Trouble recalling recent events. The words echoed in her mind. Mr Darcy, who had written with such clarity and thoughtfulness, had been injured in an accident, his memories possibly tampered with. Would that include the letters he had written to Cassandra, she wondered.
Memory loss. The words echoed in her mind. Mr Darcy, who had written with such clarity and thoughtfulness, had been injured in an accident, his memories dispersed like they never existed.
"When did this occur?" she asked, pleased to hear her voice emerge steady despite the tumult beneath.
"A fortnight ago, I believe. Shortly after he penned that last letter to me—to us." Cassandra caught herself, her cheeks colouring slightly. "His letter mentioned departing the following day. The accident must have happened around that time. I was just thinking I should send word to you about it before you arrived,” she added.
“Why wait four days to let me know in the first place? You promised you’d inform me about any updates regarding Mr Darcy.”
"I meant to tell you sooner, truly, but I have been preoccupied myself,” Cassandra said, pointing at the fashion plate.
"I hope he recovers well," Elizabeth managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "Head injuries can be quite serious."
"Oh, I am certain he shall be fine. Men of his constitution are remarkably resilient." Cassandra waved a dismissive hand. "Lady Catherine writes that he is already up and about, though his memory remains impaired. She seems to think it will return with time."
"And if it does not?"
Cassandra blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"If his memory does not return. If he never recalls the letters, the correspondence—" Elizabeth stopped, catching herself before she revealed too much. "What then?"
"I doubt he’ll forget something so important. I’m not easy to forget, you know. But if that occurs… then I suppose the courtship shall have to begin anew." Cassandra's tone suggested she had not given the matter much thought. "Or perhaps I shall set my sights elsewhere. There are other eligible gentlemen, after all, and I am not so attached to Mr Darcy that I could not redirect my attentions given sufficient cause."
Elizabeth rose abruptly. "I should return to Longbourn. Mary will be expecting me."
"But you only just arrived—"
"Forgive me, Cassandra. I find I am not feeling quite well." It was not entirely a lie. Her head had begun to throb, and her chest felt constricted in a way that made breathing difficult.
Cassandra accompanied her to the door, chattering about some dinner party her mother was planning, but Elizabeth barely registered the words. Her mind was elsewhere—in Derbyshire, in a bedroom at Pemberley, with a man who might not remember anything she had written to him.
The walk home passed in a blur. Elizabeth barely noticed the first drops of rain, barely registered the darkening sky. By the time Elizabeth reached Longbourn, the rain had begun in earnest.
She slipped inside, ignored her mother's scolding about catching her death, and retreated to her chamber. There, surrounded by books and familiar comforts, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth she had been avoiding:
Somewhere in the exchange of borrowed words and rhythmic phrases, she had begun to care for Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Chapter Eight
"You are looking remarkably well, Mr Darcy."
Darcy glanced up from the estate ledgers spread across his desk to find Mr Smith standing in the doorway with an expression of cautious approval. Two weeks had passed since the accident—two weeks of enforced rest, careful supervision, and the persistent frustration of gaps in his memory that refused to be filled.
"I feel well enough," Darcy replied, setting down his pen. "The headaches have diminished considerably, and Dr Newport assures me I am recovering as expected."
"That's a relief to hear, sir. The men will be glad to know you're on the mend." Mr Smith stepped further into the room, carrying a stack of correspondence. "These arrived this morning. Nothing urgent, by my assessment, but you'll want to review them when you have time."
Darcy took the letters, noting the familiar seals and handwriting of various business associates and acquaintances. Routine matters, all of them. He set them aside and returned his attention to the ledgers, though the numbers seemed to swim slightly before his eyes if he concentrated too long.
"Thank you, Mr Smith."
The steward withdrew, leaving Darcy alone with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the peculiar sense of incompleteness that had plagued him since he first regained consciousness. He was healthy—or nearly so. His body had recovered well from the injury, his mind functionedwith its usual clarity in most respects, and he had resumed his duties without difficulty.
And yet something felt absent. As though he had misplaced some essential item and could not quite recall what it was or where he had left it.
Dr Newport had assured him this was normal, that memory often returned in pieces rather than all at once. Darcy had accepted this intellectually while finding it deeply unsatisfying in practice. He was a man who valued knowledge and certainty. To have months of his own life rendered inaccessible felt like a personal failing, though he knew that made no rational sense.
A commotion in the entrance hall pulled him from his thoughts—the unmistakable sound of his aunt's arrival. Lady Catherine never entered a house quietly.
