Chapter 11 Lost in Memory
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOST IN MEMORY
Darcy surveyed the rain and the road conditions, calculating that the remaining journey would take at least three hours if not more.
The rain drummed steadily on the carriage windows, and the confined space was suffocatingly intimate.
He gazed out at the blurred Derbyshire landscape, grateful for the excuse it provided to avoid meeting Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes directly across from him.
Her posture was stiff as she tried to take up as little space as she could on the squabs.
Mrs. Younge, however, appeared entirely at ease.
“Such a well-appointed vehicle, Mr. Darcy,” she observed, her voice carrying that blend of deference and familiarity that he had always found distasteful. “One can judge a gentleman’s character by the quality of his equipage.”
Darcy inclined his head with the minimum courtesy required, privately reflecting that if such were the case, Mrs. Younge’s character would be represented by whatever ramshackle conveyance had deposited her on this particular road.
“What a relief to find ourselves in such comfort after our ordeal,” Mrs. Younge continued with a dramatic sigh. “The post-chaise was absolutely dreadful—rattling and shaking with every pebble in the road. My nerves are quite shattered.”
She placed a hand to her temple in a gesture of distress that Darcy found wholly unconvincing.
“I’ve always found travel most disagreeable. Those coaching inns! The beds are invariably damp, and the food is scarcely fit for consumption. And the other travelers—” She shuddered delicately. “One never knows what sort of person one might encounter.”
Darcy could not help but think that others might say the same about Mrs. Younge herself.
“You found the journey taxing as well, did you not, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Younge turned to Elizabeth. “Such interminable jostling. I declare I shall feel every bump and rut for a fortnight.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met Darcy’s briefly, and he caught the faintest hint of exasperation before she schooled her features.
“I have generally found that focusing on one’s destination rather than the discomforts of the journey makes for more pleasant travel,” Elizabeth replied with pointed civility.
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, directing his interest. “Although I confess I am surprised to discover you have connections in Derbyshire.”
“Distant connections, Mr. Darcy. Not frequently acknowledged,” Elizabeth replied briefly.
“And yet, you are calling on them so precipitously.” Darcy studied her face, noting the slight tightening around her eyes. “Such sudden journeys are rarely undertaken without significant cause.”
Elizabeth’s expression flickered with something Darcy could not quite identify—discomfort, perhaps, or wariness. “The journey has been… educational,” she replied, her choice of words an echo of his own response at the Meryton assembly. The parallel was surely not accidental.
He hesitated, weighing propriety against curiosity. The latter prevailed.
“Perhaps, you’ve discovered that sudden journeys are fraught with unexpected difficulties that your parents had not anticipated.”
Elizabeth stiffened, her shoulders drawing back almost imperceptibly.
“My parents have little say in my current travels, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her voice carrying a brittle edge.
“One might observe that at twenty years of age, a woman is capable of managing her own affairs, particularly when those affairs involve her future happiness.”
Mrs. Younge leaned forward with the air of someone stepping into a conversational breach.
“Miss Bennet’s family is most understanding of her need for…
independent pursuits,” she interjected smoothly.
“Not all parents are so obliging, of course, but Mr. Bennet has always been notably progressive in his views on feminine independence.”
“Yet Miss Bennet has not explained what brings her to Derbyshire, other than vague references to distant connections. I had understood from Bingley that you were to remain at Longbourn for the foreseeable future. Some matter regarding family obligations, I believe?”
He was fishing, he knew, hoping she might reveal something about Collins’s presumed proposal. The thought of Elizabeth bound to that ridiculous clergyman continued to provoke an irrationally strong reaction, though he could hardly examine his reasons too closely.
Elizabeth’s expression grew shuttered. “Plans change, Mr. Darcy. Surely a man of your experience understands that circumstances sometimes require adjustment.”
“Indeed, they do,” he conceded. “Though I confess curiosity about what circumstances might prompt such a sudden departure from family and familiar surroundings.”
“Curiosity?” Elizabeth’s voice carried a note of challenge that made him instantly wary. “How interesting. And what of your own sudden departure from Hertfordshire, sir? I had understood you were to remain at Netherfield until after the Yuletide.”
Darcy felt heat rise in his collar. Trust Elizabeth Bennet to turn the conversation in precisely the direction he wished to avoid.
“Business called me to Pemberley,” he said stiffly. “Estate matters require attention, particularly before winter sets in.”
“How conscientious,” Mrs. Younge remarked. “The mark of a true gentleman, attending to his responsibilities with such diligence.”
The flattery sat ill upon his ears. Darcy turned his attention back to Elizabeth. “And your visit to Lambton? You mentioned a relation.”
Mrs. Younge’s smile contained a calculating edge. “Miss Bennet’s presence was specifically requested. Some matters require a personal touch that correspondence cannot provide.”
“Indeed?” Darcy studied Elizabeth’s face. “And your parents approve of this journey? It seems remarkably sudden.”
“Not all journeys are planned weeks in advance, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Younge interjected before Elizabeth could respond. “Some arise from immediate necessity.”
Darcy ignored the interruption, his attention fixed on Elizabeth. “Are these relations on your mother’s side or your father’s? I confess I know of no Bennets in Derbyshire.”
Rather than answering his question, she shifted in her seat and regarded him with a directness that few in society would dare.
“You speak of family connections with such interest, Mr. Darcy. I wonder, did your father have brothers or sisters? One rarely hears of the extended Darcy family.”
The unexpected pivot caught him off guard. He had been probing her circumstances, only to find himself suddenly under examination. The question itself was innocuous enough, yet something in her tone—an intentness that belied casual curiosity—raised his guard.
“My father had a brother,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation. “He died many years ago.”
