“You, sir, are leaving Kent in two days.”
“I don’t strictly have to leave Kent,” I said. Was I to see Friday? Really and truly?
“It shan’t matter. There is also the inconsiderate and frankly cruel way you have treated Mr. Wickham—”
“Mr. Wickham!” I put my hand to my forehead. “It’s odd I didn’t think of him at all until now. What has become of Mr. Wickham?” Was he dead? Or had he awakened in his tent with the regiment? It wasn’t as if Mr. Wickham were supposed to die, after all. It wasn’t the way it had been with Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
“What has become of him is very little, since you have prevented his affluence. You have reduced him to a state of poverty, comparative poverty. You withheld advantages which were designed for him. And to think I could love a man who treats anyone with such careless disregard is ludicrous. I never could.”
“Quite,” I said. “Yes, this will take a good bit of time and rather a great deal of explanation, and you are not seemingly in the mood to hear me out.” Perhaps I could write her a letter.
It had possibilities.
Yes, if I saw Friday, I should compose a long letter, and afterwards, I should go and find out what had become of Mr. Wickham.
“Well,” I said, gazing at her with a smile, “you do not seem damaged, not at all. You seem as bright and full of spirit as ever. And you have still been the most wondrous spot of my day. I beg you, Miss Bennet, consider me.”
“I have even now explained why I never could.”
“Yes, I have heard what you have to say. But I am convinced that if you continue to consider me, you will see, just as I have, that we are meant to be. Thank you for allowing me to take up your time this afternoon, for giving me your time. I appreciate anything you see fit to give me.”
“You are impossible, Mr. Darcy.” She glared at me. “I havesucha headache, sir. I must retire. Excuse me.” She swept out of the room.
A headache.
Wasshe damaged?
God in heaven.
When I arrived back at Rosings, my aunt and I spoke again, that evening.
I asked about Anne’s damage, whether it had involved any physical pain, like headaches, and Lady Catherine avoided the question.
“Where did you go at tea?” she said. “Did you go and see that Miss Bennet? I have some notion about the two of you. I know not where it has come from.”
“Well, you see,” I said, “you told me that Anne was pulled into your repetitive day, and Miss Bennet was pulled into mine.Now, I hope it has ended, but I shan’t truly know until the sun rises on the morrow, a day I have despaired of ever seeing, truly.”
“So, the two of you were together through this?” My aunt massaged the bridge of her nose. “This is all much worse than I had thought, I must say.”
“Aunt Catherine,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle, “I know you have longed for a union between myself and my cousin Anne, but I need you to understand that will never be. I shan’t marry Anne. I cannot marry Anne, in fact.”
“Stop it.” My aunt drew herself up. “Here’s the truth of it, Fitwzilliam. I think that having Anne here, where all of it transpired, and having me close must have made it worse for her.”
“What?” I said, furrowing my brow.
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Catherine. “If I could do it again, I should send her off, somewhere far away from me. I feel it was my presence that would jolt her badly, make her have some sensation—not a memory in the mind, but a memory in the body, you see. If I had sent Anne from me, she would have recovered easily, I believe. And you, if you care about Miss Bennet, you must take your leave of her and cease to think of her. You must stay far away from her.”
I gave my aunt a withering look. “You wish me to marry Anne. You would say anything—”
“If you truly care about Miss Bennet, you must not risk it,” she said, eyes flashing.
I surveyed her. “I don’t think it will matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if today was fated, then there was a notable difference between the first time I lived this day and this time through, and it was that I was able to go to see her and propose.”
“You have notproposedto that woman, Fitzwilliam Darcy!” My aunt was incensed. “You are the most wayward and selfish of boys. You are not even fit to call a man, for you shirk your duties and your responsibilities and—”
