Chapter Nine
Six days later
"Girls! Girls, the most wonderful news!"
Mrs Bennet's voice carried through Longbourn with the force of a trumpet blast, causing Elizabeth to drop her pen mid-sentence.
A spot of ink bloomed across the page she had been writing—a letter to her aunt Gardiner that would now require recopying.
She set the ruined paper aside with a sigh and left the drawing room to investigate the commotion.
Her mother stood in the hallway, waving a cream-coloured card with such vigour that Elizabeth feared it might tear. Jane emerged from the morning room, followed shortly by Kitty and Lydia from above stairs. Even Mary abandoned her pianoforte to see what had inspired such excitement.
"What is it, Mama?" Jane asked.
"An invitation! To a ball at Netherfield!" Mrs Bennet pressed the card to her bosom as though it were the crown jewels. "And that is not all—Mr Darcy has returned to Hertfordshire! He has taken up residence at Netherfield alongside Mr Bingley!"
Elizabeth's hand tightened on the banister.
Relief flooded through her, swift and unexpected.
He had recovered, then. Well enough to travel, to resume his activities.
The image that had haunted her these past weeks—Mr Darcy unconscious, suffering, his mind clouded by injury—could finally be set aside.
Whatever developments his arrival might bring, at least he was whole and well.
Or well enough, at any rate. Lady Catherine's letter had mentioned memory loss, which was hardly nothing.
Had he recovered his memories by now? If he had, he would surely resume his courtship with Cassandra, would he not?
"Poor Mr Darcy," Jane said softly. "Mr Bingley informed me that he had been in a dreadful accident. I do hope he has recovered sufficiently. It must have been awful not to remember one’s own life."
“Dreadful, indeed,” Mrs Bennet said. “I just told Mr Bennet I should not like it at all if I lost me memory. Can you imagine? To not know your own self?”
“It seems to have been temporary, anyhow,” Kitty chimed in. “Otherwise, he would not be traveling, I am sure.”
"Indeed," Elizabeth managed, pleased that her words in this instance were true. "He would not undertake such a journey unless the physicians deemed him fit for travel."
"I heard it was an accident at his mine, I heard," Kitty added. "Mrs Lucas told me she heard that he was quite heroic—saved a worker's life and was injured in the process."
"That sounds rather like him," Elizabeth said before she could stop herself. Four pairs of eyes turned towards her, and she felt her cheeks warm. "That is—from what one hears of his character. He seems the sort to act without regard for his own safety if duty demanded it."
Lydia sniffed, examining her fingernails with studied indifference.
"Heroic or not, he was insufferably proud at the last assembly.
One could scarcely get him to speak two words together.
Though I suppose I am glad he's recovered," she added, apparently feeling this concession towards charity was expected of her.
"It would be dreadful to die saving someone.
Rather defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"
"Mr Darcy is an esteemed gentleman of considerable standing," Mary intoned with her customary solemnity. "He is deserving of more than ill luck or deceit."
Elizabeth shifted her weight uncomfortably.
Deceit. The word seemed pointed, though Mary could not possibly know about the letters.
Still, guilt pricked at her conscience. She had not deceived Mr Darcy single-mindedly—that distinction belonged to Cassandra—but she had been complicit.
More than complicit. She had crafted every thoughtful response, every carefully worded encouragement, every observation he believed came from Cassandra's pen.
And now he had come to Netherfield, evidently recovered enough to pursue his courtship with her friend. The thought brought a complex tangle of emotions—relief that he was well, guilt over the deception, and something else she did not care to examine too closely.
"Mr Bingley has been terribly worried," Jane continued, her gentle face creased with concern.
"He is usually so high-spirited, so full of good humour, but these past weeks he has been rather subdued.
I believe Mr Darcy's absence weighed heavily upon him.
His return will surely restore Mr Bingley's spirits. "
"I am glad for Mr Bingley's sake, then," Elizabeth said. "It speaks well of their friendship that he felt the loss so keenly."
Mr Bennet appeared in the doorway of his study, drawn by the unusual concentration of his family in one location. "What's all this commotion? Has Napoleon surrendered? Have the French declared Mrs Bennet their queen?"
"Oh, Mr Bennet, do not be absurd!" His wife waved the invitation at him. "We have been invited to a ball at Netherfield! And Mr Darcy has returned!"
"Ah." Mr Bennet's expression suggested this news ranked somewhere below the discovery of a new variety of turnip in terms of interest. "Well, I am glad the young man has recovered.
Young people possess far more resilience than old ones like myself.
I'm quite certain Mr Darcy has already put the entire incident behind him. "
"One hopes so," Elizabeth murmured. Though if Lady Catherine's information was accurate, Mr Darcy may have not put the incident behind him at all.
He had lost certain aspects of his memory.
Did that include the mine collapse, the letters, perhaps even his reasons for coming to Hertfordshire?
If so, all of it might be gone, erased as though it had never existed.
The thought unsettled her more than seemed reasonable.
She had read his anguish over the deaths at the mine, his struggle with guilt and responsibility.
The correspondence had, by his own words, clearly provided him some measure of comfort during a difficult time.
To have that taken from him, along with whatever understanding he had gained, seemed a particularly cruel theft.
"A ball!" Mrs Bennet clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "Oh, this is most fortuitous! Most fortuitous indeed! Jane, you must wear your new gown—the one with the embroidered hem. And Kitty, we must do something about your hair. Perhaps those curling papers from London..."
"What about me, Mamma?" Lydia demanded. "I want a new gown too!"
"You shall have ribbons, my love. New ribbons in the most fashionable colours.
" Mrs Bennet turned to survey her assembled daughters with satisfaction.
