He turned this over in his mind, examining it from every angle. Was Bingley correct? Could this arranged marriage actually be preferable to the one he had apparently been building towards before his accident?
The courtship with Miss Rochford—if it could be called that—had begun on an evening he hardly remembered. He had apparently been taken by her, determined to pursue their relationship till it reached a satisfying conclusion. But all of it—that version of him—was gone from his memory, erased as thoroughly as chalk from a slate.
Elizabeth Bennet, by contrast, was vividly present. The concern in her eyes as she had approached him in that sitting room. The gentleness of her touch as she touched his back. The intelligence in her conversation, the quick wit that had momentarily distracted him from his distress. These were not abstractions or second-hand accounts. They were lived experiences, however brief.
"I do not know her," he said quietly. "Not truly. Our acquaintance is measured in hours, not months."
"Then you will come to know her. If she accepts you, you will have a lifetime to learn who she is. And she will learn whoyou are—the man you are now, not the one you were before the accident. Perhaps that is its own kind of gift."
A gift. Darcy had not considered it in those terms. To be known as he was now, rather than constantly compared to the man he had been—there was appeal in that notion, strange as it seemed.
"What if my memories return?" he asked. "What if I remember the attachment to Miss Rochford, remember why I was courting her, remember feelings I do not currently possess?"
"Then you will have to reconcile those memories with your present circumstances," Bingley said. "But you cannot live your life based on what might happen, Darcy. You can only act on what you know now, what you feel now. At this moment, when you speak of Miss Elizabeth, your voice changes. You sound less weary, less burdened."
Did he? He had not noticed.
But when he reflected again on the events of the evening, he realised Bingley spoke the truth.
"She may still refuse me, but I shall hope that she doesn't. "
“I hope the same. There's a lot of potential between the two of you. I strongly believe that.”
After Bingley departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the dying fire, Darcy remained in his chair, his mind turning over everything that had been said. His aunt's letter lay on the table beside him, a tangible reminder of the expectations placed upon him, the path he had been following before the accident stole his memories.
But Bingley was right about one thing: he could not live his life based on a life he no longer remembered living. He could only act on what he knew now, what he felt now.
And what he felt, when he thought of Elizabeth Bennet, was something that might—with time and patience—grow into more than mere comfort.
The clock chimed two. Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Elizabeth was perhaps lying awake as he was, weighing the options available to her, family against self, the safe known future against the uncertain one. He wondered what she would decide. He knew what he hoped she would decide.
The fire crackled lower, shadows lengthening across the room, and Darcy allowed himself to imagine—just for a moment—a future in which Elizabeth Bennet became Elizabeth Darcy. A future in which that soothing presence became a permanent fixture in his life, a steady point of reference as he navigated the strange landscape of his partial memories.
It was not the future he had planned. But perhaps, as Bingley suggested, it was the one he needed.
Chapter Thirteen
Several days later
"She simply must decide!"
Mrs Bennet's voice carried up the stairs to Elizabeth's chamber, where she sat at her writing desk with a blank sheet of paper before her. She had intended to compose a letter to her aunt Gardiner—some explanation of recent events, some request for counsel—but the words would not come. How did one explain that a simple gesture of compassion had transformed into an offer of marriage from one of the wealthiest gentlemen in England?
Several days had passed since the ball at Netherfield. Days filled with her mother's increasingly frantic pronouncements about settlements and bride clothes, of pitying looks from Jane, of curious stares whenever she ventured into Meryton. Days of weighing duty against desire, practicality against principle, her family's welfare against her own independence.
And still she could not decide.
The difficulty lay not in recognising the advantages of such a match—those were abundantly clear. Mr Darcy possessed wealth and connections that would elevate not only Elizabeth but her entire family. Her sisters would benefit from the association, and her parents would be secure in their old age. It was everything a sensible woman should want.
Yet the circumstances surrounding the offer troubled her deeply. Mr Darcy was not proposing out of affection or truepreference. He was fulfilling an obligation, doing what honour demanded after they had been discovered alone together. That he did so with grace and apparent willingness made it no less of a trap for them both.
And then there was his vulnerability. The injury that formed gaps in his memory, leaving him adrift in a world that felt foreign. Back in that sitting room, she had felt the tension in him—the barely suppressed panic of a man struggling to maintain composure. How could she enter into marriage with someone so wounded, so uncertain of his own mind?
But when she thought of refusing him, worry rose swift and sharp. Her family would suffer. Jane's prospects with Mr Bingley might be compromised. Her younger sisters would carry the taint of scandal into their own courtships.
And what of Andrew Lucas?
She rose from her desk and moved to the window, gazing out at the green landscape. Andrew had called the previous day, his manner as amiable as ever despite surely having heard the gossip. He had made no mention of the scandal, speaking instead of a book he thought she might enjoy, a passage that had reminded him of one of their earlier conversations. His kindness in the face of her predicament had nearly broken her composure entirely.
