myself wishing more often than not that I could respond in person rather than by pen. Life at Rosings is, as you might expect, full of its usual routines and responsibilities, though there are moments that stand apart.
There is a tenant family here whose son, Little Thomas, has been unwell for some time. His strength is remarkable for his age, though his illness weighs heavily on his family. I have been doing what I can to ensure he receives the care he needs, but the sight of his mother's worry lingers with me more than I'd care to admit. It reminds me of the importance of compassion and the duty we owe to those in our care.
Anne, too, has had her struggles, though I believe she is growing stronger in spirit. Her health has always been delicate, as you know, but lately, I have seen glimpses of a quiet determination that I had not noticed before. She is not so easily cowed by her mother's overbearing presence as one might think. Though she speaks softly, her words carry weight when she chooses to assert herself. I suspect that strength has always been there, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Fitzwilliam, as ever, provides a welcome reprieve from the weight of responsibility. His humor remains unshaken, even in the face of Lady Catherine's stern pronouncements. I sometimes envy his ease of manner and the way he navigates the world with such lightness. He has a way of putting others at ease that I have never quite managed to emulate, though I value his companionship all the more for it.
I hope you will write to me soon, Georgiana. Tell me of your music, your reading, or anything else that has brought you joy of late. Your words are always a balm to me, and I look forward to hearing from you.
With all my love,
Fitzwilliam
He read the letter over twice, ensuring it conveyed the depth of his affection without betraying the strange nature of his predicament. Satisfied, he sealed it and rose from his desk, calling for John.
When the young man arrived, Darcy handed him the letter along with the updated list of supplies for Gardiner Imports. "Deliver this to Mayfair first," Darcy instructed, his tone firm but kind. "Wait for a response, then proceed to the warehouse. Once you've gathered the supplies, return to Mayfair and collect the reply before coming back here."
John nodded, his face a picture of dutiful efficiency. "Very good, sir. I'll ensure everything is done as you've requested."
Darcy watched him leave, a faint hope stirring in his chest. With the letter dispatched, he turned his thoughts to the day ahead.
By the time he entered the breakfast room, the routine familiarity had settled over him once more. Yet, as he took his seat and greeted Anne, a quiet determination sparked within him. Today, perhaps, would bring new possibilities.
At breakfast, Anne surprised Darcy by addressing Fitzwilliam with an air of gentle insistence. "Cousin," she began, her voice soft yet steady, "I have been neglecting the outdoors far too much of late. The morning is fine, and I thought perhaps you might accompany me on a drive in my phaeton."
Fitzwilliam blinked, caught off guard. "A drive, Anne? Are you quite certain?"
Anne nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I am. If you are willing to spare me the time, that is."
Lady Catherine, seated at the head of the table, immediately interjected. "Anne, you are quite right to consider the benefits of fresh air. A short drive will do you good, provided you do not overexert yourself. Fitzwilliam, see to it that she remains well-wrapped and avoids anything too strenuous."
"Of course, Aunt," Fitzwilliam replied smoothly, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. "I'll ensure Anne is perfectly comfortable."
Darcy glanced at Anne, catching the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in her expression. The suggestion was uncharacteristic of his cousin, who rarely sought outings of any kind, but he held his tongue.
As the meal continued, Darcy found himself unexpectedly lightened by the prospect. Fitzwilliam accompanying Anne meant that, for once, his cousin would not take his usual morning walk—and thus, he would not encounter Elizabeth.
Darcy suppressed a smile, carefully keeping his face impassive as Lady Catherine launched into a discourse on the importance of proper driving etiquette. For the first time in countless Thursdays, he felt as though a small piece of the day had shifted in his favor.
When breakfast concluded and Fitzwilliam rose to prepare for the outing, Darcy caught Anne's eye. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, her expression calm but knowing. Darcy returned the gesture, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
As the sound of Fitzwilliam's footsteps faded down the hall, Darcy allowed himself a rare moment of relief. Perhaps this day would prove different after all.
