Chapter Ten
Three days later
The ballroom at Netherfield blazed with light.
Candles flickered in every sconce and chandelier, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with garlands of autumn foliage.
The musicians had already begun tuning their instruments when the Bennet family arrived, Mrs Bennet's voice carrying across the entrance hall as she exclaimed over the decorations with indiscriminate enthusiasm.
Elizabeth surrendered her cloak to a waiting servant and followed her family into the assembly.
The room hummed with conversation—Meryton society in its finest attire, eager for entertainment and gossip in equal measure.
She spotted someone who startlingly looked like her friend Charlotte Lucas near the refreshment table, but a closer examination proved that wasn’t the case.
Charlotte had gotten married earlier in the year and departed for a blissful life in Sussex, although Elizabeth missed her greatly.
Mr Bingley stood beside the orchestra, his habitual cheerfulness somewhat greater as he surveyed his guests with evident satisfaction.
And there, near the far windows, stood Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth's breath caught. His posture retained its characteristic straightness, his evening suit impeccable. Yet something in his bearing suggested discomfort, a tension in his shoulders that spoke of a man bracing himself against an ordeal.
"Oh, there is Mr Bingley!" Mrs Bennet seized Jane's arm. "Come, my dear, we must greet our host at once."
Kitty, Lydia and Mary had spread out in pursuit of their own interest, therefore the rest of the family moved as a unit through the crowd. Mr Bingley's face brightened as they approached, his attention immediately fixing on Jane with unmistakable warmth.
"Miss Bennet! Mrs Bennet, Mr Bennet, Miss Elizabeth—how delightful that you could attend." His gaze remained on Jane, lingering with such obvious admiration that Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her lips despite her own disquiet. "The ballroom seems suddenly much improved."
Jane's cheeks coloured prettily. "You are too kind, Mr Bingley."
"Not at all. I am merely observant." He turned to the rest of the party. "May I introduce my particular friend, Mr Darcy? Though I believe you have all met before."
Darcy approached with measured steps. His eyes moved across the assembled Bennets with careful attention, as though searching for something he could not quite identify. When Mr Bingley made the introductions, his expression remained courteously neutral.
"A pleasure to see you again," he said, though the words held a note of uncertainty.
"We are glad to find you recovered, sir," Mr Bennet replied. "We heard of your mishap. Most distressing."
"Thank you. I am improving."
The conversation might have continued in this vein of polite emptiness had not Miss Cassandra Rochford chosen that moment to materialise at Mr Darcy's elbow. She looked exquisite in a gown of pale blue silk, her blonde hair arranged in elaborate curls that must have taken her maid hours to achieve.
"Mr Darcy!" Her voice carried a note of possessive intimacy. "How wonderful to see you at last. I have been so concerned for your welfare."
He turned to her, his brow furrowing slightly. "Miss...?"
"Rochford. Cassandra Rochford." She extended her hand, clearly expecting him to take it with some warmth of recognition. "Surely you remember me, Mr Darcy. We have been corresponding these past months."
The silence that followed was exquisitely uncomfortable. Elizabeth watched his countenance, saw confusion flicker across his features before he schooled them into politeness.
"Forgive me, Miss Rochford. I suffered a head injury some weeks ago, and my memory of recent events remains incomplete. I have read our correspondence, of course, but I confess I do not recall our meeting."
Cassandra's expression shifted from confident expectation to poorly concealed annoyance. "You do not remember me at all?"
"I am afraid not. Though I am certain the fault lies entirely with my injury, not with any deficiency in your person."
It was gracefully said, but Cassandra's lips thinned. Elizabeth felt an unwelcome stab of sympathy for her friend, though it was quickly overwhelmed by a more complex emotion as his gaze moved past Cassandra and settled on her.
His eyes narrowed slightly, not with displeasure but with concentration. "You," he said slowly. "You seem... familiar."
The words fell into the conversation like a stone into still water, sending ripples of surprise through the assembled group. Elizabeth felt multiple pairs of eyes fix upon her—her mother's delighted, Cassandra's sharp with something approaching hostility, Jane's curious.
"We met briefly at the assembly in Meryton.” She managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “Several months ago.”
