"Where is my nephew? I must see him at once. No, I shall find him myself—Fitzwilliam!"
Darcy rose as his aunt swept into the study, her travelling cloak still pinned at her shoulders, her eyes bright with the particular intensity she brought to what she considered important matters.
"Aunt Catherine. I was not expecting you."
"Clearly not, or you would have been waiting to receive me properly." She removed her gloves with sharp, efficient movements. "Sit down, Fitzwilliam. You look pale. Are you eating properly? I stopped at Dr Newport's house on my way here. He assured me you were recovering well, but I shall judge that for myself."
"I am quite well, I assure you."
"You are not well. You have lost three months of your life, and you sit here pretending that is of no consequence." She took the chair opposite his desk without waiting for invitation. "We must discuss what is to be done about your memory."
"The physician says it will return with time—"
“The physician says many things. Some of them may even be true. But I did not travel all this way to discuss medical theories." Lady Catherine leaned forward, her sharp eyes studying his face with unsettling intensity. "Dr Lambert wrote to me about the extent of your memory loss. He tells me you cannot recall your journey to Hertfordshire at all – that your last clear memory is of Mr Bingley's visit to Pemberley before you departed. Is that accurate?"
"Yes. Everything after that is either gone entirely or so fragmented as to be useless. I remember agreeing to accompany Bingley, and then... nothing of substance."
"Nothing? You recall no social engagements? No introductions to local families? No particular young lady who might have captured your attention?"
"I recall none of it. Why do you ask?"
"Because, Fitzwilliam, you were not merely visiting Netherfield as a favour to Mr Bingley. You had a very specific purpose for being in Hertfordshire." She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle. "Tell me, do you feel as though something is missing? Something important?"
Darcy hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Though I cannot identify what."
"Not a what, Fitzwilliam. A who. You were courting someone. Miss Cassandra Rochford, daughter of Viscount Rochford. Does the name mean anything to you at all?"
Miss Cassandra Rochford. Darcy turned the name over in his mind, searching for any spark of recognition. Nothing came. "I... no. Should it?"
"It should mean a great deal, considering you were quite smitten by her." Lady Catherine rose and began pacing, her hands clasped behind her back in a gesture that reminded him oddly of his father. "You met her at the Meryton assembly. You danced with her twice—a clear signal of your intentions. Then you were called back to Pemberley for the mine accident, and you began corresponding."
"Corresponding?"
"Through me, naturally, to preserve propriety. Mrs Rochford and I have been friends for decades. When you told me about your planned trip to Hertfordshire, I contacted her. I always thought her daughter most suitable as a match, but you were so seldom in that area. But it seemed fated that you should meet. So, we arranged for you two to meet. And after you did, and your introduction was quite the success, you arranged to write to her through me. Your letters to Miss Rochford to pass through my hands, and hers to you through the same route." She paused in her pacing to fix him with a penetrating look. "You wrote to each other frequently. Very frequently. I believe the last count was ten exchanges. The last letter you sent mentioned your imminent return to Hertfordshire. You were planning to propose."
Darcy listened to his aunt’s words with great surprise. He had been courting someone. Had been on the verge of offeringmarriage. And he could remember none of it—not her face, not her voice, not a single moment they had shared.
"Where are these letters?" He asked slowly. "If I wrote so many, surely I kept copies—or at least kept her responses?"
Lady Catherine gestured towards the mahogany cabinet against the wall. "In your desk drawer, I imagine. You always were meticulous about correspondence. The bottom drawer, if memory serves. That’s where you tend to keep the important letters.”
Darcy moved to the cabinet, pulled open the indicated drawer, and discovered a bundle of letters tied with string. He lifted them carefully, noting the feminine hand on each sealed page. Ten, just as his aunt had said.
"You fell in love with her. I could see it in your words whenever a new letter arrived. It was quite unlike you, really. You have never been one for romantic correspondence."
Love. The word felt both foreign and somehow right, as though describing something just beyond his reach.
“The injury has robbed you of something precious, Nephew. You were quite attached to Miss Rochford. Indeed, it is worth repeating that you were charmed by her."
The words should have stirred something—recognition, feeling, any flicker of the attachment his aunt described. Instead, Darcy felt only a peculiar emptiness, as though he stood in a room where furniture had been removed, aware of the absence but unable to recall what had occupied the space.
"In love," he repeated flatly.
"Of course. Why else would you have maintained such frequent correspondence? Express post, no less. The expense alone suggests considerable feeling." Lady Catherine leaned forward, her voice taking on a conspiratorial quality. "I recommended Miss Rochford to you myself, you may recall. Or perhaps you do not. In any case, she is eminently suitable—daughter of a viscount, substantial fortune, connections that would prove advantageous to the Darcy name. When you met her at that assembly in Meryton, I was quite pleased to learn that you had taken an interest."
Darcy's brow furrowed. Nothing specific appeared. Every bit of detail remained frustratingly out of reach.
"You believe seeing Miss Rochford might restore my memory?"
