Chapter Seven
"Lizzy, you are not paying attention.”
Elizabeth blinked, pulling her gaze from the window where it had strayed for perhaps the third time in as many minutes. Her sister Jane regarded her with gentle concern, one hand paused over the embroidery frame between them.
"Forgive me," Elizabeth said, reaching for her own neglected needle. "My thoughts wandered."
"So I observed." Jane's smile held no reproach. "You have been remarkably distracted these past days. Is something troubling you?"
Two weeks. It had been precisely two weeks since Cassandra had shown her Mr Darcy's letter, the one in which he stated his intention to depart Pemberley within days and travel to Netherfield.
Elizabeth had committed the relevant passage to memory without meaning to: The matter here is resolved at last, and I find I can delay no longer.
I shall set out on the morrow and hope to arrive at Netherfield before the week's end.
No further correspondence had arrived since. Still, the silence felt peculiar. Mr Darcy's previous letters had arrived with such regularity that their absence now seemed almost a presence in itself.
"Nothing of consequence," Elizabeth replied, applying herself to the stitching with renewed focus. The pattern—a spray of primroses—required more attention than she had been granting it, and the result showed in her uneven work. "I am merely wool-gathering."
Jane did not appear convinced, but she possessed too much delicacy to press further. Instead, she returned to her own embroidery, but Elizabeth caught her darting concerned glances when she thought herself unobserved.
The sitting room at Longbourn hummed with its usual chaos.
Near the fire, their mother held court with Mrs Phillips, the two women engaged in animated discussion about the merits of various ribbon merchants in Meryton.
Kitty sat apart, a paper clutched to her breast, her expression dreamy.
Mary had claimed the pianoforte and was working through a particularly complex passage with grim determination, each note emerging crisp and correct but utterly devoid of feeling.
"Mr Bingley has invited our family to dine at Netherfield on Thursday next," Jane ventured after a moment. "He particularly wished me to extend the invitation to you."
Elizabeth managed a smile. "How kind of him. I shall be pleased to attend."
Mr Bingley's attentions to Jane had progressed with gratifying speed.
He called at Longbourn nearly every day, his affection so transparent that even their mother's unsubtly enthusiastic hints had not frightened him away.
Any fool could see he was half in love already, and Jane's carefully guarded expressions could not quite conceal her reciprocal feelings.
Elizabeth was truly pleased for her sister.
Jane deserved every happiness, and Mr Bingley seemed an amiable, generous-hearted man.
Netherfield also represented the place where Mr Darcy had been two months ago, and no longer was.
She had no claim to concern herself with his whereabouts. Their connection existed solely through her and Cassandra's deception, a strange intimacy born of borrowed words and false pretences.
Yet she could not deny that she had come to anticipate his letters with something approaching eagerness. It was a meeting of minds conducted through ink and paper, free from the constraints of propriety that governed face-to-face encounters.
Mr Darcy wrote with intelligence and surprising vulnerability, sharing his concerns regarding the mine collapse, observations about estate management, and even the occasional wry comment about society's absurdities.
And she—or rather, the persona of Cassandra she took on—had responded in kind.
The man who emerged from those careful lines bore little resemblance to the proud, disagreeable gentleman she had met at the assembly.
When he eventually arrived at Netherfield, he would no doubt seek out Cassandra immediately. The correspondence would culminate in more courtship and then marriage. It was the natural progression of such things, and Elizabeth had no grounds to feel peculiar about it.
The sitting room door opened, admitting Lydia in a whirl of muslin and excitement. "Mama! Mama, you shall never guess what I’ve just learned!"
Mrs Bennet looked up from her conference with Mrs Phillips, her interest immediately piqued. "Well? Do not keep us in suspense, child."
"Lieutenant Galway has returned to Meryton! He arrived yesterday with his regiment, and a dear friend of mine saw him on the high street looking ever so handsome in his regimentals." Lydia clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "Oh, I do hope we shall see him in town soon!"
"A lieutenant," Mrs Bennet said with evident satisfaction. "Not so grand as an officer, perhaps, but respectable enough. How fortunate that you made such an impression upon him at the Meryton assembly, Lydia."
