A Vision of the Path Before Him

by Elizabeth Frerichs

  “I do enjoy a good walk,” Elizabeth said, laughter in her tone. “I find that movement stimulates new thoughts. Do you agree?”

  “Walking well is certainly an important skill for an accomplished woman to possess,” Miss Bingley said.

  Darcy suppressed a smile, recalling Miss Bingley’s numerous complaints about the amount of walking Elizabeth had done.

  “Do you paint?” Elizabeth asked. “I have heard one may achieve the same contemplative state while painting.”

  For the first time, Darcy wondered if Elizabeth wished she had had a governess. What had she told his Aunt Catherine? Something about how those who wished to learn could. But on their own? Without proper masters to instruct them? Perhaps they could learn, but it seemed needlessly difficult. He was grateful for Elizabeth’s grounding in the real, important things that he himself was so poor in, but did she wish for more?

  “Of course,” said Miss Bingley. “It is a necessary skill for an accomplished woman.”

  “Ah. And do you enjoy it?”

  Miss Bingley slowed her strut. “Enjoy it?”

  “Yes. I have always believed one ought to enjoy one’s pursuits if one is going to devote time to them.”

  Miss Bingley stared at her. “They are necessary pursuits if one is to become a member of the ton.”

  Which he doubted Miss Bingley would ever do. She was correct, however—the ton had little patience for anyone who did not adhere to their rigid expectations. Allowance was made for young women who preferred one accomplishment over another or who excelled in one over the other—but Heaven help the woman who eschewed any of the necessary arts.

  “I see,” Elizabeth said, a smile dancing in her eyes.

  Miss Bingley glanced over at Darcy as though seeking his support, but Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on the tome in front of him. He could, however, observe the whole tableau in his peripheral vision.

  “I had forgotten that we do not move in the same circles,” Miss Bingley said superciliously. “The country is, after all, so very different from Town.”

  “Is it?” Elizabeth asked.

  Miss Bingley gaped. “But of course. The shops and people are much more refined!”

  “I have observed that people are much the same regardless of where they are from.”

  “That may be your experience—we do not frequent the same circles, after all—but I assure you that members of the ton greatly differ from country-bred folk.”

  Elizabeth remained silent, though her mouth twitched as though a smile longed to break loose.

  “Do you attend many balls when you are in London?” Miss Bingley continued.

  Elizabeth smiled apologetically. “Not many. I am rarely in London during the Season.”

  “I have not missed a Season in several years.”

  Darcy’s lips twitched as he considered the truth of that statement: Miss Bingley had been on the marriage mart for several years, having set her sights on him as soon as her brother’s friendship had become known to her—or so it seemed to him. Rare was the woman who admitted attending several Seasons without attaining a husband; Elizabeth had a knack for pulling information from others.

  “I am not surprised,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Perhaps you enjoy walking in Hyde Park,” Miss Bingley suggested with a smirk.

  “I do not frequent Hyde Park, but there is a park near my uncle’s house. It is not ideal for walking, but I do enjoy the bit of wilderness found there.”

  No, if he knew Elizabeth at all, she would hate Hyde Park if she desired to walk. Hyde Park was for seeing and being seen. One could not truly walk, but only take mincing steps as one followed at a discrete distance from the party ahead. She might enjoy watching people and would likely find the whole outing ludicrous and thoroughly entertaining—as long as she was in the right frame of mind.

  Miss Bingley halted. “You sound as though you prefer the country.”

  “Though I enjoy my brief forays to London, I am always glad to return home. The country has a charm all its own.”

  Miss Bingley stared at her as though she had gone mad. “You prefer the country to town?”

  Elizabeth only smiled.

  “You cannot agree, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley appealed, apparently recalling the purpose of her walking about or perhaps merely seizing the opportunity to draw him into conversation.

  “Agree with what?” Darcy asked as he closed his book.

