Chapter 16
Sixteen
Elizabeth stirred, the world returning to her in fragments: the low murmur of voices, the distant pop and crackle of a fire, the dull ache at the base of her skull.
She lay upon a settee, a light coverlet drawn over her legs. The air smelled of leather and woodsmoke. Beneath her stretched a richly woven carpet, and across the room tall windows were framed by heavy green velvet.
Rosings Park.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
By the hearth stood Mr Darcy, speaking to another gentleman, a tall figure in a dark coat, a physician’s bag at his feet. Dr Latham. The sight of him sparked something sharp in her chest, though she could not name it. She remembered him tending her once before…
And then the memories rushed back: the early morning mist, Mr Darcy striding through the trees, the hidden garden. His voice, his confession. That impossible, unforgettable kiss.
Her face heated as her hand flew to her lips.
Mr Darcy looked over, catching the movement, and Elizabeth saw a flicker of concern in his expression before he quickly composed himself, nodding once as he stepped in her direction.
“Miss Bennet. You are awake.” His tone was polite, careful. Devoid of the tenderness she had begun to expect.
Before she could reply, Dr Latham approached with a practised smile. “Miss Bennet. I am glad to see you returned to us. I am Dr Latham, a physician from—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “We have met before.”
He tilted his head, his smile faltering. “Have we?”
Elizabeth stared back at him. Something in his manner was not as it should be. Not wrong, precisely, but familiar in the wrong way.
He smiled again, more gently this time. “No matter. If you are able, I should like to ask you a few questions. Only to be certain there is no lasting injury.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, though her eyes drifted once more to Mr Darcy. He stood apart, arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her face.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
“Can you tell me your full name?”
“Elizabeth Bennet.”
“And where are you now?”
“At Rosings Park,” she answered, then hesitated. How had she come to be here? She remembered the wind rising, thunder crashing above her head…and then nothing.
“Do you recall the events leading up to your fall?”
“Yes.” Her heart quickened. She risked a glance at Mr Darcy, uncertain how much to reveal. “I—I was walking in the park. It began to storm…” Her gaze darted to the gentleman again, but he gave no indication that her words held any deeper meaning.
Dr Latham merely nodded. “Good. And the date?”
She hesitated.
“I believe it is April,” she said slowly. “But I am not certain of the day.”
In that instant, memory flared with startling clarity—this was to have been Mr Darcy’s wedding day! What hour was it now? Had Lady Catherine been informed that her plans had been thwarted? Did she know Elizabeth was lying in her parlour, despite being forbidden entry to the house?
“Quite understandable,” Dr Latham was saying. “Your head suffered a severe knock. With rest, your recollections should improve.”
But Elizabeth scarcely heard him. A cold unease coiled in her stomach.
Something was definitely amiss. Mr Darcy’s reserve. Dr Latham’s questions. Even the fire’s steady crackle. It was all exactly as it had been a fortnight ago, after her first accident.
Only it was not.
Because she had already lived this moment before.
She turned back to Mr Darcy, searching his face for some spark of recognition, some acknowledgement of all that had passed between them.
“Sir,” she began cautiously, “how did I come to be here, at Rosings Park?”
His gaze wavered, and though he addressed her with composure, Elizabeth did not miss the faint flush that rose above his neckcloth.
“I had been walking in the grove,” he replied. “On my return, I found you lying insensible beneath a fallen branch. I carried you here, as it was the nearest shelter. Dr Latham was already at Rosings attending my cousin and was able to assist.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a sudden jolt. “I see,” she murmured.
The words struck her with dreadful familiarity, and a chill crept up her spine. It was the same explanation he had given the last time, as though she were reliving the day of her first accident, and the intervening weeks had never been.
Before she could press him further, a commotion in the entrance hall drew everyone’s attention. Footsteps rang across the marble floor, and a footman appeared in the doorway, only to be overtaken by a familiar figure hurrying past.
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth could only stare as Charlotte flew to her side.
“I came the moment I heard! Are you injured? Tell me you are not badly hurt.”
Still reeling, Elizabeth blinked as Charlotte dropped into a chair beside her, seizing her hand.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam came to the parsonage. He said Mr Darcy had found you in the grove, struck down in the storm. Oh, Lizzy, I was frantic! What happened?”
Elizabeth parted her lips to reply, but no sound came. Nothing made sense. Charlotte’s face—so dear, so unchanged—stirred a sudden rush of emotion, yet the only words that broke free were the first that sprang to her mind.
“W-where is Jane?” she blurted, her gaze moving from Charlotte to the open parlour door.
Charlotte’s eyes widened, and Elizabeth caught the swift glance she directed towards Dr Latham before she turned back with a careful smile.
“Jane is in London with your aunt and uncle Gardiner. Do you not remember? You and Maria visited them on your way to Hunsford.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened, and she pressed a hand to her temple where a dull ache had begun to bloom.
