"Fitzwilliam George Darcy."
"Your age?"
"Eight-and-twenty."
"The name of this estate?"
"Pemberley, in Derbyshire." The questions seemed absurdly simple. Why was the physician asking things any child would know?
"Does anything else feel amiss? Any confusion about who you are, where you've lived, your family?"
"No." That, at least, was certain. He knew himself—Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, brother to Georgiana.He knew his parents were deceased, knew his responsibilities, his holdings.
"Very good. And can you tell me the last clear memory you possess? Before the gaps begin?"
Darcy concentrated, trying to identify the dividing line between clear recollection and murky confusion. "Bingley's visit, which I referred to earlier. We were in my study, discussing his plans for Netherfield. He wanted my advice on some improvements to the property. He asked me to accompany him to Hertfordshire to inspect the estate and meet the local families. I agreed to go." He paused, frowning. "After that, everything becomes... unclear. Bits and pieces, perhaps, but nothing I can grasp with any certainty."
"Do you recall the journey to Netherfield? Arriving at the estate?"
Vague impressions surfaced—a carriage, countryside passing by windows, perhaps the facade of a house. But whether these were actual memories or merely his mind filling in expected details, he could not say. "I... I am not certain. Perhaps?"
"What about the people you met there? Any social engagements or encounters?"
Darcy reached for something, anything that might confirm he had lived those missing months. But his mind offered only shadows and half-formed notions that slipped away when examined. "No. Nothing clear."
"And the mine collapse? The injured workers? Your efforts to provide relief?"
Again, Darcy grasped at memories that refused to materialise. He knew there had been an accident—Smith had just told him so, and that dreadful feeling in his chest confirmed something terrible had occurred. There had to have been injuries, deaths even, but the specifics eluded him entirely. How many men had been hurt? Who had died? Their names, their faces, the grief of it all existed behind a veil he could not penetrate.
He could not picture the scene, could not recall speaking with bereaved families or making arrangements for their care. "I know it must have happened. But I cannot remember any of it."
The physician nodded slowly, his expression grave. "That is not uncommon with head injuries of this nature. You have sustained what we call a concussion, Mr Darcy. Your memory has been significantly affected—particularly for the period surrounding your time at Netherfield and the subsequent months here at Pemberley."
"How long?" The question emerged sharper than Darcy intended. "How much have I lost?"
"Approximately three months, by my assessment. From the time you departed for Netherfield until the accident three days ago." Dr Newport pulled a chair closer and sat, his manner shifting into something more professorial. "You recall Mr Bingley's visit and your agreement to travel with him. But the journey itself, your time in Hertfordshire, the mine collapse and its aftermath—all of that appears to be either completely gone or so fragmented as to be essentially inaccessible."
Three months. An entire quarter of a year, vanished as though it had never been. Darcy felt a wave of disorientation so intense he had to close his eyes against it.
"Will it return?" he asked finally.
"Memory recovery is not a precise science, I fear. In cases like yours, recollection often returns gradually over time—sometimes in days, sometimes weeks, occasionally longer. Or..." Newport hesitated. "Some memories may never return at all. The brain is a mysterious organ, Mr Darcy. We cannot predict with certainty how yours will heal."
The prospect of permanently losing three months of his life struck Darcy as intolerable. "But surely there must be something I can do? Some way to force the memories back?"
"Forcing will accomplish nothing. What you need now is rest and patience. Let your mind heal itself. Do not strain yourself attempting to recall what is not yet ready to resurface. Such efforts may actually hinder your recovery."
Patience. Darcy had never been particularly skilled at patience, and the prospect of waiting indefinitely for his own mind to restore itself left him feeling helpless in a way he deeply disliked.
"You should rest," Dr Newport continued, already moving towards his medical bag. "I will leave you something to help with the pain and encourage sleep. What you need now is time and quiet. No stress, no exertion. Let your body and mind recover at their own pace."
"But there must be matters requiring my attention—the mine, the estate business—"
"Everything's well-managed. There's nothing that requires your immediate attention." Mr Smith said firmly. "You nearly died, sir. The doctor says you're lucky the blow could havebeen far worse. You need to recover, and that means following the provided recommendations."
Darcy wanted to argue, but the throbbing in his head intensified suddenly, accompanied by a wave of nausea that made debate seem decidedly unwise. He allowed Dr Newport to administer the medication, felt the bitter taste of it on his tongue, and let his eyes drift closed.
But as consciousness began to slip away again, something surfaced in his mind—a fragment of text, clear and distinct:
