Note: Regency inaccuracies are, hopefully, not glaring ones. Medical ones ... well, maybe they're more noticeable, but hopefully I'll be vague enough to avoid making Those Who Know Better wince. Or wince too much. I do hope that you'll like this story, despite the situation depicted being perhaps a little bit far-fetched at times.

I had a wonderful team who betaed this story, I wanted to thank them again fro having pointed my mistakes (and since I still fiddled with the document once they were done, it's not impossible that others sneaked in).

...

Chapter 1: In which there is a rescue

...

Hurt.

Screams. Horses?

Warmth. Wetness. Narrow floor. Benches. Tangled bodies. Rocking. Carriage. Accident?

Running water. Splashing. Horses still screaming.

At last, silence. No-there was some moaning. Mine. Movement—a boat?

Creaking. The floor tilts. Slipping—then splashing and cold, so cold! Panicking, kicking to get up, struggling to breathe, to keep afloat. Losing the battle.

Suddenly, shouts. Orders.

More splashing. Hands all around—pain.

Excruciating pain.

Darkness.

May 1807, a road alongside the southern side of the Mersey

"I think she fainted," said a young gentleman as he wrapped a very wet young lady in a blanket while his valet and driver changed into dry clothes.

"It's better for her, sir. Looks like she suffered a number of blows. We must move her somewhere where someone can tend to her wounds. If she's unconscious, she'll be less in pain during the ride."

"Where has Weston gone?"

"I sent him on your horse to see whether he finds the remains of a carriage upstream, sir, in case there was anyone inside in need of assistance."

At that moment, the gait of a horse was heard. The men turned towards it. The manservant on top of it looked grim.

"Where is the carriage?"

"I can't say. I think it was carried downstream," he answered. "The river's deep and the current strong. I think I found the place where they've left the road, though. There was a freshly broken parapet and signs of struggle from horses. The young miss was lucky to have stayed afloat for so long."

"Did you find anything that could help to identify her?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

The young man and his servants looked at each other somberly. Nothing more could be done except going ahead. They would make inquiries about the missing carriage later, what was more important was bringing the young lady to a safe place.

Still hurt. My head!

Softness. A bed. Where?

Bustling, muffled noises. An inn?

A woman's voice. "Are you well, Miss?"

Shake.

"Your head hurting a lot?"

Nod.

"Drink."

Bitterness. Sleep.

Later the same day, an inn near the Mersey

"The men are back, sir. There was no trace of any carriage downstream, and nothing but splinters and broken masonry where they fell in the river upstream. If anything of interest fell on the road during the accident, it's probably been looted already."

"Poor girl. Her family must worry."

"If this wasn't a family journey to begin with," said Weston somberly. His master winced.

"The girl had a reticule with her, which I have not yet opened. I shall see whether it yields some information. Has she woken yet?"

"Only briefly, sir," his valet answered. "The apothecary left earlier, he said that he did not believe she was too badly hurt. Given her age, it is unlikely she travelled alone, and he suspects that her companion's body protected her. It is even possible that she will not have more than some bruises in the end, but he cannot say this for certain before having seen her while she is awake. Nothing was broken, at last."

"Did she say anything while she was awake?"

"She was hurting, sir. The innkeeper's wife gave her some laudanum, as the apothecary prescribed, and it ought to take her through the night."

"Did she say anything about who she was, or whom we might fetch for her?"

"The maid did not think to ask her that."

Darcy sighed. "Then it will have to wait, unless there is an address in her reticule."

The three men looked dubiously at the aforementioned reticule. It was water-soaked, and stained with blood on the outside, but what was inside might have been spared. Darcy emptied it on the little table that was in his room. Some coins, a length of yellow ribbon, a half-embroidered handkerchief sporting an E and the beginning of an unidentifiable capital, a damp book whose inscription on the first page was nonetheless preserved: February 10, 1807. To Elizabeth on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday.

"Ah, and a letter!"

Alas, the ink had run and the address was illegible. Darcy carefully unfolded it and read. Most of the first lines were also too blurred to be read and deciphering the rest took some effort.

"L¤¤q¤¤¤¤¤ /& Aj¤¤¤l

"D¤¤¤¤¤l L¤z¤¤j,

"I w¤¤ ¤l¤l¤¤¤l¤¤ l¤ ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ j¤¤¤ l¤¤l l¤ll¤¤ ¤¤¤l l¤¤¤¤ ¤l¤¤¤l j¤¤¤ j¤¤j¤¤¤¤ ¤l ll¤¤ j¤¤¤¤¤f¤¤l¤. I l¤¤j¤¤ y¤¤ ¤¤¤ ¤l¤¤¤j w¤ll, l¤h¤t ¤¤¤¤yll¤¤¤¤j h¤¤ b¤¤¤ p¤ck¤d t¤ Au¤t's s¤ti¤f¤¤ti¤¤ ¤nd th¤t y¤¤ ¤r¤ n¤w ¤b¤¤t t¤ ¤nj¤y y¤¤r t¤¤v¤l t¤ P. I l¤¤k f¤¤w¤¤d t¤ ¤¤¤di¤g y¤¤r d¤scripti¤ns ¤f ¤v¤rythi¤g y¤u will ¤nc¤unt¤r ¤n y¤ur w¤y!