  Despite having heard the entire conversation, agreeing or disagreeing with Miss Caroline Bingley could be a dangerous business. He had seen her twist many a statement to her own purposes.

  “That the country has a charm beyond town.”

  Darcy settled deeper into his chair. “Whyever not?”

  “But the people—” Miss Bingley began.

  “I do not care for large groups of people. In the past, I have been unable to catch their tone of conversation or to appear interested in their concerns, however, I am practicing.” He sent Elizabeth a warm smile.

  She returned it with a hint of curiosity.

  Darcy’s gaze dropped to the floor as sorrow rent his chest once more, all the more powerful for its unexpectedness. This Elizabeth knew nothing of her admonishment for him to practice. He could not share this private joke with her, nor prove that he had taken her reproofs to heart. True, the Elizabeth from his vision had rejected him in such a way as to leave no doubt of her sentiments, but in so doing she had given him a gift—a mirror to see himself clearly for the first time. He did not like the man she had showed him; he could not respect that man.

  He wrenched himself back to the present, burying himself in his book once more.

  “—vastly superior,” Miss Bingley was saying.

  “I am certain it is merely a matter of personal taste. After all, if the country were irredeemable, we would not have visitors from town so often. Nor would so many gain status by owning land,” Elizabeth said with a hint of laughter.

  Darcy tried to enjoy the sight of her besting Miss Bingley once more, but the hollow feeling in his chest remained. Though she had been a vision, he had fallen in love with that Elizabeth, the Elizabeth who had died in a carriage accident. She would never return, and he didn’t know how to live with that knowledge. Before long, he excused himself and slowly made his way up to his room, grief leaving his legs trembling like those of an old man.

  Chapter 10

  Despite waking before his valet, Penn, arrived, Darcy could not pry himself out of bed. He stared up at the canopy, tracing fabric canyons in the dim morning light. In his euphoria over finding Elizabeth alive, he had never considered that he would miss the Elizabeth who had hated him.

  Living his vision had felt just as real as the past few days. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth, and yet, now, he was here in this time and place—with a different Elizabeth who would never have the same experiences his Elizabeth had. Would she ever become the woman who had been principled enough to reject him? The goddess of wisdom who had shown him his flaws? Or would the changes he had begun, and intended to continue, cause her to become someone entirely different? His Elizabeth might never come to be.

  The door opened and Penn entered, ushering a maid in, but still Darcy did not stir.

  After the maid deposited Darcy’s breakfast and coffee on the table, Penn pulled the bed curtains apart. He started on seeing Darcy’s awake state but quickly recovered. “Mr. Darcy, it is now seven o’clock, as you requested.”

  Darcy sighed. He could stay in bed. But no, what sort of habit would that create? He rolled out of bed and slumped in a chair.

  After waiting several moments, Penn fixed his coffee, set it in front of him, and began laying out Darcy’s clothes. “Did you sleep well, sir?” he asked without looking at Darcy.

  Darcy grunted.

  “Sir?” Penn asked, turning towards him.

  “Yes,” Darcy said.

  Penn’s brow furrowed. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing that makes sense
,” Darcy said listlessly.

  Penn returned to Darcy’s clothing. “Perhaps sharing your concern might clarify it.”

  Darcy raked a hand through his hair. “I—you have always kept my confidences.”

  “And I will continue to do so,” Penn said, folding his hands in front of him.

  Darcy turned to the window. What could he say? And yet, he needed an outside perspective. Penn had always stood by him. The man had seen Darcy at his worst, when every day was a torment under the weight of grief and a thousand decisions he did not know how to make; their friendship had only strengthened after Darcy’s encounter with Elizabeth and his subsequent growth. Penn would make a valuable ally now. But would he believe Darcy? Or would he send him to Bedlam?

  “Do you believe in visions?” Darcy asked.

  “Visions, sir?”

  Darcy nodded, his gaze still fixed on the mosaic of autumn colours spread on the grounds below. “Premonitions, if you will.”