Darcy's heart leaped as he neared the familiar tree, just in time to see Violet's small frame lose its balance. Without hesitation, he urged his horse forward, positioning himself beneath the branch with precision born of countless repetitions.
"Got you!" Darcy exclaimed as Violet tumbled, her startled yelp cut off when she landed safely in his arms.
As he steadied her on the ground, she looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise that quickly melted into a delighted grin. "You're here again, Mr. Darcy!"
Darcy let out a breath, shaking his head as he brushed dirt from her sleeve. "Violet," he said, his voice carrying both fondness and exasperation, "I thought I told you to stop climbing this tree."
Her grin turned sheepish, and she shrugged. "I don't remember until I'm falling," she admitted, her voice small but sincere.
Darcy froze for a moment, her words striking something deep within him. "You don't remember?" he asked carefully, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. "But you know me when I catch you?"
Violet nodded, her expression as earnest as ever. "I don't think about it before I climb, but when I fall—and you catch me—I remember. I just know you'll always be there."
Darcy's throat tightened, and he glanced away briefly before refocusing on her. "Violet, you must try to remember before you climb," he urged gently.
She tilted her head, her youthful innocence untouched by his serious tone. "Why? You'll catch me. You're my knight, remember? A good gentleman never lets anyone fall."
Her unwavering confidence in him made Darcy's chest ache in a way he couldn't quite define. He straightened, offering her his hand. "Come along, Violet. Let's get you back to your mother."
As they walked, Violet skipped ahead, her laughter like a melody against the rustling trees. Darcy followed, her words echoing in his mind.
A good gentleman never lets anyone fall.
Elizabeth's piercing words from the proposal resurfaced, cutting through his thoughts: "You could not have acted in a manner less gentlemanlike."
Yet here, in this endless Thursday, with a child's simple faith and unshakable trust, Darcy found a flicker of solace. Perhaps he could not yet change Elizabeth's view of him, but in Violet's world, he was what he aspired to be.
When they reached the Bendrick cottage, Mrs. Bendrick greeted them with her usual warmth, none the wiser to Violet's daily adventures. Darcy exchanged his promises to return with little Thomas's medicine later, tipping his hat before turning back to his horse.
Violet waved enthusiastically, her voice carrying after him as he rode away. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy! You're my knight!"
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile as he rode toward Rosings. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small thing. But in this moment, in this day that seemed to stretch forever, it mattered.
Darcy closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he took in the sight of Anne and Fitzwilliam seated in his sitting room. They looked perfectly at ease, sipping tea as though it were their usual haunt.
"Her Ladyship's sitting room not to your liking today?" Darcy asked, his tone dry.
Anne smirked faintly, her hands wrapped around her teacup. "Your sitting room has better light," she said lightly.
"And better company," Fitzwilliam added with a grin. "Though you seemed surprised to see us, cousin. What's wrong? Were you expecting someone else?"
Darcy ignored him, moving to his desk as he shed his riding gloves. "How was your drive?"
"Pleasant enough," Anne replied, setting her cup down on its saucer. "The weather was agreeable, and the scenery... familiar."
"And we happened upon Miss Bennet," Fitzwilliam added, his voice nonchalant.
Darcy froze, his hands stilling. His jaw tightened as he turned to face them, his gaze fixed on Anne.
"Don't worry," Anne said, her tone calm, though her eyes sparkled with knowing mischief. "She'll come to tea."
Darcy's shoulders eased slightly, though a flicker of frustration lingered. "And what difference will it make?" he muttered. "Her being at tea has never changed anything, Anne."
Anne tilted her head, studying him with that faint, enigmatic smile of hers. "Perhaps not yet," she said softly.
Darcy exhaled sharply and turned his back to them, looking out the window. "Besides," he said, his voice quieter now, "I won't be at tea. I have medicine to deliver and a letter from Georgiana to read."
Anne set her cup down deliberately. "You cannot avoid her forever, Darcy," she said, her voice steady but gentle. "I think this will end if you just talk to her."
He turned sharply, his frustration spilling over. "But I have talked to her, Anne. Over and over again, in every way I can think of. Nothing changes!"