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Lydia's "impression" had consisted of giggling excessively and batting her eyelashes with all the subtlety of a stage actress.
Still, Lieutenant Galway had seemed amused rather than repelled, so perhaps her sister's tactics were more effective than Elizabeth initially thought.
"Mr Poulett is equally handsome," Kitty countered with the sort of competitive edge that characterised most conversations between the two youngest Bennet sisters.
"And he actually called here, which Lieutenant Galway has not yet done.
Mr Poulett brought me flowers from his mother's garden and stayed for nearly an hour discussing the weather and his prospects. "
"The weather," Lydia scoffed. "How thrilling."
"It was a perfectly pleasant conversation, and he has promised to call again on Thursday.
" Kitty lifted her chin. "He also just recently sent me a poem, telling me he’s always thinking of me. At least Mr Poulett knows how to court a lady properly, unlike your lieutenant, who’s merely spotted across the street. "
"Very romantic indeed," Mary observed dryly from the pianoforte. "I wonder whether constant thought might not interfere with his other obligations. A gentleman ought to maintain some discipline of mind."
Kitty glared at her. "You are simply jealous because no gentleman thinks of you at all."
"Girls!" Mrs Bennet's voice cracked across the room like a whip.
"I will not have such quarrelling. Kitty, Mr Poulett's attentions are most gratifying, and you must endeavour to encourage them. Especially with his mother so well placed. I hear her sister is one of the Lady Patronesses at Almack’s.
Mary, there is no need for your commentary.
And Lydia, do try to conduct yourself with some decorum when you encounter Lieutenant Galway.
We cannot have a repeat of your behaviour at the last assembly. "
The chastisement had little effect. Lydia immediately launched into an animated description of Lieutenant Galway's superior qualities, while Kitty retreated to the window seat with her letter, re-reading it with evident pleasure.
Mary returned to her practice, attacking the keys with renewed vigour.
Elizabeth felt the familiar restlessness rising.
She loved her family—truly, she did—but there were moments when the sitting room at Longbourn felt suffocating.
Everyone was so absorbed in their own concerns, their own small dramas.
Jane's quiet courtship, Kitty's correspondence, Lydia's infatuation.
Even Mary had her music, severe and joyless as it was.
And she had... what? A borrowed correspondence with a man who believed her to be someone else entirely.
She set aside her embroidery and rose. "I believe I shall take a walk."
Jane looked up. "Would you like company?"
"Thank you, no. I wish to call upon Cassandra. It has been some days since I last saw her, and I should not like her to think me neglectful."
This was not strictly true—Elizabeth and Cassandra's friendship had always been more circumstantial than dedicated—but it served as an adequate excuse. Jane nodded her understanding and returned to her work.
Elizabeth collected her spencer and bonnet, slipped out through the front entrance, and set off towards the Rochford estate at a brisk pace.
The November air bit at her cheeks, but the cold felt invigorating after the stuffiness of the sitting room.
Above, clouds moved swiftly across a grey sky, promising rain before evening.
The walk to the Rochford estate took the better part of half an hour.
She used the time to arrange her thoughts, to consider whatever information Cassandra might impart.
Perhaps there was a simple explanation for Mr Darcy's silence.
Perhaps he had been delayed by estate business, or decided to postpone his journey.
Perhaps he had arrived at Netherfield already and simply had not yet had the opportunity to write.
Or perhaps something had happened.
The thought brought a chill that had nothing to do with the November wind.
Engleton House rose before her, imposing and perfectly maintained.
Elizabeth had always thought it rather cold, despite its grandeur—or perhaps because of it.
Everything about the Rochfords spoke of careful cultivation, from their gardens to their flawless manners.
Nothing was left to chance or nature's whim.
The butler admitted her without surprise and showed her to the morning room, where Cassandra sat surrounded by fashion plates and correspondence.
She looked up at Elizabeth's entrance, her expression flickering briefly with something that might have been guilt before smoothing into her usual pleasant mask.
"Elizabeth! What a lovely surprise. I was not expecting you today."
"I hope I do not intrude." Elizabeth settled into the offered chair, untying her bonnet. "It has been some time since we spoke, and I thought I might call."