“No,” she whispered. “I—”
She pushed herself upright with sudden urgency, her movements unsteady. Her gaze dropped to her gown, and her breath stilled.
This was not the dress she had chosen at the beginning of the day. It was the one she had been wearing in the grove, the morning after Mr Darcy’s proposal. The morning he had handed her a letter…
Her heart thrummed rapidly against her chest as her hand went instinctively to the bodice of her gown. Her fingers met with something stiff and faintly crackling beneath the fabric.
Her gaze shifted to Mr Darcy, who stood silent and grim, his expression unreadable.
But before she could speak, another commotion erupted in the hall, and a moment later Lady Catherine swept in, her eyes flashing.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Why is Miss Bennet lying in my parlour?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned towards the physician, her tone sharp. “And you! Why are you not attending to my daughter?”
Although Dr Latham had urged her to remain at Rosings for rest and observation, Elizabeth had refused.
The thought of passing even one more hour beneath Lady Catherine’s roof, with Mr Darcy only corridors away, his manner so curiously altered, was intolerable.
She had insisted upon returning to the parsonage, and in the end, no one had the will to oppose her.
Charlotte had arranged for a carriage without delay.
At last, Elizabeth was alone in the stillness of her bedroom.
A fire glowed low in the grate; her gown had been exchanged for a wrapper, her hair unbound.
Everything appeared exactly as she remembered from before her initial accident: the narrow writing desk beneath the window, the carpet with its curling edges, the wardrobe door that creaked on its stubborn hinge.
Even her novel, Miss Owenson’s The Wild Irish Girl, sat on the bedside table, just where she had left it.
And yet, everything felt altered, veiled in a haze of memory and disquiet.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, her fingers unsteady as she reached for Mr Darcy’s letter.
She had found it tucked inside her bodice, exactly where she remembered placing it, as though it had never been lost. The parchment, still warm from her skin, seemed almost too heavy to lift.
Drawing a steadying breath, she broke the seal.
Although she already knew much of the letter’s contents, the experience of reading Mr Darcy’s words in his own hand struck her with renewed force.
His account of Mr Wickham’s villainy chilled her, though the truth was no longer a revelation.
But it was the portion of the letter concerning Jane—the confession of his interference, argued with such candour—that unsettled her most. He had not apologised, and yet his reasons were not without merit. She could acknowledge that now.
And then came the final line, stark in its simplicity: I will only add, God bless you.
Elizabeth pressed the letter to her chest, tears prickling at the corners of her lashes. That he should end so generously, after the scorn she had heaped upon him! He had every reason for bitterness, yet he had chosen grace.
Her heart ached. The feelings that had crept in so gradually now rose with sudden force, fierce and undeniable.
She loved him. And, impossible as it seemed, she felt as if she always had.
Not for his wealth or consequence but for the person he was inside, the person he had always been—the man who listened without judgment, who believed her when no one else would.
The man who had kissed her with such reverence it left her trembling.
But now, everything had changed. The last two weeks had dissolved, as though they had never been. She was back in the world as it truly was. Here, she had never poured out her heart in the shelter of a ruined garden. She was the woman who had rejected him, in the cruellest of terms.
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
The memory of her own words seared through her, and shame burned hot across her skin.
How was such a wound ever to be healed? Despite the generosity of his letter, could any man, least of all one so proud, offer his heart to the same woman again after being so thoroughly rebuffed?
Her thoughts turned back to the garden, to the richness of his voice, hushed and uncertain, as he spoke of dreams that seemed more like memories…
A sharp gasp broke free from her lips. The locket! She had forgotten it until this very moment. Her hand flew to her throat, only to close on empty air.
The necklace was gone.
For a long moment she sat unmoving, staring into the middle distance.
The letter had returned, tucked away precisely where she had hidden it that morning. But the locket, the one Mr Darcy swore he remembered, was still missing.
Her mind raced.
What could it mean, that the letter remained but the locket had vanished? Had it been lost or deliberately taken?
Elizabeth rose and went to the dressing table, her fingers lifting instinctively to the hollow at her throat. The absent weight left her strangely unmoored, as though some essential part of herself had been misplaced.
Yet brooding on it would yield nothing.
She drew a steadying breath and turned her mind to what must come next.
Tomorrow, she would return to Rosings at the earliest hour propriety allowed, and she would speak to Mr Darcy, whatever the consequence.
She could not know whether the breach between them might be healed, but she meant to try.
With every ounce of courage she possessed, she would make him understand.
He had told her he loved her. Surely now, if even the slightest feeling still lingered, she might yet hope to win him back.
Returning to the bed, she slipped the letter beneath her pillow, its presence there a small comfort. She lay back, her gaze on the ceiling, though in her thoughts it was his eyes that stayed with her, searching and uncertain.
Tomorrow, she would see him again. And if fate had truly granted her a second chance, this time, she would not squander it.