Chapter Eight #2
Darcy looked down at the letters in his hands. Evidence of something he could not remember, feelings he could not access.
"What do you suggest?" he asked finally.
"Return to Hertfordshire. Your friend Bingley is still at Netherfield after all, is he not?”
“I believe so. He wrote to me yesterday stating he intends to stay there for some time. He was most alarmed by the news of my accident,” he said, recalling his friend’s kind words.
“Well then. Go and call on him. See Miss Rochford in person. Dr Newport himself said that familiar environments and faces might help restore your memory."
"And if seeing her changes nothing? If my memory does not return?"
"Then you begin again. But at least you will have made the attempt. You deserve happiness, Fitzwilliam. Do not let an accident rob you of what you had begun to build."
After Lady Catherine departed—having stayed for tea and doled out instructions to write to her immediately upon securing Miss Rochford's acceptance to his marriage proposal—Darcy remained in his study, contemplating the conversation.
The emptiness he had felt since waking from the accident persisted, a hollow sensation that no amount of activity could quite dispel.
Perhaps his aunt was correct. Perhaps what he was missing was not merely memory, but the attachment those memories contained.
Darcy remained at his desk, staring at the stack of correspondence that had accumulated during his incapacity.
Among the letters from tenants and men of business, one bundle stood apart—tied with ribbon, the paper of finer quality than the rest. He reached for them slowly, his fingers hovering over the knot before pulling it free.
He picked up the first letter, dated two months previous, and began to read.
Dear Mr Darcy,
Your letter reached me this morning, and I confess it has occupied my thoughts considerably since.
I was deeply grieved to learn of the accident at your mine and the loss of life that resulted.
No words of mine can adequately express sympathy for such a tragedy, but I hope you will accept my sincere condolences to the families affected. ..
The prose was elegant, thoughtful. He read on, noting how she engaged with the details of the mine collapse, asked intelligent questions about the engineering challenges involved, and shared reflections on duty and loss that reflected true understanding.
He moved to the next letter, and the next.
A picture began to emerge—not of the woman herself, for she revealed little of her daily life beyond the occasional anecdote—but of a mind he found increasingly compelling.
She wrote with wit and insight, moving easily from serious topics to lighter observations about country society.
There was warmth in her words without excessive sentimentality, intelligence without pretension.
My father once told me something I have never forgotten: "When a man shows you his wounds, you have two choices—to turn away, or to help bind them.
The former is easier, but the latter is what separates us from savages.
" I think of those words often, particularly in situations where compassion conflicts with convenience.
Darcy paused, his finger tracing over that passage. The words resonated with something deep within him—had he read this before? Surely he must have, yet it felt simultaneously familiar and new, like encountering an old friend whose face one has temporarily forgotten.
By the time he reached the final letter, Darcy had formed a clear impression: Miss Cassandra Rochford was an exceptional woman.
Beautiful, if Lady Catherine's description was accurate.
Well-bred and appropriately connected, certainly.
But more than that—intelligent, witty, capable of conversation that engaged rather than merely ornamented.
No wonder he had fallen in love with her. The only wonder was that he could not remember doing so.
Darcy set the letters aside and moved to the window, staring out at the Pemberley grounds without really seeing them.
Somewhere in Hertfordshire was a woman who knew him—or knew the version of himself he had revealed through correspondence.
A woman he had courted with apparent success.
A woman who must be confused and perhaps hurt by his prolonged silence.
He owed her at least an explanation. More than that, he owed her the opportunity to see if proximity might complete what a single encounter and weeks of exchanged letters had begun.
The decision settled over him with surprising certainty.
He called for a valet, who appeared with gratifying promptness. "Send word to Mr Bingley at Netherfield. I am returning to Hertfordshire and would like to impose upon his hospitality once more. Then have my things prepared for travel. I depart tomorrow."
"Very well, sir.”
The valet withdrew, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts and the stack of letters that represented a courtship he could not recall but which seemed, based on the evidence before him, to have been remarkably successful.
He would return to Hertfordshire. He would meet Miss Rochford again. And perhaps—if fortune favoured him—the sight of her face, the sound of her voice, would unlock whatever door in his mind currently remained closed.
He picked up the letters once more, reading through selected passages, trying to imprint them on his memory. This woman—witty, intelligent, thoughtful—deserved better than a suitor who could not remember falling in love with her.
But if he could not remember the past, he could at least attempt to build a future.