  “I believe the world is full of mystery. If we knew it all, there would be no Providence.”

  “I have had such a vision,” Darcy said hoarsely.

  “Sir?”

  Darcy turned to meet Penn’s gaze. “I have had a vision of the future. I know not how to explain it otherwise as events have faithfully repeated themselves. Two days ago, upon waking, I found myself several months in the past—nearly a year. Though I lived that year, none of the events have yet occurred. In that future, someone became very dear—”

  “Miss Elizabeth,” Penn stated.

  Darcy nodded slowly. “I had proposed while we were both in Kent at Rosings, and she had rejected me; however, she showed me how flawed my life had become, how flawed I had become. My pride had twisted me into someone I did not care for. I have always endeavoured to be a good master, but I have never recognised the impression I leave with others. I have looked down on those of a different station than mine—the conceits of being born to the first circles, I suppose.” He turned back to the window and swallowed hard. “After I left Kent, I was—distraught. It took me some time to recognise the truth of her reproofs and to come to value them. I worked to become a better man and much changed in my life.” He cast a quick glance at Penn, deciding he ought to say something about the man’s future. “You have always been a valuable ally, and you continued to be so.” His fingers shook as he contemplated Elizabeth’s death, and he clasped his hands together to stop the tremors.

  “And Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Wickham—”

  Penn started. “George Wickham, sir?”

  “Yes . . . . He ran off with Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sister. The family was cast into ruin, and Miss Elizabeth died in a carriage accident.”

  Silence reigned for a long moment as Darcy waited with bated breath for his valet’s response. Would the man suggest calling a physician?

  Penn took a step towards Darcy. “I am sorry, sir. That could not have been easy.”

  Darcy sagged as relief filled his bones—Penn believed him. “As am I.” He squared his shoulders. “But I have been given a chance to undo my mistakes, for my mistakes they were. When Wickham arrived in Meryton, because I had made myself odious to the community with my arrogance, Miss Elizabeth and her family believed his slander.”

  Penn swore softly. “That gentleman does not deserve the name, begging your pardon, Mr. Darcy, sir.”

  Darcy waved the apology aside. Penn was intimately familiar with Wickham’s perfidy, and he also held a soft spot for Georgiana. “I have lately wondered if I am equally culpable for his character as for his behaviour,” Darcy said.

  Penn shook his head. “Each man is responsible for his own character and behaviour, sir. Besides, when did that—person ever listen to you?”

  “I know, but if I had rebuked him instead of covering over his offences, perhaps my words would have had an effect—or perhaps my father would have intervened, or perhaps other consequences would have taught Wickham a lesson.”

  “It sounds like a veritable field of ‘perhapses.’ Even knowing the future, you can’t know whether those courses of action would have changed Mr. Wickham.”

  Darcy considered. “You are probably correct, Penn.” His mind slipped back to Elizabeth as though she were a magnet for his thoughts. He poured himself more coffee, wondering if Elizabeth preferred it to tea in the morning, wondering what his Elizabeth had preferred. His hands trembled once more as an image of her lifeless body passed in front of his mind’s eye. He set the coffee down lest he spill the lot.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir, these events appear to still trouble you . . . .”

  “Yes,” Darcy choked out. He returned his attention to the window. “How can I go on when the woman I love is dead?”

  “Miss Elizabeth?”

  Darcy jerked a nod.

  “Your vision must have been exceedingly clear,” Penn commented.

  “As real as if I had lived each of the days in it. I fell in love with Elizabeth. When she rejected me, her loss stole the breath from my body . . . .” Darcy’s jaw tensed as he recalled the pain of those days. He had managed to leave Rosings, carried on a tide of righteous indignation, certain her character assessment had been flawed. But when he realised she had been right . . . it had been days before he could breathe in and out without his chest catching on the pain of her loss. And yet, it had been as nothing compared to the pain of her death.