"This ball could not have come at a better time.
Jane's attachment to Mr Bingley progresses admirably, Lydia has that wonderful lieutenant of hers as a potential suitor, and Kitty has Mr Poulett's attentions quite secured.
Why, even Mary might catch some gentleman's eye if she can be persuaded to smile occasionally. "
Mary's expression suggested that smiling ranked alongside dancing the hornpipe in terms of likelihood, but she said nothing.
Elizabeth waited, curious whether her mother would mention her name. When the silence stretched, she could not resist prompting: "And what of me, Mamma? Am I not to make some advantageous match at this ball?"
"You, Lizzy? Oh, but you are quite settled already! Mr Andrew Lucas has been calling with such frequency that everyone expects an announcement any day now. I should not be surprised if he proposes before the ball even takes place!"
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Andrew Lucas had indeed been calling—twice in the past week alone, and three times the week before that. He was unfailingly pleasant, truly interested in what she had to say, and possessed a modest fortune that would ensure a comfortable life.
He was, Elizabeth had to acknowledge, everything a sensible woman should want in a husband.
"Mr Lucas is a fine gentleman," Jane offered with an encouraging smile. "I have always thought you dealt particularly well together, Lizzy."
"He laughs at all your clever remarks," Kitty added. "Even the ones I don't understand."
It was true that she and Andrew Lucas conversed easily. He appreciated her wit, shared her interest in books, and never seemed disconcerted by her occasionally sharp observations. Their interactions held a comfortable quality that suggested the foundation for a perfectly adequate marriage.
He would make an attentive husband, and their life together would be pleasant enough.
Yet she had to acknowledge—if only to herself—that she had not given him the attention he deserved these past weeks.
How could she, when her mind had been so thoroughly occupied with Cassandra's correspondence?
She had spent hours crafting responses to Mr Darcy's letters and anticipating his replies with a persistent eagerness.
The arrival of each letter had become the high point of her week. It was a chance at intellectual stimulation—the pleasure of engaging with a thoughtful mind through the written word.
Now, however, that peculiar chapter was drawing to a close.
Mr Darcy had returned to Netherfield, recovered enough to pursue his courtship with Cassandra in person.
No doubt he would propose within the week, if he had not done so already.
The correspondence would end, and Elizabeth would be free to focus her attention where it properly belonged—on the gentleman who actually wished to court her.
She sighed internally, her mind lingering on the thought further.
She did not love Andrew Lucas. She was fond of him, certainly, but fondness was a pale shadow of the grand passion described in the novels she borrowed from the circulating library.
Those heroines did not settle for comfortable companionship.
They held out for something more—for connections that transformed them, for attachments that made compromise seem worthwhile rather than merely prudent.
But those were merely stories, Elizabeth reminded herself.
Foolish fantasies concocted by authors who had likely never faced the prospect of spinsterhood and dependence.
Real life required pragmatism. And if that pragmatism felt rather hollow at present, well, that was likely because she had spent too much time writing romantic sentiments for Cassandra's letters.
"Well!" Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together, effectively ending Elizabeth's uncomfortable reflections.
"We must begin preparations at once! Jane, come help me decide which jewels you ought to wear.
Kitty, Lydia, you must practice your dancing.
I will not have you disgracing the family by forgetting the steps. And Mary—"
"I shall return to my practice," Mary said with dignity, already retreating towards the pianoforte.
The assembly dispersed, leaving Elizabeth alone in the hallway with her father. Mr Bennet regarded her with the shrewd expression he wore when he had observed something his family believed hidden.
"You seem rather relieved to hear of Mr Darcy's recovery, Lizzy."
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm. "Any Christian would be relieved to learn that an injured gentleman has recovered sufficiently to resume his activities."
"Indeed." Her father's tone suggested he found this explanation insufficient but was too polite—or too amused—to press further. "Though I confess I did not realise you held Mr Darcy in such high regard. At the assembly, I believe your assessment was considerably less charitable."
"People can surprise one," Elizabeth said carefully. "Perhaps I judged too hastily."
"Or perhaps," Mr Bennet said with a knowing look, "you have been spending rather too much time with Miss Rochford and have developed some interest in her concerns. I understand Mr Darcy has been corresponding with her."
The observation struck too close to truth for comfort. "Miss Rochford is my friend. Naturally, I take an interest in her welfare."
"Hm." Mr Bennet did not sound convinced. "Well, whatever occupies your mind, I trust you will sort it out before committing yourself to young Lucas. He seems a decent fellow, but the decision regarding marriage is not one to be taken lightly.”
With that uncomfortable piece of wisdom, he retreated to his study, leaving Elizabeth alone with her tangled conscience.
She returned to her chamber, where the ruined letter to her aunt still lay on the writing desk. Rather than beginning a fresh copy, Elizabeth moved to the window, gazing out at the lane that led towards Meryton and, beyond it, Netherfield Park.
Mr Darcy was there now. Recovered, or at least recovered enough. The relief she felt at that knowledge was entirely proper and reasonable. One did not wish suffering upon anyone, particularly not someone who had endured what he had.
A knock sounded at her chamber door. "Miss Elizabeth?" Hill's voice filtered through. "Mr Lucas has called and requests the pleasure of your company in the drawing room."
Elizabeth straightened her spine and turned from the window. "Tell him I shall be down directly."
Perhaps her mother was correct. Perhaps an engagement to Andrew Lucas was exactly what she needed—a clear path forward, a way to extricate herself from this uncomfortable situation with Cassandra and Mr Darcy.
Once she was engaged, she would have a perfectly reasonable excuse to spend less time at Engleton House, to distance herself from the deception of the previous months before it grew any more complicated.