Over the next quarter of an hour, Darcy stewed in silence while Elizabeth answered every question the apothecary posed to her.
Mr. Jones was visibly pleased. “Very good. Very good, indeed. Now, I would like very much to hear how you met this gentleman.” He gestured at Darcy.
The confidence with which she had spoken disappeared. Just as Darcy had feared it would.
“I do not know,” she whispered.
“What is his name?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
“His given name?”
She paused, and Darcy’s hope rose.
“I cannot recall.”
Hope plummeted. Shattered against the pitiless flagstones.
Her fine eyes, so often vivacious and gleeful, brimmed with melancholy … and guilt. “I am sorry.”
Darcy would do anything to rid her of this sadness, to shield her from ever feeling anything but happyagain. It felt impossible to smile, but he made himself do it. “I have always regretted the poor first impression I gave, and now, I find myself with the rare opportunity to amend the past.” A panicked thought quickened his pulse. “I do hope I have not reflected poorly on my character. I had not thought to request an introduction.”
Mr. Jones came to his aid. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, it is my honor to present Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.” He watched her closely, as did Darcy, for any sign of recognition.
There was none.
But Elizabeth’s smile returned. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I am curious to know what you could have done to give such a poor impression when I consider your every action despite the shock of changed circumstances as considerate and … gentlemanly.”
Gentlemanly. A sweeter word she could not have uttered when he had acted so ungentlemanly toward her and her family in the past. Had Mr. Jones not cleared his throat, Darcy would have kissed her.
Perhaps it was for the best. This Elizabeth had no reason to welcome his kisses. He would have to be careful. He crossed his arms and feet and restrained his affections.
Mr. Jones steepled his fingers under his chin. “There is still much to learn about amnesia, and your case is unique in that it is remarkably selective,but I will explain it as well as I can.” He held up his hands. “According to French scientist, Francois Bichat, the brain is made up of two hemispheres. These hemispheres act in synchrony — one side mirrors the other. He calls it the Law of Symmetry.” He squeezed one hand into a fist. “You see, when one hemisphere is injured, it throws the whole of the brain off balance, causing a general confusion.” He waved his other hand around the fist. “Like this, see?”
“How can the hemispheres be brought back into symmetry?” Elizabeth asked.
“Before I tell you that, I must explain why symmetry is so important. If balance is rectified, no permanent harm is done. That is what we want for you. However, if the imbalance continues, derangement progresses.” He stopped.
Derangement was such a hopeless word. Darcy cleared his throat, gently nudging the conversation down a more propitious path. “How long before recovery is impossible?”
“Most people achieve this balance within a few hours. A few cases recover by the following day. After that, the derangement sets in.”
He calculated the time. About two hours had passed since the accident.
The apothecary continued, “Sadly, those patients lose their minds altogether.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Insanity?”
“I am afraid so. But that is the worst of it. I hold every hope that you will recover any minute.”
Damage to one hemisphere. Symmetry. How, exactly, was symmetry supposed to be restored? A sick feeling seized Darcy. “Are we to conclude that this Law of Symmetry suggests injuring the other side of the brain’s hemisphere to restore equilibrium?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You mean to suggest that a blow to the other side of my head will put me right?”
The doctor had grace enough to look sheepish. “It is the commonly accepted treatment at the moment.”
Elizabeth pointed at his case. “And I suppose you are carrying a club in there with which to bash your patients on the head?”