Anne met his gaze, unflinching. "Then perhaps you're not saying what she needs to hear."
The room fell silent, Fitzwilliam looking between them with a bemused expression. Darcy clenched his fists at his sides, the weight of the endless day pressing down on him.
"Talking doesn't matter," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "Action is the only thing that will change anything. And until I know what that is, I'll do what I can for the Bendricks and for you and Georgiana. The rest... is futile."
Anne's gaze softened, but she said nothing more. Fitzwilliam, sensing the tension, leaned back in his chair, his usual grin tempered by the heaviness in the room.
Before anyone could speak again, a knock at the door drew their attention. John entered, his face flushed from his ride, holding a small package and a neatly folded letter.
"Mr. Darcy," John said, bowing slightly as he extended the items.
Darcy strode forward, taking both without hesitation. He inspected the package briefly, ensuring it was intact, then slipped the letter into his pocket, feeling its reassuring weight.
"Thank you, John," Darcy said curtly, dismissing the servant.
Turning back to Anne and Fitzwilliam, he nodded sharply. "I'll deliver this medicine to the Bendricks and then read my sister's letter. Enjoy your tea."
Anne raised a delicate brow but said nothing, her expression faintly amused. Fitzwilliam, however, couldn't resist a jab. "Always the picture of duty, cousin. Do take a moment to enjoy yourself—though perhaps that's asking too much."
Darcy shot him a withering look, but it lacked its usual intensity. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, the package clutched tightly in one hand, as if its weight grounded him in this endless day.
Behind him, Anne exchanged a knowing glance with Fitzwilliam. "He'll find his way," she said softly, almost to herself.
"Let's hope he doesn't take too long," Fitzwilliam muttered, more to fill the silence than out of understanding.
Darcy entered his room, the door clicking shut behind him as he leaned against it for a moment. The weight of the day pressed heavily on his chest, a familiar ache that neither routine nor resolve could banish.
He moved to his desk, placing the unopened letter from Georgiana carefully on the surface. His fingers lingered on the seal, but he did not break it just yet. Instead, he turned to the window, gazing out at the fading light as his thoughts swirled.
Anne's words echoed in his mind: "Perhaps you're not saying what she needs to hear."
What more could he say to Elizabeth that he hadn't already tried? He had confessed his feelings, explained his actions, even humbled himself in ways he had never thought possible. And yet, each attempt had ended the same.
His jaw tightened as he recalled Fitzwilliam's teasing tone. "Do take a moment to enjoy yourself—though perhaps that's asking too much." The jest had been lighthearted, but it pricked at something deeper. Enjoyment, it seemed, was a luxury he could no longer afford. Each day was a battle—against his own shortcomings, against the unyielding cycle, against the growing fear that he would never find a way forward.
Yet beneath the frustration, a glimmer of gratitude stirred. Anne had tried. Fitzwilliam, in his own way, had tried too. They were constants in a world that seemed bent on unmaking itself. And Georgiana—her letters were his anchor, a reminder of the life waiting for him beyond this endless Thursday.
He turned back to the desk, his gaze falling on the folded paper bearing his sister's familiar script. Slowly, he sat, his hands steady as he reached for the letter.
The room was quiet as he unfolded the letter, the soft rustle of parchment the only sound. For a moment, he let himself forget the day's frustrations and focus solely on Georgiana's words.
My Dearest Brother,
Your letters are always a delight to read, and I am so grateful for the care you take in writing them. They bring me a sense of connection that feels especially dear in moments of solitude. I find myself reflecting on your words more deeply with each letter, especially those about the little moments at Rosings. It is as though, through your descriptions, I can almost picture the scenes myself.
I was particularly moved by your mention of Little Thomas. His illness must be a heavy burden on his family, and I can only imagine how much your presence means to them during such a difficult time. It makes me think of how much you have always done for those in your care, even when the need is not as immediate. I am sure you bring them comfort, much as you have done for me during times of uncertainty. Your compassion is one of the things I admire most about you.