"N¤w f¤r th¤ l¤c¤l n¤ws y¤u s¤id y¤u cr¤v¤d: Th¤r¤ is t¤lk ¤b¤ut the V¤¤¤¤¤ Le¤ving N¤l¤¤¤f¤¤¤, which m¤k¤s M¤m¤ r¤j¤ic¤, f¤r she is cert¤in th¤t the le¤se will ¤t l¤st be t¤ken by ¤ y¤ung m¤n in w¤nt ¤f ¤ wife, t¤ wh¤m I sh¤ll cert¤inly bec¤me betr¤thed ¤s s¤¤n ¤s he sees me. I ¤wn I ¤m n¤t s¤ e¤ger ¤s she is! Truly, y¤u ¤re the lucky ¤ne, t¤ be ¤ble t¤ enj¤y ¤ne m¤re ye¤r ¤f being ¤t h¤me. Being ¤ut ¤t fifteen w¤s, I fe¤r, f¤r t¤¤ e¤rly. I w¤s very relieved th¤t Mr P. st¤pped ¤t ¤ffering verses ¤nd did n¤thin¤j m¤re! I believe th¤t ¤nly n¤w I begin t¤ feel re¤dy t¤ be ¤ wife, but I h¤ve been in s¤ciety t¤¤ l¤ng, ¤nd I fe¤r th¤t pe¤ple ¤re n¤w used t¤ seeing me ¤nd n¤t interested in ¤ffering f¤r me. I w¤uld s¤y th¤t I think th¤t ¤ y¤ung l¤dy ¤ught n¤t be ¤ut bef¤re she is seventeen, but I kn¤w y¤u will str¤ngly ¤bject, f¤r I kn¤w h¤w y¤u l¤ng t¤ ¤bserve the p¤rties ¤nd b¤lls first-h¤nd. I think th¤t y¤u will very much like Miss L, wh¤ is ¤n her w¤y t¤ bec¤me ¤ very g¤¤d friend.

"Life ¤t h¤me is the s¤me ¤s it ever w¤s. I wish th¤t P¤p¤ exerted himself m¤re when it c¤me t¤ c¤ntr¤lling M¤m¤'s spending, th¤ugh. C¤n y¤u believe th¤t she h¤s decided th¤t re-trimming l¤st se¤s¤n's w¤rdr¤be ¤nd perh¤ps h¤ve Mrs T. m¤ke ¤ne ¤r tw¤ new ¤nes w¤uld n¤t d¤, th¤t I needed ¤ br¤nd new ¤ne? He did n¤t even try t¤ re¤s¤n with her. If this is the s¤me when we ¤re ¤ll ¤ut, I w¤rry th¤t ¤ll the est¤te's inc¤me will n¤t be en¤ugh t¤ c¤mpens¤te f¤r her extr¤v¤g¤nce. ¤ur y¤unger sisters ¤re ¤s they ever ¤re; M. h¤s disc¤vered ¤ b¤¤k ¤f serm¤ns ¤nd is c¤pying extr¤cts in ¤rder t¤ impr¤ve her h¤nd, while the y¤unger tw¤ ¤re diligent with their needlew¤rk ¤nd h¤pe t¤ be the next t¤ tr¤vel with ¤ur uncle ¤nd ¤unt.

"They ¤ll send their l¤ve. P¤p¤ especi¤lly wishes y¤u ¤re enj¤ying y¤ur new b¤¤k. He is cert¤inly n¤t re¤dy f¤r his "Little Lizzy" t¤ be ¤ut!

"With ¤ll my sisterly l¤ve,

"J¤ne"

Darcy sighed.

"No luck, sir?" ventured his valet.

Darcy waved the letter.

"No useful names. It appears that her father owns an estate, and that she has sisters, but the sister who wrote used intials. The only names which appear in the letter are Jane and Lizzy."

"Too common to be of any help," Smith mumbled.

Darcy sent a glare to his valet, but did not answer. After a moment of silence, he sighed.

"Well, hopefully either someone will somehow come for her tomorrow, or she will be well enough to leave with us."

"But, sir—"

"I know that we cannot afford a delay," said Darcy, raising his hand. "I know we ought to have arrived yesterday. However, since Pemberley is near, I shall not leave the daughter of a gentleman alone at an inn when she has no one to care for her. She will come with us for the rest of the trip as soon as the apothecary deems it reasonable, hopefully tomorrow morning."

"But, sir, where will you put her once you are at Pemberley?"

