Chapter Twelve
The clock on the mantelpiece in Bingley's study chimed half past one, its sound unnaturally loud in the silence that had settled over Netherfield.
Most of the guests had departed hours ago, their carriages rattling away into the darkness and carrying with them the scandal of the evening.
Darcy sat in the leather chair before the fire, a glass of brandy untouched on the table beside him, his gaze fixed unseeing on the flames.
His head ached—a dull, persistent throb that had plagued him since the accident but which tonight seemed particularly insistent. Or perhaps it was simply the weight of the evening's events pressing down upon him, demanding attention he was ill-equipped to give.
A soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of a servant bearing a silver salver. "A letter arrived for you earlier this evening, Mr Darcy."
He took the missive, recognising his aunt's crest immediately. Of course, Lady Catherine would write now, when he least desired her counsel. He dismissed the servant with a nod and broke the seal, unfolding the thick paper with a sense of weary resignation.
My dear Nephew,
I trust by now you have arrived at Netherfield and renewed your acquaintance with Miss Rochford. I hope the journey was not too taxing, given your recent injury, though I am certain your youth and constitution have served you well in your recovery.
I write to enquire about the progress of your courtship.
It has been several days since your departure from Pemberley, and I am eager to hear that you have called upon Miss Rochford's family to seek her hand in marriage.
The correspondence you conducted these past months suggests a significant attachment, and there is no reason to delay in securing the match.
Miss Rochford is everything I said she would be—well-connected, accomplished, and possessed of the proper understanding of what is required in a wife to a man of your station. Her father, Lord Rochford, is a most respectable man, and the alliance would reflect well upon the Darcy name.
I trust you will not allow this unfortunate memory loss to delay matters unnecessarily. You have read the correspondence. You know the attachment existed. Act upon that knowledge with the decisiveness your father would have shown.
Write to me immediately upon securing her acceptance. I am most anxious to hear of your success.
Your affectionate aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy set the letter aside, a bitter smile touching his lips. His aunt's timing was impeccable, as always. Here she wrote, urging him to propose to Miss Rochford, whilst he sat contemplating an entirely different marriage—one born not of courtship but of scandal, not of choice but of necessity.
The door opened again, this time admitting Bingley himself. His friend looked exhausted, his sunny disposition dimmed by the evening's drama. He carried his own glass of brandy and settled into the chair opposite Darcy's with a heavy sigh.
"The last of them have finally departed," Bingley said. "However, I suspect we shall be the talk of Meryton for weeks to come. Mrs Phillips looked positively gleeful as she left."
"No doubt she was." Darcy rubbed his temples, trying to ease the ache behind his eyes. "I am sorry, Bingley. This is not how I intended to repay your hospitality."
"Nonsense. None of this was your doing." Bingley took a drink, studying his friend over the rim of his glass. “But I'll admit, I am still trying to understand how a simple conversation became... this."
"As am I."
They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly between them. Finally, Bingley leaned forward, his expression turning serious.
"We discussed earlier that marrying Miss Elizabeth would be the best way to protect her from scandal.
That much seems clear—the witnesses, the circumstances, all of it point to marriage as the only honourable course.
But what do you really think, Darcy? Setting aside duty and honour and what Society demands—what do you think? "
Darcy's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. It was a fair question, but not one he had allowed himself to fully consider. "I am a responsible man, Bingley. I understand my obligations."
"That is not what I asked."
"If I had my way," he replied, each word weighted with consideration, "I would marry Miss Rochford.
We have been courting for months—or so I am told.
The correspondence suggests a pure attachment, or at least the foundation for one.
My aunt approves of the match. It would be.
.." He trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Sensible?" Bingley supplied.
"Expected." He gestured toward Lady Catherine's letter. "My aunt writes urging me to propose. She reminds me of all Miss Rochford's advantages—far more than the average lady’s."
"And yet you hesitate."
"How can I not hesitate? I have no recollection of this courtship, Bingley.
I have read the letters—yes, they are brilliantly written and worthy of undivided attention.
But when I look at Miss Rochford, I find it hard to reconcile the lady I see with the sentences in the letters.
" Darcy stood abruptly, too restless to remain seated.
He paced to the window, staring out at the darkened grounds.
"Also, I will not allow Miss Elizabeth and her family to suffer due to my presence in that room.
She approached me with concern and spoke to me with kindness.
Her intentions were entirely innocent, and she should not be punished for that. "
Bingley was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was inquisitive. "Do you feel anything at all for Miss Rochford?"
"No." The admission came more easily than he expected. "Nothing beyond a vague sense that I should feel something. But there is no distinct recognition, no affection. She could be any young woman of good family and pleasing appearance."
"And how do you feel about Miss Elizabeth?"
He turned from the window, meeting his friend's gaze. The question hung between them, simple yet somehow profound. How did he feel about Elizabeth Bennet?
"I find her presence comforting," he said at last, the words coming slowly as he examined his own reactions.
"When I stood in that ballroom tonight, surrounded by people who looked at me with expectation I could not meet, I felt as if I were drowning.
Every face was a stranger's. Every conversation reminded me of what I had lost." He moved back to his chair, sinking into it.
"And then I saw Miss Elizabeth, and something in me eased.
