But life with Mr Darcy was also uncertain, fraught with complications she could barely begin to comprehend. She was not sure how she felt about him, other than her concern for his well-being. He was injured, confused, vulnerable—a manstruggling with the loss of his own memories, trying to navigate a world that felt foreign to him. She had responded to that vulnerability with compassion, with the instinct to offer comfort to someone in distress. But was that enough upon which to build a marriage? Was compassion a sufficient foundation for a lifetime commitment?
She did not know him, not truly. Their physical acquaintance consisted of one brief meeting at an assembly months ago—a meeting he could not even remember—and a few stolen moments of conversation this evening. What kind of husband would he be? What kind of life would they have together? The questions multiplied faster than she could answer them, each one spawning a dozen more uncertainties.
"I would like some time to think about it," Elizabeth said at last, her voice steadier than she felt. Her hands were trembling slightly, and she clasped them together to still them. "This is rather sudden, and I need to consider what would be best. For everyone involved."
Mr Darcy inclined his head, the gesture formal but somehow also conveying respect. "That is acceptable, Miss Elizabeth. Take the time you need. This decision affects us both—indeed, it affects both our families—and it should not be made in haste or under duress. I will await your answer, whatever it may be."
The words were courteous and perfectly appropriate. But something in his eyes expressed that he comprehended her turmoil more than he could express in present company. He, too, was being forced into a situation not of his choosing, compelled by honour and circumstance to offer marriage to a woman he barely knew.
Mrs Bennet opened her mouth, no doubt to protest this delay, but Mr Bennet placed a restraining hand on her arm. "Come, Mrs Bennet. I think we have all had quite enough excitement for one evening. Let us collect ourselves and return home. Lizzy has been granted time to consider, and we must respect that."
As her family began to discuss the matter amongst themselves—Mrs Bennet already mentally planning wedding clothes and calculating settlements, Mr Bennet offering dry observations that went largely unheard, Lydia chattering about how romantic it all was despite the scandal—Elizabeth remained silent, lost in her own thoughts.
She had been given time to think. But how did one decide between duty and desire when one could not clearly identify what one desired? How did one choose between protecting one's family and protecting one's own heart? Between the safe, comfortable future with Andrew Lucas and the uncertain, complicated future with Mr Darcy?
The questions followed her as she left the room with her family, as heavy and unanswerable as the weight of Mr Darcy's gaze upon her retreating form. She felt that gaze like a physical presence, a reminder that whatever decision she made would affect not only herself but him as well—a man who had already suffered so much, who deserved better than to be trapped in a marriage neither of them had chosen.
As they descended the stairs towards the entrance hall, Elizabeth caught Jane's eye. Her sister squeezed her shoulder gently, offering silent support without words. It was a small comfort in the midst of chaos, but Elizabeth clung to it nonetheless.
Outside, the night air was crisp and cold, a sharp contrast to the heated atmosphere of the sitting room. Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, trying to clear her mind, but the questions remained, circling endlessly:
What did she want? What should she do? And how could she possibly decide when her own heart remained such a mystery to her?
Chapter Twelve
The clock on the mantelpiece in Bingley's study chimed half past one, its sound unnaturally loud in the silence that had settled over Netherfield. Most of the guests had departed hours ago, their carriages rattling away into the darkness and carrying with them the scandal of the evening. Darcy sat in the leather chair before the fire, a glass of brandy untouched on the table beside him, his gaze fixed unseeing on the flames.
His head ached—a dull, persistent throb that had plagued him since the accident but which tonight seemed particularly insistent. Or perhaps it was simply the weight of the evening's events pressing down upon him, demanding attention he was ill-equipped to give.
A soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of a servant bearing a silver salver. "A letter arrived for you earlier this evening, Mr Darcy."
He took the missive, recognising his aunt's crest immediately. Of course, Lady Catherine would write now, when he least desired her counsel. He dismissed the servant with a nod and broke the seal, unfolding the thick paper with a sense of weary resignation.
My dear Nephew,
I trust by now you have arrived at Netherfield and renewed your acquaintance with Miss Rochford. I hope the journey was not too taxing, given your recent injury, though Iam certain your youth and constitution have served you well in your recovery.
I write to enquire about the progress of your courtship. It has been several days since your departure from Pemberley, and I am eager to hear that you have called upon Miss Rochford's family to seek her hand in marriage. The correspondence you conducted these past months suggests a significant attachment, and there is no reason to delay in securing the match.
Miss Rochford is everything I said she would be—well-connected, accomplished, and possessed of the proper understanding of what is required in a wife to a man of your station. Her father, Lord Rochford, is a most respectable man, and the alliance would reflect well upon the Darcy name.
I trust you will not allow this unfortunate memory loss to delay matters unnecessarily. You have read the correspondence. You know the attachment existed. Act upon that knowledge with the decisiveness your father would have shown.
Write to me immediately upon securing her acceptance. I am most anxious to hear of your success.
Your affectionate aunt,Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy set the letter aside, a bitter smile touching his lips. His aunt's timing was impeccable, as always. Here she wrote, urging him to propose to Miss Rochford, whilst he sat contemplating an entirely different marriage—one born not of courtship but of scandal, not of choice but of necessity.
The door opened again, this time admitting Bingley himself. His friend looked exhausted, his sunny dispositiondimmed by the evening's drama. He carried his own glass of brandy and settled into the chair opposite Darcy's with a heavy sigh.
"The last of them have finally departed," Bingley said. "However, I suspect we shall be the talk of Meryton for weeks to come. Mrs Phillips looked positively gleeful as she left."
"No doubt she was." Darcy rubbed his temples, trying to ease the ache behind his eyes. "I am sorry, Bingley. This is not how I intended to repay your hospitality."
"Nonsense. None of this was your doing." Bingley took a drink, studying his friend over the rim of his glass. “But I'll admit, I am still trying to understand how a simple conversation became... this."
"As am I."