“How unfortunate,” Elizabeth said. “Was he much like your father in temperament?”
The rain drummed steadily against the carriage roof, filling the silence as Darcy considered how to respond. Why this interest in his uncle? It seemed an odd topic for someone who had never before shown any particular curiosity about his family.
“They were quite different,” he said finally. “My uncle was more…” He searched for the word. “Approachable, perhaps. Less concerned with society’s dictates.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Darcy. Did your uncle have children? Cousins for you to play with as a boy? Perhaps an older boy to look up to?”
Something in her gentle inquiry touched a place he usually kept guarded.
Unbidden, an image surfaced in Darcy’s mind—his uncle John, tall and laughing, tossing a giggling infant into the air while his wife looked on with mock alarm and genuine joy.
Uncle John, who had been his father’s elder brother.
Uncle John, who had married… Who was it? He couldn’t remember…
“My uncle had a family, yes,” Darcy replied quietly. “But they all perished in a house fire when I was eight years old.”
Mrs. Younge gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her throat. “Pemberley burned down? How dreadful!”
“No,” Darcy corrected, his voice cooling at her theatrical display. “My uncle and his family resided in a dower cottage on the estate grounds. Rose Cottage, it was called.”
“How strange,” Mrs. Younge murmured, her eyes gleaming with an interest that seemed excessive for such a distant tragedy. “That a fire should claim an entire family.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Strange indeed.”
He glanced at Elizabeth and was struck by the genuine sadness in her expression. No artifice, no performance for social effect—just quiet empathy for a loss that had occurred long before she knew him. Her dark eyes held a depth of feeling that momentarily took his breath away.
“I am truly sorry,” she said. “To lose family in such a way. There are no adequate words.”
The sincerity in her voice caught him unprepared. Most of society offered polished condolences that meant nothing; Elizabeth Bennet portrayed genuine compassion without excessive sentiment. It was refreshing and disarming.
“Yes, it is quite a tragedy,” Mrs. Younge said. “I wonder. How did your father take it? All the responsibility of Pemberley must have fallen on his shoulders alone.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly. Elizabeth Bennet stared at him with an expression he could not quite read, while Mrs. Younge’s smile had taken on a quality that made his skin crawl. What were they implying?
“We should reach Lambton within the hour, sir,” Vernon reported.
Darcy was grateful for the intervention.
“Excellent,” he replied, his voice perhaps a shade too hearty. “Miss Bennet, you will soon be safely delivered to your relations.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, though her voice sounded oddly distant. “Soon.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “But I require a repose. I shall perhaps defer our conversation?”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes were kind and understanding as she stifled a yawn.
Darcy inclined his head stiffly. Memories flashed unbidden in his mind. Uncle John, who had been Pemberley’s heir until that terrible night. Aunt Rose, with her quick wit and infectious laugh. And their daughter, the little cousin who had been just nine months old when the fire claimed them all.
He could picture her as clearly as if it were yesterday—that round-cheeked infant with a full head of dark curls. Darcy babies were never bald; it was a family trait his grandmother had often remarked upon. He marveled at the strange details an eight-year-old mind retained across the years.
The baby had been learning to stand, clutching at furniture with plump fingers. He remembered her bright, curious eyes—so like her mother’s—and the way she had reached for him with a gurgling laugh when he’d visited Rose Cottage that last time.
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth’s voice broke into his reverie. “Are you quite well? You seem lost in thought.”
He blinked, focusing on her face—the dark, intelligent eyes watching him with concern. “A momentary distraction. The journey has been long.”
“What were you thinking about?” she pressed. “Your brows were furrowed so… You looked… haunted.”
A shock ran through him as the memory crystallized with sudden clarity. The baby’s name. His infant cousin had been called Elizabeth. Elizabeth Rose Darcy.
He stared at the woman across from him, his mind racing with impossible calculations.
Could it be a mere coincidence that Elizabeth Bennet shared a name with his long-dead cousin?
That she appeared on this road near Pemberley in the company of a woman he knew to be dishonest and manipulative?
That she deflected questions about her family and purpose while inquiring about his?
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth repeated with evident concern.
“It is nothing,” he said, forcing himself to sound normal. “Merely the beginnings of a headache. The air in Hertfordshire disagreed with me.”
He was being ridiculous. His cousin had died twenty years ago, along with his uncle and aunt.
There was no connection between that tragedy and the young woman sitting across from him now.
His father’s warning about the Bennet name and the stress of encountering Mrs. Younge had clearly affected his thinking.
“Perhaps a brief rest when we reach Lambton would be beneficial,” Mrs. Younge suggested with feigned concern. “I understand the White Hart Inn offers excellent accommodation.”
“My presence is expected at Pemberley,” Darcy replied curtly. “I shall continue directly after seeing you safely to your destination in Lambton.”
Mrs. Younge’s smile thinned with disappointment. “How conscientious of you to escort us personally. I’m certain Miss Bennet’s relative will be most appreciative.”
“I will instruct my man of business in Lambton to ensure your comfort during your stay,” Darcy added, watching both women carefully. “Mr. Blythewood will call upon you tomorrow to offer any assistance you might require.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, while Mrs. Younge’s narrowed with calculation.
“Such consideration is unnecessary—” Elizabeth began.
“I insist,” Darcy interrupted. “It is the least I can offer after your travel difficulties.”
Why had he extended his offer of assistance? Why had he put her under his protection in the first place? She wasn’t his little cousin. His fascination with Elizabeth Rose Bennet could be attributed to fatigue, frustration with Bingley, and an overactive imagination.
The dead remained dead. Elizabeth Rose Darcy had perished in flames twenty years ago.
The woman sitting across from him was merely a Bennet. A warning from the dead. A complication.