Speaking of children, I couldn't help but think of Violet—the little girl you mentioned in a previous letter. She reminds you of me, doesn't she? I was rather amused by your comparison, but I find it comforting as well. Her boldness, climbing trees and exploring with such curiosity, sounds so familiar. Do you suppose Little Thomas is her little brother? I wonder if he has inherited some of her adventurous spirit or if he's perhaps more reserved. I know how deeply you care for those around you, and it warms my heart to know you are looking out for them in such ways.
Your mention of Anne and her quiet strength also made me think of something you once said to me—that strength does not always announce itself loudly, but grows in silence. Perhaps that is something we share. I know I have struggled with my own confidence at times, but I see small moments where I am becoming more at ease with myself. It helps to remember your words, and to know that even the gentlest forms of strength are still powerful.
Your thoughts on Fitzwilliam made me smile. It's true, his lightness and ease are enviable qualities. I sometimes wonder if I could ever be as comfortable as he is in the company of others, but I suppose each of us has our own way of navigating the world. Maybe, with time, I will find my own balance, just as you and Fitzwilliam have found yours.
As for my music, I have continued with Mozart, of course, but I have also been exploring some of Beethoven's more intricate compositions. There is something about the depth of his music that challenges me, and I find it both frustrating and rewarding. I wonder if you would enjoy hearing some of his pieces. I shall have to play one for you when next we are together, though I fear I am still far from mastering them.
Thank you, dear brother, for your constant encouragement and understanding. Your letters help me to see my own growth, even when I cannot see it for myself. I look forward to hearing from you again soon, and will hold your words close until then.
With all my love,
Georgiana
Darcy read Georgiana's letter carefully, a warmth settling over him at her thoughtful words. As always, her reflections on her own growth and her quiet encouragement reminded him of the strength she did not always see in herself. Yet as he reached the section about Violet, his hand stilled, the letter trembling slightly between his fingers.
"Speaking of children, I couldn't help but think of Violet—the little girl you mentioned in a previous letter. She reminds you of me, doesn't she?"
Darcy frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. He had written to Georgiana that morning, of course—but not about Violet. His letter had spoken of Little Thomas, of Anne's growing resilience, of Fitzwilliam's humor. There had been no mention of the lively child who so often brought his thoughts back to Georgiana's own childhood boldness.
He set the letter down, his mind racing as he retrieved his own words from that morning. There was no mistaking it—he had written nothing of Violet. And yet Georgiana's response seemed as if it were directly tied to a conversation they had never had.
His breath hitched as a cold realization settled over him. Could Georgiana be recalling something that had not happened today, but on another of these endless Thursdays?
Darcy pressed a hand to his temple, the weight of the thought nearly dizzying. How long had it been since he first wrote to her about Violet? He struggled to remember; the days had blurred together, their sameness leaving him with little sense of time.
"Is it possible?" he wondered. "Could she be remembering the fragments of a different Thursday?"
The idea was both exhilarating and disorienting. If Georgiana retained even the faintest trace of memory across the days, what did that mean for him? For this cycle?
His thoughts shifted to Violet, to her unshakable trust and the way she had so casually remarked on his presence "again." Could the child's fragmented memories and Georgiana's uncanny response be part of the same pattern?
Darcy leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the letter as though it might hold some hidden answer. He could not dismiss this as mere coincidence—not when the words before him pointed so clearly to something more.
"What do you remember, Georgiana?" he thought, the question echoing in his mind.
For a moment, the weight of the unchanging day seemed lighter, replaced by a flicker of hope. If Georgiana's words hinted at even a trace of memory, then perhaps this endless loop was not as unyielding as it seemed.
He folded the letter carefully, slipping it into the drawer where he kept all her replies. Tomorrow, he would write again, testing the threads of her recollection. Tonight, as the candlelight flickered low, he allowed himself to reflect—not just on Georgiana's words, but also on Anne's quiet determination and Fitzwilliam's lightness.
"Perhaps the answers are closer than I think," he mused, his hand brushing against the desk as he sat in thought. "And perhaps tomorrow will bring more clarity."
The night deepened, and though uncertainty lingered, Darcy allowed himself a faint spark of hope.