Chapter Fourteen
A week later
The church bells had long since ceased their ringing, but Elizabeth could still feel their reverberations in her chest—or perhaps that was simply her own heart, beating its anxious rhythm as she stood in her parents' drawing room, now transformed for the wedding breakfast.
Mrs Bennet had outdone herself with the arrangements: garlands of autumn flowers draped every surface, the best china gleamed on the laden table, and every person of consequence in Meryton had been invited to witness the union of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She was married now. It felt surreal, impossible to grasp fully despite the weight of the ring upon her finger.
The ceremony itself had passed in a blur.
She remembered standing beside Mr Darcy—beside her husband, she must learn to think of him as that—and speaking the words that bound them together.
His voice had been steady as he made his vows, hers rather less so.
When the vicar pronounced them man and wife, she had felt a curious sense of unreality, as if she were observing the scene from a great distance rather than participating in it.
Now, surrounded by well-wishers and the noise of celebration, that distant sense persisted.
Her mother fluttered about, accepting congratulations with undisguised triumph.
Her sisters smiled at her in encouragement.
Even Lydia seemed impressed, declaring coyly that Lizzy had done very well for herself and perhaps Lieutenant Galway might be persuaded to propose if scandal could lead to such advantageous matches.
Through it all, Mr Darcy accepted felicitations with courtesy and conversed when addressed. If he felt some discomfort about being around so many people, he didn't show it. However, after nearly an hour, she watched him excuse himself and slip through the French doors into the garden.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before following. They were married now; surely she had the right and perhaps even the obligation to seek his company. The air struck cool after the warmth of the crowded drawing room and she drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders.
She found him near the old oak tree at the garden's edge, his back to the house, his gaze fixed on the rolling hills beyond Longbourn's modest grounds. He did not turn at her approach, although he must have heard her footsteps on the gravel path.
"Are you well?" she asked, coming to stand beside him.
"Quite well." His tone was even, but it revealed nothing about his state of mind. "I merely required a moment's respite from the festivities."
"As did I." She studied his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that seemed perpetual since his injury. "It has been rather overwhelming."
"Yes."
They stood in silence for several moments. Elizabeth felt the weight of unspoken words between them, questions and uncertainties that had no easy answers. Finally, she gathered her courage.
"Does it feel strange? Being married to me, I mean. Given that you are still recovering your memories."
He turned to her then, a look of confusion crossing his features. "Why would it feel strange?"
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by the question.
"Because...before your accident, you were courting Cassandra.
You seemed to really like her, from what I understand.
The two of you corresponded regularly, which suggests a growing attachment.
And now you are married to me instead, someone you barely know. "
"I have been told by Lady Catherine that I was courting Miss Rochford," he acknowledged.
"I have read the letters we exchanged. But if my feelings were as strong as you suggest, surely seeing her would have stirred something—recognition, affection, even simple fondness.
Instead, she might as well be any other young lady of good family. She is practically a stranger to me."
He paused, his gaze drifting back to the landscape. "Moreover, I made no official promises to Miss Rochford or her parents. There was no formal understanding, no engagement. Whatever attachment existed—if it truly existed at all beyond my aunt's expectations—it was not binding."
She took this in, her fingers worrying at the edge of her shawl.
"But Cassandra is beautiful and well-bred, accomplished in all the ways society values.
Surely those are qualities you admire. Your accident may have stolen your memories, but it cannot have changed your fundamental preferences.
You should feel some sadness, at least, that circumstances prevented you from pursuing that connection. "
"It is true that I appreciate beauty and breeding in a woman," he replied, something almost like amusement flickering across his countenance. "But you do not fall short in those aspects, Miss Bennet."
His words sent an unexpected thrill through her.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the sensation.
"Jane was always the prettier sister. I do not consider myself ugly, but I am not a great beauty like her.
And as for breeding and accomplishments—I play the pianoforte only tolerably, my needlework is passable at best, and my tongue is rather too sharp for proper feminine decorum. "
"Your sister may be more conventionally beautiful," He said hesitantly, as if that too was subject to debate.
"But you possess something far more interesting than conventional beauty.
There is a vitality to you, an intelligence in your eyes and expressiveness in your features that draws the observer's attention.
