"You are being callous." Elizabeth's voice hardened. "You cared nothing for him to begin with. You never even read his letters—I did that for you. You felt nothing for the man who wrote those words, who shared his struggles and his grief. And now, when he is most vulnerable, you cast him aside because he is no longer convenient."
Cassandra's face flushed. "How dare you—"
"I dare because it is true. You wanted Mr Darcy's name and fortune, nothing more. Well, he deserves better than that. He deserves someone who values him for more than his consequence."
"Such as you, I suppose?" Cassandra's voice dripped venom. "Do not pretend this is about honour or friendship, Elizabeth. You never liked him initially, and your sudden change of heart is rather suspicious, too.”
Elizabeth's chest constricted. She could not deny that something about Mr Darcy moved her—his isolation, his confusion, the vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal. She wasn’t a stubborn brute, and naturally had changed her mind upon learning that there was more to him than she’d previously thought. If Cassandra thought that was suspicious and spoke to something else, it couldn’t be helped.
"Think what you wish," Elizabeth said at last. "But do not expect me to approve of your treatment of him."
She turned and walked away before Cassandra could respond, her heart pounding with anger and distress. The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit and blissfully quiet. She needed a moment to compose herself before returning to the assembly.
A door stood ajar to her right. Elizabeth glanced inside and saw a small sitting room, empty save for a single figure seated by the window.
Mr Darcy.
He sat with his head in his hands, the picture of a man at the end of his endurance. Elizabeth knew she should retreat and leave him to his privacy. But something in his posture—the slump of his shoulders, the weariness in every line of him—arrested her departure.
"Mr Darcy?" Her voice emerged softer than intended. "Are you well?"
He looked up, and she was startled to see the naked vulnerability in his expression before he shuttered it. "Miss Elizabeth. Forgive me, I did not mean to be found."
"I was searching for a lost earring. I did not mean to intrude." She hesitated, then stepped fully into the room. "But if you require assistance..."
"I require nothing." The words came out more sharply than he likely intended. He softened his tone with visible effort. "That is—I merely needed respite from the ballroom."
Elizabeth moved closer, emboldened by his obvious distress. "It must be very difficult. Being surrounded by people who know you, when you remember nothing of them."
"You cannot imagine." He rose, pacing to the window. "They look at me with expectation, waiting for recognition that does not come. Miss Rochford—she is a stranger to me, yet apparently we have been conducting a courtship of some significance. Bingley assures me she is everything I could want in a wife, yet when I look at her, I feel nothing."
"And yet you recognised me.”
"Yes." He turned to face her. "Which makes no sense whatsoever. You claim we met only briefly, at an assembly months ago. Why should you feel familiar when my own correspondent does not?"
Elizabeth's chest tightened. She knew why, of course. Every word he had written to Cassandra, he had actually been writing to her. Every response that had comforted or challenged him had come from her pen, not Cassandra's. The connection he felt was real, but built on a foundation of deception.
"Perhaps you simply have a better memory for some faces than others," she offered weakly.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something I am missing. Some truth that everyone knows except me." He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting its careful arrangement. "Forgive me. I should not burden you with this."
"You are not burdening me." She surprised herself with the truth of it. She gestured towards the small sofa near the fireplace. "Please, sit. You look as though you might collapse."
He obeyed, sinking onto the cushions with evident relief. She hesitated, then took the seat beside him—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain propriety. Or what remained of it, given that they were alone in a dimly lit room while a ball waged on without them.
"How does one cope with such a loss?" he asked after a moment. "The physicians tell me to be patient, that the memories will return. But what if they do not? What if I am left with this permanent void, never knowing what I felt or thought or did these past months?"
"Then you build new memories," she said. "You cannot live in a gap, Mr Darcy. You can only move forward."
"But how do I trust my own judgement when I cannot remember the decisions that brought me to this point? I amtold Miss Rochford and I have been corresponding for months, sharing thoughts and feelings of significance, yet her letters…"
"What about her letters?"
"They are everything I should want. Intelligent, thoughtful, witty. The woman who wrote them is someone I could easily admire. Yet when I look at Miss Rochford, I see no trace of that intelligence, that depth of feeling." He met Elizabeth's eyes. "Tell me—is she capable of such correspondence?"
Her mouth went dry. This was dangerous territory indeed. "Miss Rochford is... she has many fine qualities."
"That is not an answer."
