Chapter 9
The sorrow in Mr. Darcy’s eyes, the absolute dejection in his furrowed brows and crestfallen expression, haunted Elizabeth.
That she had a strong connection to the man sitting beside her was undeniable.
She felt his hurt as acutely as if it were her own, so much so, she could not distinguish which emotion belonged to her and which originated from Mr. Darcy.
He was equally aware of her. She saw it in his ready posture and the way his legs were poised under him, ready to act. For her.
It pierced Elizabeth to the core. She had hurt him deeply, and still, Mr. Darcy was ready to act on her behalf. She had no doubt that if she asked him to run to London, he would do it.
She squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out the alternating whimpers and sighs of her mother, the hushed voices of the assembled, and leaving only the image of the man who filled her awareness beside her.
Peeking through her eyelashes, she glanced at him, memorizing his features, holding the picture in her mind closely in the hope it would spark a memory.
Tighter, closer. She clenched her hands. Any memory would do.
The bump on her head fought back, pounding against her concentration like a cricket bat. However, her body warmed at his nearness, feeling what her mind refused to remember.
Her mother leaned against Papa, muttering behind her handkerchief. “Mr. Bennet, you must make her marry Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth considered. What if she went through with it anyway?
True, the sadness in Mr. Darcy’s eyes was undeniable, and she hated to disappoint anyone in whom she had entrusted something so important as her heart, her future, her happiness.
She had always believed she would never agree to marry for anything less than the deepest, most steadfast love.
Surely, she must have loved Mr. Darcy dearly. Surely.
But … a little voice whispered from the recesses of her mind … was it possible to forget someone you truly loved?
Papa whispered to Mama, “It is better for one daughter to marry than for both to remain unattached. The wedding license remains valid for three months, and you may trust that our Lizzy will recover in time. Of all her strengths, her mind has always been the strongest.”
Until today, Elizabeth thought.
Mr. Darcy looked at her fully and nodded his head slowly. The intensity in his gaze sent coils of electric shocks through her, spiraling out from her center. It was both thrilling and maddening. Why did her brain refuse to cooperate with what her body craved?
“Pray do not be troubled. I will help you. My affections and feelings have not changed,” he whispered, his voice deep and raw.
His compassion twisted like a knife in Elizabeth’s gut, and as the vicar’s droll monotone echoed in the background, she was overwhelmed by the urge to cry.
She sucked in her breath, but her emotions were too strong. One tear escaped.
Elizabeth forced herself to smile. It was a happy tear. For Mr. Bingley and Jane. This was their day, and Elizabeth would not be guilty of lessening their joy. She felt guilty enough.
Unable to gaze directly upon the happy couple, Elizabeth looked about her.
Mr. Collins listened with his face uplifted to the heavens and his eyes closed in deep meditation. William Collins, Papa’s nearest relation and Charlotte’s husband. Had he not dabbed his face so often with his handkerchief, Elizabeth might have suspected him asleep and not in a reverie.
Behind him, Miss Bingley whispered to her sister, her expression smug and haughty. Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst.
Elizabeth pounded her fist against her leg. How could she remember such disagreeable people when she could not remember her groom?
She peeked at him askance again. He wore a blue coat, fine kerseymere with gilt buttons and a high collar, a high-buttoned blue and fawn silk damask waistcoat topped with an elegantly knotted cravat, and nankeen pantaloons.
His picture could have been printed on a fashion plate, a tasteful, understated Beau Brummell.
A man of the first circles who did not wish to call attention to himself.
Tracing his features along the firm lines of his wide forehead, down his defined jaw to the dark curls softening the sharp edge of his high collar, Elizabeth tucked her fingers under her thigh.
She could not very well stroke his curls in the front row of the church in the middle of the vicar’s speech, could she?
Biting her lips, she continued her inspection. He was tall, and his tanned complexion bespoke of a love of the out of doors. Just like her.
What else did they have in common?
Not a crease or fold was out of place, nor a thread loose or button askew.
His breeches fit like a second skin, his high boots polished to a smooth sheen.
She wore a new dress, the finest found in her wardrobe, and yet the cloth and cut of his coat was superior.
He was clearly an individual of wealth — unlike her.
However, she took comfort that his dress tended to elegance rather than extravagance.
Like her. Elizabeth believed in the magic of a well-made, perfectly fitted gown, but she was not one to pile on jewels and fripperies merely to call more attention to herself.
Sneaking another brief glance over her shoulder, she glanced over the crowded room, but while she recognized most of the faces in the room, she could not associate one of them with Mr. Darcy … aside from Mr. Bingley and his scornful sisters.
Either Mr. Darcy did not have much in the way of family and friends — Could he be an orphan? — or he had not seen fit to invite them.
Elizabeth frowned. Wealthy gentlemen of the highest circles were too often in demand to believe him without friends. And orphans in his position were rare enough with family names and legacies to maintain.
She sighed, mulling over the apparent facts. They did not have family, fortune, or connections in common. Which left interests and intellect. Such love matches were rare, and Elizabeth hardly dared to hope she had been fortunate enough to secure one.
But what else was there?
Her elation was short-lived, her summations leading to one unsettling conclusion: If they had been intellectual equals before, they were no longer. Her mind was altered. What if she never remembered him? What if, instead of improving, she got worse?
The vicar addressed the assembly. “Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” He clasped his hands together and looked from one end of the room to the other.
Elizabeth held her breath, her suspense mounting with each passing second. Must he pause so long? Why was she nervous? Surely, nobody opposed Mr. Bingley and Jane’s union. Or was it her union to Mr. Darcy which might have been opposed?
Oh, if only she knew! Every question she could not answer added to her consternation.
She bent her mind on what little facts and observations she had amassed.
They were few enough, but it was plain that Mr. Darcy was from the upper echelons of society …
whereas her family lingered on the fringes of respectability.
He was a gentleman of fortune while she was accustomed to economizing to secure the treasures (mostly books) she could never afford.
Before Elizabeth convinced herself that her attachment to Mr. Darcy had been nothing more than a fluke of good fortune, the vicar continued.
She released her breath. This was foolishness. She had not lost her mind completely, only her memory of one person. Only one. And who was she to doubt that she would recover her memories of Mr. Darcy as quickly as she had lost them?
Resolve straightened her back and elevated her chin. She would remember Mr. Darcy before the day was through or her name was not Elizabeth Bennet. Papa was right. She had a strong mind, and where she could bind determination with wit, she was certain to succeed.
Darcy felt Elizabeth’s gaze on him, watching, exploring. He fixed his eyes forward. It took every bit of his self-possession not to pull her into his arms and cover her mouth with his, filling her senses with the love that overwhelmed him until she remembered him.
How could she have forgotten him? He was certain he could never forget her. Was his love greater than hers? Had his stubborn determination to win her over been too much for her to resist? Had she merely succumbed? Lord, let it not be that.
Gluing his vision on Bingley until it blurred, Darcy attempted not to scowl. But his loss was too great. He and Elizabeth should be standing in front of the vicar, too.
Having already addressed the assembled, the vicar now spoke directly to the bride and groom.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Did the man want someone to protest? Darcy held his breath despite himself.
Nobody had replied earlier, and the couple themselves were unlikely to do so.
Only his attachment to Elizabeth had met with intense opposition from certain members of his family.
His aunt Catherine had already exposed her scandalous, self-serving behavior once.
Darcy did not think her so selfish as to insist again.
Squeak bang — the entrance door slammed open, and the tap-step tap-step Darcy recognized all too well echoed through the stone chamber.
“I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and I have come to stop this abomination!”