He picked up the letters once more, reading through selected passages, trying to imprint them on his memory. This woman—witty, intelligent, thoughtful—deserved better than a suitor who could not remember falling in love with her.
But if he could not remember the past, he could at least attempt to build a future.
Chapter Nine
Six days later
"Girls! Girls, the most wonderful news!"
Mrs Bennet's voice carried through Longbourn with the force of a trumpet blast, causing Elizabeth to drop her pen mid-sentence. A spot of ink bloomed across the page she had been writing—a letter to her aunt Gardiner that would now require recopying. She set the ruined paper aside with a sigh and left the drawing room to investigate the commotion.
Her mother stood in the hallway, waving a cream-coloured card with such vigour that Elizabeth feared it might tear. Jane emerged from the morning room, followed shortly by Kitty and Lydia from above stairs. Even Mary abandoned her pianoforte to see what had inspired such excitement.
"What is it, Mama?" Jane asked.
"An invitation! To a ball at Netherfield!" Mrs Bennet pressed the card to her bosom as though it were the crown jewels. "And that is not all—Mr Darcy has returned to Hertfordshire! He has taken up residence at Netherfield alongside Mr Bingley!"
Elizabeth's hand tightened on the banister. Relief flooded through her, swift and unexpected. He had recovered, then. Well enough to travel, to resume his activities. The image that had haunted her these past weeks—Mr Darcy unconscious, suffering, his mind clouded by injury—could finally be set aside. Whateverdevelopments his arrival might bring, at least he was whole and well.
Or well enough, at any rate. Lady Catherine's letter had mentioned memory loss, which was hardly nothing.
Had he recovered his memories by now? If he had, he would surely resume his courtship with Cassandra, would he not?
"Poor Mr Darcy," Jane said softly. "Mr Bingley informed me that he had been in a dreadful accident. I do hope he has recovered sufficiently. It must have been awful not to remember one’s own life."
“Dreadful, indeed,” Mrs Bennet said. “I just told Mr Bennet I should not like it at all if I lost me memory. Can you imagine? To not know your own self?”
“It seems to have been temporary, anyhow,” Kitty chimed in. “Otherwise, he would not be traveling, I am sure.”
"Indeed," Elizabeth managed, pleased that her words in this instance were true. "He would not undertake such a journey unless the physicians deemed him fit for travel."
"I heard it was an accident at his mine, I heard," Kitty added. "Mrs Lucas told me she heard that he was quite heroic—saved a worker's life and was injured in the process."
"That sounds rather like him," Elizabeth said before she could stop herself. Four pairs of eyes turned towards her, and she felt her cheeks warm. "That is—from what one hears of his character. He seems the sort to act without regard for his own safety if duty demanded it."
Lydia sniffed, examining her fingernails with studied indifference. "Heroic or not, he was insufferably proud at the last assembly. One could scarcely get him to speak two words together. Though I suppose I am glad he's recovered," she added, apparently feeling this concession towards charity was expected of her. "It would be dreadful to die saving someone. Rather defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"
"Mr Darcy is an esteemed gentleman of considerable standing," Mary intoned with her customary solemnity. "He is deserving of more than ill luck or deceit."
Elizabeth shifted her weight uncomfortably. Deceit. The word seemed pointed, though Mary could not possibly know about the letters. Still, guilt pricked at her conscience. She had not deceived Mr Darcy single-mindedly—that distinction belonged to Cassandra—but she had been complicit. More than complicit. She had crafted every thoughtful response, every carefully worded encouragement, every observation he believed came from Cassandra's pen.
And now he had come to Netherfield, evidently recovered enough to pursue his courtship with her friend. The thought brought a complex tangle of emotions—relief that he was well, guilt over the deception, and something else she did not care to examine too closely.
"Mr Bingley has been terribly worried," Jane continued, her gentle face creased with concern. "He is usually so high-spirited, so full of good humour, but these past weeks he has been rather subdued. I believe Mr Darcy's absence weighed heavily upon him. His return will surely restore Mr Bingley's spirits."
"I am glad for Mr Bingley's sake, then," Elizabeth said. "It speaks well of their friendship that he felt the loss so keenly."
Mr Bennet appeared in the doorway of his study, drawn by the unusual concentration of his family in one location. "What's all this commotion? Has Napoleon surrendered? Have the French declared Mrs Bennet their queen?"
"Oh, Mr Bennet, do not be absurd!" His wife waved the invitation at him. "We have been invited to a ball at Netherfield! And Mr Darcy has returned!"
"Ah." Mr Bennet's expression suggested this news ranked somewhere below the discovery of a new variety of turnip in terms of interest. "Well, I am glad the young man has recovered. Young people possess far more resilience than old ones like myself. I'm quite certain Mr Darcy has already put the entire incident behind him."
"One hopes so," Elizabeth murmured. Though if Lady Catherine's information was accurate, Mr Darcy may have not put the incident behind him at all. He had lost certain aspects of his memory. Did that include the mine collapse, the letters, perhaps even his reasons for coming to Hertfordshire? If so, all of it might be gone, erased as though it had never existed.
The thought unsettled her more than seemed reasonable. She had read his anguish over the deaths at the mine, his struggle with guilt and responsibility. The correspondence had, by his own words, clearly provided him some measure of comfort during a difficult time. To have that taken from him, along with whatever understanding he had gained, seemed a particularly cruel theft.
"A ball!" Mrs Bennet clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "Oh, this is most fortuitous! Most fortuitousindeed! Jane, you must wear your new gown—the one with the embroidered hem. And Kitty, we must do something about your hair. Perhaps those curling papers from London..."