"Miss—forgive me, your name—"
"Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Bennet." He spoke her name as though testing it, trying to match it to some half-remembered context.
“I know you. There is something…” He broke off, frustration evident in the set of his jaw.
"This is the first person beyond my immediate family and Bingley whom I have recognised with any certainty.
Forgive me, but I find I must speak with you.
Would you grant me a few moments of your time? "
Every instinct urged her to refuse, to make some polite excuse and retreat. This was dangerous territory—Mr Darcy should be speaking to Cassandra, should be attempting to rekindle whatever attachment he believed they had formed through their exchange of letters.
"I... that is, I am certain Miss Rochford would be a more appropriate companion for such a conversation," she began.
"Please." The single word held a note of desperation that arrested her retreat. "I do not understand why you seem familiar when everyone else feels like a stranger. I must understand it."
How could she refuse? Elizabeth nodded mutely.
Mr Bingley, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Perhaps you might take a turn about the room? The musicians are not quite ready to begin."
Mr Darcy offered his arm. She took it with reluctance, conscious of any impropriety even as she told herself this was merely conversation, nothing more.
They walked in silence for several moments, he seeming to struggle with how to begin. Finally, he spoke: "Would you do me the honour of dancing with me this evening?"
The request should not have surprised her, yet it did. "I think not, sir."
His step faltered. "May I ask why?"
She chose her words carefully. "I find your sudden interest in me rather awkward, Mr Darcy.
We have met only once before, and briefly.
You have been corresponding with Miss Rochford, who clearly expects your attention this evening.
And..." She glanced towards where Cassandra stood, her expression thunderous.
"And Miss Rochford is my friend. I would not wish to give offence. "
"Even though she feels like a complete stranger to me, while you do not?"
"Especially because of that." Elizabeth withdrew her arm from his. "Your memory loss is unfortunate, but it does not alter the facts of your attachment to Miss Rochford. You should be speaking with her, not with me."
Before he could respond, an earnest gentleman named Mr Browne appeared at her elbow. "Miss Bennet! What good fortune to find you unengaged. Might I request the honour of the next two dances?"
Elizabeth accepted with more enthusiasm than she felt, grateful for the escape. As Mr Browne led her towards the forming sets, she glanced back once to see Mr Darcy standing alone, a figure of isolation amid the gaiety.
The dances passed in a blur of movement and Mr Browne's incessant chatter. Elizabeth responded mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere. When the sets concluded and Mr Browne finally released her, she realised with a start that one of her earrings was missing.
Her hand flew to her ear, confirming the loss. The earrings were a gift from her father on her last birthday—garnets set in gold, valuable beyond her family's usual means. He had saved for months to purchase them, presenting them with such quiet pride that she had been moved nearly to tears.
"Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?" A passing gentleman asked.
"I have lost an earring. Please excuse me—I must search for it at once."
She retraced her steps, scanning the floor, but the crush of dancers made the task nearly impossible. Perhaps it had fallen elsewhere—in the entrance hall, or one of the adjoining rooms. Elizabeth made her way towards the corridor, away from the noise and heat of the assembly.
"Elizabeth."
She turned to find Cassandra bearing down upon her, her pretty face twisted with uncharacteristic malice.
"Cassandra, I was just—"
"Do not pretend innocence with me." Cassandra's voice shook with fury. "I saw the way he looked at you. The way he ignored me entirely to speak with you."
"He does not remember you," she responded. "Through no fault of yours. The injury—"
"Oh, spare me your sympathy! I am not a fool. I know what I saw." Cassandra drew herself up, her eyes glittering. "But you may have him, for all I care. I have quite given up on Mr Darcy."
Elizabeth blinked. "Given up?"
"His memory loss may well be permanent. What use is a man who cannot remember our courtship?
Who looks at me as though I were any other woman in the room?
" Cassandra's lip curled. "There is another gentleman—Mr Harrington, a baronet's son from Suffolk.
He has been quite attentive, and his mind is entirely intact.
I shall direct my efforts there instead. "
"You cannot be serious." Elizabeth stared at her friend in disbelief. "Mr Darcy has suffered a terrible injury. He has lost months of his life. And your response is to abandon him for a healthier prospect?"
"Do not take that tone with me. I am being practical."