Chapter Fourteen
A week later
The church bells had long since ceased their ringing, but Elizabeth could still feel their reverberations in her chest—or perhaps that was simply her own heart, beating its anxious rhythm as she stood in her parents' drawing room, now transformed for the wedding breakfast.
Mrs Bennet had outdone herself with the arrangements: garlands of autumn flowers draped every surface, the best china gleamed on the laden table, and every person of consequence in Meryton had been invited to witness the union of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She was married now. It felt surreal, impossible to grasp fully despite the weight of the ring upon her finger.
The ceremony itself had passed in a blur. She remembered standing beside Mr Darcy—beside her husband, she must learn to think of him as that—and speaking the words that bound them together. His voice had been steady as he made his vows, hers rather less so. When the vicar pronounced them man and wife, she had felt a curious sense of unreality, as if she were observing the scene from a great distance rather than participating in it.
Now, surrounded by well-wishers and the noise of celebration, that distant sense persisted. Her mother fluttered about, accepting congratulations with undisguised triumph. Her sisters smiled at her in encouragement. Even Lydia seemed impressed, declaring coyly that Lizzy had done very well forherself and perhaps Lieutenant Galway might be persuaded to propose if scandal could lead to such advantageous matches.
Through it all, Mr Darcy accepted felicitations with courtesy and conversed when addressed. If he felt some discomfort about being around so many people, he didn't show it. However, after nearly an hour, she watched him excuse himself and slip through the French doors into the garden.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before following. They were married now; surely she had the right and perhaps even the obligation to seek his company. The air struck cool after the warmth of the crowded drawing room and she drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders.
She found him near the old oak tree at the garden's edge, his back to the house, his gaze fixed on the rolling hills beyond Longbourn's modest grounds. He did not turn at her approach, although he must have heard her footsteps on the gravel path.
"Are you well?" she asked, coming to stand beside him.
"Quite well." His tone was even, but it revealed nothing about his state of mind. "I merely required a moment's respite from the festivities."
"As did I." She studied his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that seemed perpetual since his injury. "It has been rather overwhelming."
"Yes."
They stood in silence for several moments. Elizabeth felt the weight of unspoken words between them, questions and uncertainties that had no easy answers. Finally, she gathered her courage.
"Does it feel strange? Being married to me, I mean. Given that you are still recovering your memories."
He turned to her then, a look of confusion crossing his features. "Why would it feel strange?"
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Because...before your accident, you were courting Cassandra. You seemed to really like her, from what I understand. The two of you corresponded regularly, which suggests a growing attachment. And now you are married to me instead, someone you barely know."
"I have been told by Lady Catherine that I was courting Miss Rochford," he acknowledged. "I have read the letters we exchanged. But if my feelings were as strong as you suggest, surely seeing her would have stirred something—recognition, affection, even simple fondness. Instead, she might as well be any other young lady of good family. She is practically a stranger to me."
He paused, his gaze drifting back to the landscape. "Moreover, I made no official promises to Miss Rochford or her parents. There was no formal understanding, no engagement. Whatever attachment existed—if it truly existed at all beyond my aunt's expectations—it was not binding."
She took this in, her fingers worrying at the edge of her shawl. "But Cassandra is beautiful and well-bred, accomplished in all the ways society values. Surely those are qualities you admire. Your accident may have stolen your memories, but it cannot have changed your fundamental preferences. You should feel some sadness, at least, that circumstances prevented you from pursuing that connection."
"It is true that I appreciate beauty and breeding in a woman," he replied, something almost like amusement flickering across his countenance. "But you do not fall short in those aspects, Miss Bennet."
His words sent an unexpected thrill through her. She shook her head, trying to dispel the sensation. "Jane was always the prettier sister. I do not consider myself ugly, but I am not a great beauty like her. And as for breeding and accomplishments—I play the pianoforte only tolerably, my needlework is passable at best, and my tongue is rather too sharp for proper feminine decorum."
"Your sister may be more conventionally beautiful," He said hesitantly, as if that too was subject to debate. "But you possess something far more interesting than conventional beauty. There is a vitality to you, an intelligence in your eyes and expressiveness in your features that draws the observer's attention. You have a unique quality that makes people want to continue looking, to understand what thoughts move behind those eyes."
Elizabeth blushed and turned away, ostensibly to examine a late-blooming rose on a nearby bush. "You are very kind. But I must tell you, the version of yourself who had not lost his memory considered me quite ill-mannered."
"Did I?" He sounded surprised.
"Oh yes." She plucked a petal from the rose, rolling it between her fingers. "At the assembly in Meryton, when we first met, you made your opinion of me quite clear. Perhaps I had annoyed you so much that your feelings of dislike were particularly vivid. That might explain why you found me familiar when you saw me again—those negative impressions must havebeen more prominent than your regard for Cassandra, whom you had trouble recalling at all."
Darcy was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice held a note of certainty that surprised her. "Then my former self was truly foolish in his judgement. Because right now, at this moment, I find your presence comforting. Your way of speaking, your manner of thinking—it feels familiar to me, yes, but not in an unpleasant way. Quite the opposite."
Elizabeth's breath caught. She forced herself to meet his gaze, searching his face for signs of mere politeness. But his expression held an openness she had not seen from him before.
"It is almost as if..." He continued, his brow furrowing in concentration. "As if I had several interactions with you. Multiple conversations, exchanges of ideas. Not just that single meeting at the assembly, but something more extensive. More... intimate, perhaps, though I do not mean that in any improper sense."