You have a unique quality that makes people want to continue looking, to understand what thoughts move behind those eyes. "
Elizabeth blushed and turned away, ostensibly to examine a late-blooming rose on a nearby bush. "You are very kind. But I must tell you, the version of yourself who had not lost his memory considered me quite ill-mannered."
"Did I?" He sounded surprised.
"Oh yes." She plucked a petal from the rose, rolling it between her fingers.
"At the assembly in Meryton, when we first met, you made your opinion of me quite clear.
Perhaps I had annoyed you so much that your feelings of dislike were particularly vivid.
That might explain why you found me familiar when you saw me again—those negative impressions must have been more prominent than your regard for Cassandra, whom you had trouble recalling at all. "
Darcy was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice held a note of certainty that surprised her.
"Then my former self was truly foolish in his judgement.
Because right now, at this moment, I find your presence comforting.
Your way of speaking, your manner of thinking—it feels familiar to me, yes, but not in an unpleasant way. Quite the opposite."
Elizabeth's breath caught. She forced herself to meet his gaze, searching his face for signs of mere politeness. But his expression held an openness she had not seen from him before.
"It is almost as if..." He continued, his brow furrowing in concentration.
"As if I had several interactions with you.
Multiple conversations, exchanges of ideas.
Not just that single meeting at the assembly, but something more extensive.
More... intimate, perhaps, though I do not mean that in any improper sense. "
Panic fluttered in Elizabeth's chest. She felt her pulse quicken, heard the slight tremor in her voice as she responded. "That's impossible. You departed Netherfield the day after the assembly. We could not have had more than that one brief encounter."
Yet even as she spoke the denial, guilt twisted in her stomach.
He was right, in a way he could not possibly understand.
They had engaged in extensive conversation—not in person, but through correspondence.
She had written to him for months, sharing ideas and observations, responding to his concerns and questions.
Those letters had created an intimacy between them, a connection built on words and ideas rather than physical presence.
But he believed those letters came from Cassandra. He had no idea that every thoughtful response, every carefully crafted sentence, every moment of understanding and insight had originated with Elizabeth herself.
What would he say when he learned the truth?
Would he regret this marriage even more than the circumstances already warranted?
He would undoubtedly feel deceived and suspicious that there was a greater scheme abound.
Why else would two women decide for one of them to write letters on the other’s behalf?
No one would be willing to learn their side of the matter.
There would only be judgement and condemnation.
The thoughts churned in her mind, each one more troubling than the last.
"Are you certain?" Darcy pressed, his eyes searching hers with uncomfortable intensity. "You seem...there is something you are not telling me. Is it an important matter?"
Elizabeth's mouth went dry. She opened it to speak, to confess or simply change the subject, but before she could form the words, a voice called from the house.
"Mr Darcy! Elizabeth! Come, you must cut the cake! Everyone is waiting!"
Mrs Bennet's shrill summons shattered the moment.
Elizabeth felt immensely relieved by the interruption.
She needed to tell him—the deception had gone on too long already, and he deserved to know the truth about the letters.
But not now, not on their wedding day, with her entire family and half of Meryton waiting inside.
Maybe she would never feel ready or confident enough to divulge that information.
"We should return," she said, already turning towards the house. "My mother might send a search party if we delay much longer."
Her attempt at humour succeeded in dispelling what felt to her like an awkward moment. His lips curved in a smile and he nodded in agreement. “In that case, we had best hurry back.”
As they crossed the threshold back into the noise and warmth of the celebration, Elizabeth caught sight of their reflection in a mirror placed at the entrance to the drawing room—a newly married couple, she in her simple but elegant gown, he in his immaculate dark coat.
To the gathered audience, they appeared well-matched, the very picture of an advantageous union.
In this case, looks weren’t what they seemed. She carried a secret that threatened the fragile foundation of their marriage, a deception that grew heavier with each passing moment.
Her mother swept them towards the table where an elaborate cake awaited their attention.
It would be better to tell Mr Darcy before he pieced together the truth himself, Elizabeth mused.
Before his returning memories filled in the gaps and exposed her role in the deception.
But how did one confess to such a thing?
How did one admit that every intimate word, every vulnerable moment shared through correspondence, had been built on a lie?