Page 12 of Time Stands Still

“No.” She stood her ground, holding up a hand to halt him. “You will not believe what I am about to say. Indeed, every rational part of you will rebel against it. But you must hear me out. Last night, in the drawing-room of the parsonage, you made me a proposal of marriage.”

Darcy stared at her, utterly confounded. “Madam, I assure you, I have made no such proposal. You are mistaken. You are clearly agitated, and I insist we return to the parsonage at once.”

“You proposed, and I confessed to you that the day has been repeating for me, that I am trapped in it, and that my spirits were entirely overwrought by my predicament. And you, sir, you believed me.”

“You are speaking nonsense,” he said, his voice now laced with a stern impatience, though a sliver of uncertainty had entered his eyes. “You are unwell.”

This was the moment. “I am not. You knew I would need to prove it to you. You gave me the proof yourself.” She took a steadying breath, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. “You told me to speak to you of the Grecian folly in the west wood of Pemberley.”

The name of his estate on her lips was enough to make him pause, his expression tightening with suspicion. “What of it?”

“You told me,” she said, her voice low and clear, “that when you restored it, some years ago, you dismissed the workmen for a day. You told me that you, yourself, carved the initial ‘A’ into the underside of the keystone. For your mother, Lady Anne.”

The effect of her words was instantaneous. The colour drained from his face, and his hand, which had been fidgeting with the reins of his horse, went still. He simply stared at her, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide with a profound and unnerving disbelief. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the gentle burble of the stream and the soft snort of the horse. The cold mask of the master of Pemberley shattered, revealing the shocked man beneath.

He walked towards her until he was but a few feet away, his gaze searching her face with a desperate, unnerved intensity. “How?” he whispered, the word a choked and broken thing. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You told me,” she said softly. “Last night. You entrusted me with the truth so that I might force you to remember. You told me to meet you here, at this bridge, and to give you back your own secret, so that we might fight this together.”

He looked from her face to the stream, to the heath around them, as if searching for something solid in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. She watched as he closed his eyes for a long moment, a vein throbbing in his temple, and she could only imagine the war that must be taking place within him: between the absolute proof of her words and the sheer impossibility of the truth. When he opened them again, the cold stranger was gone, and in his place stood a man grappling with an undeniable truth. “If you know this,” he said, his voice a strained whisper, “what else do you know? Tell me. Tell me everything.”

He gestured to a fallen log a short way from the path, secluded by a thicket of gorse. The morning mist enveloped them, granting them a fragile privacy. There, sitting on the damp log, Elizabeth recounted the whole impossible story. It was not the frantic, desperate torrent of the previous night, but a calmer, more ordered account. She spoke of the past repetitions, of her frantic experiments: the repeated refusals, the dinner at Rosings, the desperate flight to London. She then recounted her confession of the previous night, the one that had, to her profound relief, led to him granting her the key.

She could not bring herself to tell him that on one account, she had accepted his proposal, not now, not when he was being so open and generous. The knowledge of what she had done to him, even in desperation, was too shameful to speak aloud.

As she spoke, he listened with a fierce, analytical intensity, his gaze never leaving her face. He did not interrupt, but she saw a muscle work in his jaw when she spoke of Jane, and when she repeated his own words about Mr. Wickham's betrayal, she saw the cold, hard mask of anger return to his features, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as if he were reliving the treachery all over again.

When she had finished, he met her gaze, and she saw a profound and staggering acceptance settle in his eyes. “It is true, then,” he said, his voice low and shaken. “All of it.”

“Yes,” she said, a profound sense of relief washed over her.

“An enchantment,” he murmured. “It seems you are trapped in an enchantment.” He rose and began to pace, his mind already working. “The day returns to its start at the stroke of midnight. The cause is unknown. But are you certain that my proposal is the central event? It is a dramatic conclusion, certainly, but we must not mistake sequence for cause. Could it be something else? An event you witnessed? A decision you made earlier in the day?”

“I have considered it,” she replied, her voice weary. “It is the most singular event of my visit. It is the one moment where all the day’s tensions invariably culminate. I have no other explanation. What else could it be?”

He gave a slight nod, conceding the point for now. “You are right. It is our most logical premise. We shall proceed on that assumption. We are missing a key piece of the puzzle.”

Without another word, he offered her his arm. Elizabeth took it. The gesture was formal, yet it felt like the sealing of a pact, a promise of a shared burden. Together, they turned from the bridge and began to walk, the whole, long, impossible day stretching out before them.

Chapter Ten

Darcy led his horse by the reins, the magnificent animal following with a gentle obedience. “You have endured this for how long?” he asked, breaking the companionable silence.

“I have lived this same day seven times before today,” Elizabeth admitted, a weariness in her tone.

He stopped, his features sobered as he processed her words. “Seven days,” he repeated, his voice quiet. “To have borne such a singular burden, and to have done so entirely alone… it speaks to a remarkable fortitude, Miss Bennet.”

“You mistake strength for a want of alternatives, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, a wry smile touching her lips. “I tried to flee to London, you know. I hired a carriage and presented myself at my aunt’s door in Cheapside, no doubt looking like a madwoman. I told them everything.”

“And they did not believe you,” he stated, an expression of quiet understanding.

“They believed I was overwrought, in the grip of a feverish delusion. My aunt was kind, my uncle sensible, and my dear sister Jane, the very soul of compassion. They prescribed rest and quiet, when all I wanted was for someone to see the bars of my cage.”

He resumed walking, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “And my proposal,” he said, the words uttered with an evident effort. “You have endured it in every iteration?”

“In every one that I have remained at the parsonage, yes. It has become a fixed point in my day, as reliable as the sunrise.”

A faint flush of colour rose in his cheeks. “And your answer is always the same?”