"Miss Bennet." He spoke her name as though testing it, trying to match it to some half-remembered context. “I know you. There is something…” He broke off, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "This is the first person beyond my immediate family and Bingley whom I have recognised with any certainty. Forgive me, but I find I must speak with you. Would you grant me a few moments of your time?"
Every instinct urged her to refuse, to make some polite excuse and retreat. This was dangerous territory—Mr Darcy should be speaking to Cassandra, should be attempting to rekindle whatever attachment he believed they had formed through their exchange of letters.
"I... that is, I am certain Miss Rochford would be a more appropriate companion for such a conversation," she began.
"Please." The single word held a note of desperation that arrested her retreat. "I do not understand why you seem familiar when everyone else feels like a stranger. I must understand it."
How could she refuse? Elizabeth nodded mutely.
Mr Bingley, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Perhaps you might take a turn about the room? The musicians are not quite ready to begin."
Mr Darcy offered his arm. She took it with reluctance, conscious of any impropriety even as she told herself this was merely conversation, nothing more.
They walked in silence for several moments, he seeming to struggle with how to begin. Finally, he spoke: "Would you do me the honour of dancing with me this evening?"
The request should not have surprised her, yet it did. "I think not, sir."
His step faltered. "May I ask why?"
She chose her words carefully. "I find your sudden interest in me rather awkward, Mr Darcy. We have met only once before, and briefly. You have been corresponding with Miss Rochford, who clearly expects your attention this evening. And..." She glanced towards where Cassandra stood, her expression thunderous. "And Miss Rochford is my friend. I would not wish to give offence."
"Even though she feels like a complete stranger to me, while you do not?"
"Especially because of that." Elizabeth withdrew her arm from his. "Your memory loss is unfortunate, but it does not alter the facts of your attachment to Miss Rochford. You should be speaking with her, not with me."
Before he could respond, an earnest gentleman named Mr Browne appeared at her elbow. "Miss Bennet! What good fortune to find you unengaged. Might I request the honour of the next two dances?"
Elizabeth accepted with more enthusiasm than she felt, grateful for the escape. As Mr Browne led her towards the forming sets, she glanced back once to see Mr Darcy standing alone, a figure of isolation amid the gaiety.
The dances passed in a blur of movement and Mr Browne's incessant chatter. Elizabeth responded mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere. When the sets concluded and Mr Browne finally released her, she realised with a start that one of her earrings was missing.
Her hand flew to her ear, confirming the loss. The earrings were a gift from her father on her last birthday—garnets set in gold, valuable beyond her family's usual means. He had saved for months to purchase them, presenting them with such quiet pride that she had been moved nearly to tears.
"Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?" A passing gentleman asked.
"I have lost an earring. Please excuse me—I must search for it at once."
She retraced her steps, scanning the floor, but the crush of dancers made the task nearly impossible. Perhaps it had fallen elsewhere—in the entrance hall, or one of the adjoining rooms. Elizabeth made her way towards the corridor, away from the noise and heat of the assembly.
"Elizabeth."
She turned to find Cassandra bearing down upon her, her pretty face twisted with uncharacteristic malice.
"Cassandra, I was just—"
"Do not pretend innocence with me." Cassandra's voice shook with fury. "I saw the way he looked at you. The way he ignored me entirely to speak with you."
"He does not remember you," she responded. "Through no fault of yours. The injury—"
"Oh, spare me your sympathy! I am not a fool. I know what I saw." Cassandra drew herself up, her eyes glittering. "But you may have him, for all I care. I have quite given up on Mr Darcy."
Elizabeth blinked. "Given up?"
"His memory loss may well be permanent. What use is a man who cannot remember our courtship? Who looks at me as though I were any other woman in the room?" Cassandra's lip curled. "There is another gentleman—Mr Harrington, a baronet's son from Suffolk. He has been quite attentive, and his mind is entirely intact. I shall direct my efforts there instead."
"You cannot be serious." Elizabeth stared at her friend in disbelief. "Mr Darcy has suffered a terrible injury. He has lost months of his life. And your response is to abandon him for a healthier prospect?"
"Do not take that tone with me. I am being practical."