It was as though I had found solid ground in the midst of chaos. "
"She is the only person you’ve recognised thus far," Bingley noted, echoing Darcy’s own realisation. "Beyond your family and me."
"Yes. I cannot explain it—perhaps it is merely that I have a better memory for some faces than others. But there is more to it than simple recognition.”
“Oh?”
“When I spoke with her tonight in that room, when I was on the verge of losing my composure entirely, she did not offer empty platitudes.
She did not treat me as if I were fragile or damaged.
She simply listened. And when she placed her hand on my back—the gesture that has caused all this trouble—it was the first moment since waking from my injury that I felt I was not entirely alone. "
Bingley leaned back in his chair, a triumphant expression crossing his features. "Then that is your answer."
"What do you mean?"
"You feel nothing for Miss Rochford beyond what you believe you ought to feel based on correspondence you cannot remember writing or receiving.
But Miss Elizabeth—her presence comforts you and you feel less alone when she is near.
" He met Darcy's eyes directly. "That is the criteria needed to help you make a decision. "
Darcy stared at his friend. "You are suggesting I should want to marry Miss Elizabeth?"
"I am suggesting that perhaps this scandal is not the disaster it appears to be. Perhaps it is an opportunity."
"An opportunity." Darcy's laugh held no humour. "To trap a woman into marriage because Society demands it?"
"To marry a woman who makes you feel less alone," Bingley corrected. "A woman whose company you appreciate and whom being around helps you bear the weight of your injury. Is that not preferable to marrying a stranger out of an obligation to months you cannot even remember?"
He had no answer for that. He picked up his brandy glass, finally taking a drink. The liquid burned his throat, but the warmth that followed was welcome.
"Miss Elizabeth has not yet agreed to marry me. She asked for time to consider."
"She did. And that speaks well of her, I think.
Many women would have accepted immediately—for your fortune or estate.
But Miss Elizabeth chose to weigh the decision and showed concern for her own feelings and yours.
" Bingley smiled slightly. "Miss Bennet—Jane—has told me that her sister values independence of mind above most things.
She will not be easily persuaded by her mother's enthusiasm or society's expectations. "
"Then perhaps she will refuse me entirely."
"Perhaps. But if she does accept, you should know that you are not entering into a marriage devoid of potential. You enjoy being around her, which is more than many couples possess when they stand before the altar."
He turned this over in his mind, examining it from every angle. Was Bingley correct? Could this arranged marriage actually be preferable to the one he had apparently been building towards before his accident?
The courtship with Miss Rochford—if it could be called that—had begun on an evening he hardly remembered.
He had apparently been taken by her, determined to pursue their relationship till it reached a satisfying conclusion.
But all of it—that version of him—was gone from his memory, erased as thoroughly as chalk from a slate.
Elizabeth Bennet, by contrast, was vividly present.
The concern in her eyes as she had approached him in that sitting room.
The gentleness of her touch as she touched his back.
The intelligence in her conversation, the quick wit that had momentarily distracted him from his distress.
These were not abstractions or second-hand accounts.
They were lived experiences, however brief.
"I do not know her," he said quietly. "Not truly. Our acquaintance is measured in hours, not months."
"Then you will come to know her. If she accepts you, you will have a lifetime to learn who she is. And she will learn who you are—the man you are now, not the one you were before the accident. Perhaps that is its own kind of gift."
A gift. Darcy had not considered it in those terms. To be known as he was now, rather than constantly compared to the man he had been—there was appeal in that notion, strange as it seemed.
"What if my memories return?" he asked. "What if I remember the attachment to Miss Rochford, remember why I was courting her, remember feelings I do not currently possess?"
"Then you will have to reconcile those memories with your present circumstances," Bingley said.
"But you cannot live your life based on what might happen, Darcy.
You can only act on what you know now, what you feel now.
At this moment, when you speak of Miss Elizabeth, your voice changes. You sound less weary, less burdened."
Did he? He had not noticed.
But when he reflected again on the events of the evening, he realised Bingley spoke the truth.
"She may still refuse me, but I shall hope that she doesn't. "
“I hope the same. There's a lot of potential between the two of you. I strongly believe that.”
After Bingley departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the dying fire, Darcy remained in his chair, his mind turning over everything that had been said.
His aunt's letter lay on the table beside him, a tangible reminder of the expectations placed upon him, the path he had been following before the accident stole his memories.
But Bingley was right about one thing: he could not live his life based on a life he no longer remembered living. He could only act on what he knew now, what he felt now.
And what he felt, when he thought of Elizabeth Bennet, was something that might—with time and patience—grow into more than mere comfort.
The clock chimed two. Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Elizabeth was perhaps lying awake as he was, weighing the options available to her, family against self, the safe known future against the uncertain one. He wondered what she would decide. He knew what he hoped she would decide.
The fire crackled lower, shadows lengthening across the room, and Darcy allowed himself to imagine—just for a moment—a future in which Elizabeth Bennet became Elizabeth Darcy.
A future in which that soothing presence became a permanent fixture in his life, a steady point of reference as he navigated the strange landscape of his partial memories.
It was not the future he had planned. But perhaps, as Bingley suggested, it was the one he needed.