Elizabeth paused, glancing back at her sister. “I beg your pardon?”
“Regarding his offer to introduce me to his acquaintances,” Mary clarified. “You assume it stems from pity for my association with your supposed disgrace. I believe it comes instead from recognition of shared experience.”
“Shared experience?” Elizabeth repeated, puzzled.
“We are both siblings whose lives have been disrupted by circumstances beyond our control,” Mary explained. “His injury has left him as adrift in his own way as I have been since leaving Longbourn. There is a… kinship… in such displacement.”
Elizabeth considered this perspective, so typical of Mary’s unusual way of viewing the world. Could it be true? Was Darcy reaching out to Mary not from condescension but from mutual commiseration?
“Perhaps you are right,” she conceded. “Though it changes little regarding his opinion of me.”
“Does it not?” Mary raised an eyebrow. “If he can recognize humanity in those society deems uncomfortable or inappropriate, perhaps his current judgment of you is not as fixed as you believe.”
With that surprisingly insightful observation, Mary returned herattention to the chess set, rearranging the pieces to their starting positions as if closing the conversation.
Elizabeth departed with William, her mind turning over this new possibility. She had been so certain of Darcy’s irredeemable contempt, so resigned to his permanent disdain, that she had not considered he might be capable of reassessing his judgments—as he had once before, when he had proposed to her at the Red Lion.
“Your father,” she whispered to William, who was contentedly playing with a button on her dress, “is a far more complicated man than I sometimes remember.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A GENTLEMAN'S DOUBT
The drawing roomat Bellfield Grange had been contrived by sensible hands for comfort rather than display: a bright fire, a well-scrubbed floor, a writing table set not for drama but for work. The room possessed a warmth that Pemberley often lacked—perhaps it was the smaller scale, or the well-worn comfort of furniture chosen for use rather than display.
Aunt Eleanor sat at the writing desk. The scratch of her pen was the only sound in the room. She did not immediately look up at his entrance, and Darcy took a moment to study his mother’s twin. They were born identical, and while his mother had passed twelve years ago, he wondered how alike they would be if she had lived.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, how strange it was that his memories of his mother remained intact while so many more recent events had vanished into fog. The physician had explained something about older memories being more deeply etched, but Darcy found the selectivity of his amnesia maddening.
“Good morning, Fitzwilliam,” Eleanor said, setting aside her correspondence. “You look better rested today.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” He crossed to an armchair positioned nearthe fire. “Though I confess I find sleep elusive in unfamiliar surroundings.”
“Bellfield has never been unfamiliar to you,” she replied with a hint of reproach. “You spent half your childhood summers here.”
“So I am told.” He could not keep the edge from his voice. “Along with many other things I am apparently meant to know.”
Eleanor sighed and rang for tea. “Your memory will return in its own time. The physician assured us that pressing too hard may do more harm than good.”
“I am not a child to be managed with vague reassurances.” Darcy stared into the fire. “Twenty-two months of my life simply… gone. And no one will speak plainly about what transpired during that time.”
“Because speculation and rumor serve no purpose,” Eleanor replied calmly. “Better to allow authentic memories to surface than to plant false ones.”
The conversation stalled as a maid entered with the tea tray. Darcy watched the familiar ritual with detachment. He had been subject to this dance of evasion since regaining consciousness—concern for his health used to deflect direct questions, half-answers offered with sympathetic smiles, and the constant, infuriating assurance that all would become clear “in time.”
“I must admit,” he began once they were alone again, measuring his words carefully, “I remain curious about your connection to the Bennet family.”
Eleanor’s expression did not change. “Do you.”
“I am aware of no connection between Countess Blackmore and the Gardiners of Gracechurch Street—textile tradespeople.” He heard the chill in his voice and let it stand. “Nor any connection between myself and Hertfordshire significant enough to justify such intimacy.”
“A remarkable number of connections will present themselves,” she said mildly, “when one is willing to look.”
“So I am constantly reminded.” He set his cup down with moreforce than intended, the china rattling in protest. “What possible connection could you have with the Gardiner family that would justify offering indefinite shelter to his nieces? One of whom has a questionable reputation, by her own sister’s admission?”
“The Gardiners are people of substance and integrity, regardless of their address or profession. As for Miss Elizabeth’s reputation, I would caution you against forming judgments based on fragmentary information.”
“I prefer clarity to riddles,” Darcy retorted. “If you wish me to understand, perhaps you might fill in the considerable gaps.”
