Laughter filled the room, spilling out into the hall. Bingley praised his wife, and glasses clinked together toasting their health and happiness. Darcy was not given to envy, but every cheer and compliment added to his misery. Today had been meant for him and Elizabeth to celebrate — instead, he got blank stares and the prospect of a cold bed that night.
Mr. Bennet rubbed his whiskers. “Ah … well … that is … unfortunate.”
A tremendous understatement from a man possessing an ample vocabulary.
“Join me in my study, Darcy. There is a good deal we must discuss, and I daresay our company will not be immediately missed.”
Having no desire to join the merrymakers, Darcy followed Mr. Bennet to his inner sanctuary.
CHAPTER 15
Elizabeth could not ruin Jane’s celebration. Dwelling on Mr. Jones’ most positive outcome, she told her sister and Mr. Bingley, “I am perfectly well besides this bruise on my head.”
Jane’s eyes searched her face. “And what of the amnesia?” she asked quietly.
Holding Jane’s hands, her gaze unwavering, Elizabeth declared, “I shall be recovered by the end of the day. Mr. Jones found no reason to believe otherwise, nor do I have any reason to doubt him.”
Mr. Bingley cried, “Another wedding on the morrow!” to the applause of the crowded room.
She sat with the newlywed couple, wishing Mr. Darcy was near and understanding why he was not. Papa would wish to hear Mr. Jones’ assessment, and though Elizabeth did not understand why she trusted Mr. Darcy to give a thorough and reliable report, shedid. As convinced as she was that he would disapprove of the reassurances she had given to her relatives and their guests.
Merriment became onerous, but Elizabeth was determined to endure as long as she could for Jane. Whether it was due to the stifling lack of air in the room or Mr. Collins’ frequent stares or the weight of Elizabeth’s own concerns, she could not swallow a bite, though the cook had prepared a feast to tempt the most fastidious consumer. Even to Miss Bingley, who was not predisposed to show favor of any table not her own or her social superior.
Thatcher passed in and out of the dining room, disappointing Elizabeth every time he was not Mr. Darcy. She found herself watching the entrance more than she attended to the conversation. Mr. Darcy had been away for quite some time. Just how much did he have to discuss with Papa? And without her? If they were discussing her condition, her treatment, her future, ought she not be present? Or, perhaps they were not speaking of her at all and were, instead, chatting about bees or books or the best brandy while she was suffering from an overdose of her company’s cheer?
Did she really wish for Mr. Darcy to return? Elizabeth pondered. She had noticed how intently he had watched Lydia, his expression grave, his disapproval marked. He must know how closely Lydia’s senselessness had come to scandalizing their entire family.
What did Mr. Darcy think of her family? If he knew Mr. Wickham, was he willing to tolerate becoming his brother when … if … he married her?
Not only had Elizabeth forgotten her own thoughts, but she no longer knew his.
Elizabeth looked at the door again, wishing for quiet, wanting to converse with Mr. Darcy, needing to understand. Needing her memories.
The clock on the mantel ticked mercilessly, taunting her with the passing time. It had been four hours since the accident. Four hours with nary one recollection of Mr. Darcy.
Laughter bubbled around the table, and Elizabeth returned her attention to the banquet. She smiled often and commented occasionally, but when she could smile no more, she dismissed herself, claiming a headache and the need for some fresh air and quiet.
Papa met her in the hall. “In search of your betrothed?” he asked.
“He is not with you?”
“Not for the better part of an hour. He has a great deal to consider.”
About them? Without her? Elizabeth was not so vain to assume Mr. Darcy’s every thought centered around her, but neither did she wish to be discounted and brushed aside so easily.
Gently settling his hand on her shoulder, her father said, “Be gentle with him, Lizzy. You are no longer inpossession of all the facts. Do not repeat the same mistakes.”
“I do not remember the mistakes to avoid repeating them.” Her voice quivered, her fingernails biting into her palm, angry at the barrier blocking her brain.
Papa squeezed her arm. “Do not be too hasty to think the worst of Mr. Darcy.”
Had she been so dreadful to Mr. Darcy? It was a wonder he still loved her.
He continued, “He has been very patient with us, and I daresay he will continue to be so.”
Elizabeth blinked, her eyes burning. “Patience has its limits,” she mumbled. Mr. Darcy had assured her he would wait for her, but what if she never remembered him? What if his patience was undeserved? From what he had told her, he had exerted himself to improve his character to win her heart, but what had she done for him?
“Have faith, Lizzy. Darcy loves you deeply. He has proved it over and over again.”