  “As you know, sir, grief is a funny thing,” Penn began. “It is like a fickle ocean, the tide ebbing and flowing at uncertain times, triggered by the smallest events or recollections. It covers over truths, obscuring them from view as the ocean hides the wonders of a tide pool.” Penn turned away, his head bowed. “We have both grieved the loss of our fathers. Do you recall how you could not bear to sit in your father’s desk chair? You converted one of the smaller rooms on that floor into your study until it became too small, overrun with the books and papers necessary for running your estate.”

  “What does that have to do with Elizabeth?

  “It was not until your grief had receded that you could see the truth: sitting in his chair did not kill him any more than not sitting in it would keep some part of him alive. Though a symbol of his absence, it was a chair, nothing more.” His lips turned up. “As I recall, you have termed it a most comfortable chair.”

  “That is true.”

  “Let me share a truth that your grief has obscured: Miss Elizabeth is downstairs, sir—not dead.”

  “But she is—she does not know me as she did. Though I am overjoyed to have the opportunity to prevent the missteps I made with her and to hopefully woo her for my wife, she is not the same person she became over the past year . . . . And I do not know how to move past that.”

  Penn busied himself with buttering Darcy’s muffins—something he had not done since Darcy had been broken over his father’s death. “You cannot let the events of your vision keep you from living in the present, sir. If you love Miss Elizabeth, you cannot let grief prevent you from seeking her now.”

  “I know,” Darcy whispered, his heart clenching at the thought of losing Elizabeth all over again—this time to another man or to some other unforeseen circumstance. But try as he might, he could not shake the anguish that filled his soul at the thought that this Elizabeth might never become the woman he had loved so deeply.

  “Sir, do you feel that I am a different person?” Penn asked.

  Darcy turned to him. “What?”

  “You are grieving the loss of your beloved, because the woman alive now is not the same person. But neither am I the same person from your future vision—or so I would hope. A year is much time to grow, and yet in essentials, we remain the same.”

  “That is so,” Darcy conceded. Penn was right. He didn’t feel the same despairing loss for Bingley, for example. He missed the Bingley who had learned to stand on his own two feet, but he was confident this Bingley would become the man he was destined to be. Time would return them to where they had been. Perhaps this Eliz
abeth would have rejected him just the same if she had been given opportunity—certainly she had not hesitated to express her lack of feelings. A weight lifted from his heart. This Elizabeth was no more likely to accept his hand in marriage due to his position and wealth than his Elizabeth had been.

  He couldn’t avoid his grief, but he also could not—would not—squander the opportunity Providence had provided. Elizabeth was herself whether she had experienced the same events that he had. He was being ridiculous, mourning a future version of her who had hated him, rejected him, and with whom he had no chance of winning her love—and he would never forgive himself if he let this opportunity slip away. If events held true to his vision, she would leave on the morrow. He had only today to make the most of.

  “Thank you, Penn,” Darcy said, giving his man a small smile.

  “You are very welcome, sir.”

  Darcy turned another page, his fingers tensing. As Before, Elizabeth and Miss Bennet had announced their impending departure at breakfast that morning and Bingley had persuaded them to remain one more day. Tomorrow, they would return to Longbourn. He recalled with scorn his previous self, so intent on fighting his attraction to a wonderful woman (with a ghastly family) that he had wasted a whole day with barely a word spoken to his beloved. Before, he and Elizabeth had sat in the library for an entire half hour reading in silence. His previous self had determined to show no hint of partiality lest he be roped into a marriage with someone of a lesser station in life. What a prig he had been!

  Now, however, he longed for a half hour in her presence and had accordingly sat in the second most comfortable chair in the library, positioning the most comfortable chair where they might speak easily. Now, it was not his reservations that needed to be overcome, but hers. She did not love him—yet. And he did not wish to create more barriers between them by professing unwelcome feelings to her; neither did he wish her to doubt his interest. How to walk the line between the two was a quandary.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth halted in the doorway. “I did not realise the library was occupied. Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, I did not intend to intrude.”