"Not at all, not at all. You are always welcome here." Cassandra set aside the fashion plate she had been examining—a frock with bright, flowery decoration—and folded her hands in her lap. "Although I am surprised to see you venture out in such weather. It looks ready to rain at any moment."
"I do not mind a bit of weather. Besides, I wished to enquire..." she hesitated, unsure how to phrase the question without making her concern too obvious. "Has there been any further word from Mr Darcy? You mentioned in his last letter that he intended to travel to Netherfield."
"Ah," her friend said, her expression shifting. "Yes. About that."
Elizabeth's breath caught. "Has something happened?"
For a long moment, Cassandra did not answer. She picked up the fashion plate again, set it down, and smoothed her skirts. Finally, she met Elizabeth's gaze.
"I received word four days ago," she said, the look of guilt crossing her face again. "From Lady Catherine. Mr Darcy was involved in an accident at his mine. A horse bolted, and he... he was injured saving one of his workers."
The room seemed to tilt. Elizabeth gripped the arm of her chair. "Injured? How severely?"
"He struck his head. Lady Catherine's letter was not entirely clear on the particulars, but she indicated that he was unconscious afterwards for some days. His physician is attending him, of course. Apparently his memory has been affected. He has trouble recalling recent events.”
Trouble recalling recent events. The words echoed in her mind. Mr Darcy, who had written with such clarity and thoughtfulness, had been injured in an accident, his memories possibly tampered with. Would that include the letters he had written to Cassandra, she wondered.
Memory loss. The words echoed in her mind. Mr Darcy, who had written with such clarity and thoughtfulness, had been injured in an accident, his memories dispersed like they never existed.
"When did this occur?" she asked, pleased to hear her voice emerge steady despite the tumult beneath.
"A fortnight ago, I believe. Shortly after he penned that last letter to me—to us.
" Cassandra caught herself, her cheeks colouring slightly.
"His letter mentioned departing the following day. The accident must have happened around that time. I was just thinking I should send word to you about it before you arrived,” she added.
“Why wait four days to let me know in the first place? You promised you’d inform me about any updates regarding Mr Darcy.”
"I meant to tell you sooner, truly, but I have been preoccupied myself,” Cassandra said, pointing at the fashion plate.
"I hope he recovers well," Elizabeth managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "Head injuries can be quite serious."
"Oh, I am certain he shall be fine. Men of his constitution are remarkably resilient." Cassandra waved a dismissive hand. "Lady Catherine writes that he is already up and about, though his memory remains impaired. She seems to think it will return with time."
"And if it does not?"
Cassandra blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"If his memory does not return. If he never recalls the letters, the correspondence—" Elizabeth stopped, catching herself before she revealed too much. "What then?"
"I doubt he’ll forget something so important.
I’m not easy to forget, you know. But if that occurs…
then I suppose the courtship shall have to begin anew.
" Cassandra's tone suggested she had not given the matter much thought.
"Or perhaps I shall set my sights elsewhere.
There are other eligible gentlemen, after all, and I am not so attached to Mr Darcy that I could not redirect my attentions given sufficient cause. "
Elizabeth rose abruptly. "I should return to Longbourn. Mary will be expecting me."
"But you only just arrived—"
"Forgive me, Cassandra. I find I am not feeling quite well." It was not entirely a lie. Her head had begun to throb, and her chest felt constricted in a way that made breathing difficult.
Cassandra accompanied her to the door, chattering about some dinner party her mother was planning, but Elizabeth barely registered the words. Her mind was elsewhere—in Derbyshire, in a bedroom at Pemberley, with a man who might not remember anything she had written to him.
The walk home passed in a blur. Elizabeth barely noticed the first drops of rain, barely registered the darkening sky. By the time Elizabeth reached Longbourn, the rain had begun in earnest.
She slipped inside, ignored her mother's scolding about catching her death, and retreated to her chamber. There, surrounded by books and familiar comforts, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth she had been avoiding:
Somewhere in the exchange of borrowed words and rhythmic phrases, she had begun to care for Fitzwilliam Darcy.