The Fitzwilliams who had existed before the accident were the pleasant man in the correspondence where he thought she was someone else. And the other remained a mystery to her, glimpsed only through that single encounter at the Meryton assembly. That man had been proud, disdainful, openly dismissive of Hertfordshire society and Elizabeth in particular. He had deemed her "tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt" him—words that still stung when she allowed herself to remember them.
What would happen when his memories returned? When the kind, considerate husband she was coming to know merged with the arrogant gentleman who had looked through her as though she were beneath his notice?
Would he regret this marriage? Perhaps he would look at her with that same disdain, now trapped with a wife he had never wanted and would never have chosen under other circumstances.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, as if she could physically block out these troubling thoughts. She wanted to move forward, to build something lasting with the man who was now her husband. But she couldn't, given that she had no idea who he truly was. There was a chance his current self would one day vanish and be replaced by the Mr Darcy who held her in contempt.
The situation felt impossible. If she allowed herself to grow closer to him now, she risked heartbreak when his memories returned and he reverted to his former self. But if she maintained distance, she doomed them both to a cold, empty union based solely on obligation.
Perhaps she would feel this way forever, Elizabeth thought with a sinking sensation. Until he recovered his memories completely, until they could interact without the obstacle of his injury swaying his behaviour, she would always wonder which version of him was real. The kind husband who promised to ensure her comfort? Or the proud gentleman who had dismissed her at first glance?
And underlying it all was the secret she still had not revealed—the letters, the deception, Cassandra's role and her own. There was no telling that his current kindness wouldremain in the face of such a revelation. If anything, his fragile state would only make him more prone to distrusting the intent behind her actions.
She groaned aloud, the sound echoing off the tiles. The complexity of her circumstances felt overwhelming. Every path forward seemed fraught with potential disaster. Stay distant and resign herself to loneliness. Draw closer and risk devastation when his memories resurface. Confess about the letters and possibly destroy the little trust they had built. Remain silent and allow the deception to fester until discovery made it worse.
The water had begun to cool. Elizabeth roused herself, reaching for the towel a servant had left warming by the fire. She dried mechanically, her thoughts still churning, then donned a dressing gown. A light knock preceded Mrs Reynolds's return. "Mrs Darcy? I wondered if you might wish to head downstairs for dinner?”
Elizabeth felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her—not merely physical fatigue from the journey, but a bone-deep weariness at the prospect of maintaining conversation and composure when her mind was so unsettled. "I am rather weary from travel. I should like to retire early, if that would not be too much trouble."
"Of course, ma'am. You must take all the time you need to recover from your journey. I will inform Mr Darcy of your wishes. Shall I send your lady's maid to help you prepare for bed?"
"Yes, thank you."
After Mrs Reynolds departed and the maid had helped her into her nightdress and brushed out her hair, Elizabeth dismissed the servants and climbed into the enormous bed.It felt strange and foreign, so different from her modest bed at Longbourn. The mattress was softer, the linens finer, the curtains heavier. Everything about Pemberley spoke of wealth and permanence and tradition—all things she was now part of, whether she felt prepared for them or not.
She lay in the darkness, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Pemberley settling around her—the creak of old wood, the whisper of wind against stone, the distant tread of servants going about their duties.
She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. But even as exhaustion finally pulled her under, a thought followed into her dreams:
Tomorrow would demand answers she did not have. But for tonight, she would allow herself this moment of rest, this brief respite before facing whatever came next.
She would also simply have to learn to live with the uncertainty.
Chapter Seventeen
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows when Elizabeth woke, momentarily disorienting her. These were not her modest chambers at Longbourn, nor the simple inn rooms from their journey. This was Pemberley—her home now, though the word still felt foreign on her tongue.
A soft knock preceded the entrance of a young maid bearing a laden tray. "Good morning, Mrs Darcy. Mr Darcy requested that breakfast be brought to your rooms, seeing as you were fatigued from your travels."
The consideration touched her, even as she felt a twinge of guilt for not dining with him the previous evening. "Thank you. That was thoughtful of him."
The maid set the tray on the small table near the window, curtsying before she withdrew. Elizabeth rose and approached the breakfast with an active appetite—fresh bread still warm from the oven, preserves that gleamed like jewels in their crystal dishes, cold meats arranged with artful precision, and tea that smelled of bergamot and promise.
Tucked beside the teapot was a folded note bearing her name in a bold, masculine hand. She broke the seal and read:
I hope you rested well. When you have finished your breakfast and are ready, I would be pleased if you would join me in the library. I thought we might become better acquainted with one another in more comfortable surroundings than a jolting carriage.
There is no urgency—come when it suits you. Mrs Reynolds can direct you, or I can send someone to escort you if you prefer.
Your husband, Fitzwilliam Darcy
The signature surprised her—not the formal "Mr Darcy" but a personal “your husband," closely followed by his Christian name. The intimacy of it sent an unexpected thrill through her chest.
She took her time with breakfast, savouring the excellent food and fortifying herself for the day ahead. When she finally dressed—with assistance from the lady's maid who appeared precisely when needed—she felt almost prepared to face her new role as mistress of Pemberley.
Almost.
Mrs Reynolds materialised in the corridor as Elizabeth emerged, as though the housekeeper possessed some preternatural ability to know when she might be needed. "Good morning, Mrs Darcy. Might I escort you to the library? Mr Darcy mentioned you might be joining him there."