"She is not out. She may be older than Georgiana, but she can surely share my sister's lessons and keep her company. Given the situation with Father, it would probably be a good thing."

"What about her family? Surely, they will look for her!"

"We do not yet know who they are, and the innkeeper said her party did not stop in the village on their way. I shall send word to all the inns at a likely distance from the site of the accident, but if they came from a busy place, it is possible that nobody remembered the girl, and as we do not know how big her party was, nor what their carriage looked like, maybe it will not be possible to narrow down the possibilities to one party. I shall also ask that, if someone enquires about her, word is sent to Pemberley. I would prefer to identify the young lady's family before releasing her in anyone's care. I fear that otherwise someone would take advantage of her."

"Very well, sir."

Hurt—not so sharp, more diffuse. Light. A lady's voice.

"Ah, you're awake already. Come, let me help you to refresh yourself."

Hands helping her to sit down. Head spinning. Taking a step, two. Aches in her arms and legs. The older lady is speaking. Not listening, concentrating instead on staying upright and being efficient. Coming back to the softness of the mattress and the oblivion of sleep.

Pemberley, Derbyshire, the following day

In the morning, the apothecary had reported that Miss Elizabeth had woken shortly, and though she was still hurting, he had been confident that, with the help of laudanum, she could weather the twenty miles that separated them from Pemberley. As the lady who had tended to her at the inn would not leave her village and Darcy was eager to be home, they had left without securing a companion for Miss Elizabeth. If she needed some specific assistance, the young man trusted that there would always be a maid available in the inns at which they would stop. In the end, it had proved unnecessary, for their passenger was kept sedated through the entire length of the journey, and they had managed to travel at a pace which was slow enough that the horses did not need to rest while still allowing them to gain their destination before dark. Darcy and Smith watched over their passenger, ensuring that she stayed on the bench and did not hurt herself more than she was already.

At last, the carriage had entered the grounds of Pemberley. The road leading to the house had never seemed so long to Darcy, and he had decided to leave the girl in Smith's care, hopped on his horse and rushed to his father's bedside.

He dismounted quickly, ran past a worried-looking Mrs Reynolds to whom, as an afterthought, he cried that a young lady was following and would need her assistance before hurrying up the stairs. Had he looked back, he would have seen the housekeeper's countenance change from worry to shock.

On seeing his father, he felt relief intertwined with concern, for though the man did not seem to be about to die, he was very weak. It appeared doubtful that he would heal. Mr Darcy was sleeping now, so his son retreated to his rooms, where he washed away the dust from the road and changed clothes. On his way back to his father, he crossed paths with the physician.

"I am sorry, Mr Darcy," the latter said softly. "I know this illness must have come as a shock for you. I shall come back regularly to ensure that your father is made as comfortable as possible, but I am afraid nothing more can be done."

Darcy nodded, thanked him, and added:

"Could you please see to the young lady who arrived this afternoon a little after I did?"

"A young lady?"

"Yes. I imagine she must be well, or as well as she could be given the circumstances, otherwise Mrs Reynolds would have sent for you already."

"Very well," said the physician with a frown. "Who is the lady, and where can I find her?"

"I ... actually, I do not know the answer to either question."

Disapproval was replaced with puzzlement on the other man's face.

"Just ask Mrs Reynolds or Smith," Darcy went on. "If you need to see me again, I shall be with my father."

The physician went to find the housekeeper, for he was not quite certain he knew who Smith was. He found her as she was making her way to a guest room, precisely to see the young lady he was asked to examine.

"I cannot begin to tell you how surprised I was," Mrs Reynolds said after he had exposed his purpose. "The young master had just rushed by me to see his father and barely paused to tell me to take care of her—she was still in the carriage, which arrived shortly afterwards."

"This is more or less the way he made his request to me," said the physician with a smile. "I thought better than asking him questions, though, and hoped that you would have the answers I searched."

Mrs Reynolds nodded.

"I may not have all, but young Mr Darcy's valet, Smith, told me most of it, if not all, when he arrived."

"Did the young lady herself not tell you anything?"

"She was asleep, as they had dosed her with laudanum for the trip."

"Tsk! If she has anything broken, it cannot have been good!"

"As far as I understand and could see, she was mostly bruised, which is why they took that risk."

The housekeeper then summarised the circumstances in which the girl had been found.

"The poor girl did not even stir when we put her to bed. I was on my way to see whether she had woken."

Stirring. Still sore. The sheets smell good. Lavender? They are soft, the bed is comfortable. A door opens and closes, footsteps. Daylight.

"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth."

A kind-looking older woman. Next to her, a slightly younger man. Both unknown.

"Good morning," she whispered back.

"Would you like some water?"

She nodded carefully and was grateful for the fresh liquid that appeased her lips and throat.

"How are you feeling this morning, Miss?"

"Somewhat better, though I am still sore." She frowned. "Who are you? Where am I? Who—"

"There, Miss Elizabeth," said the woman in a calming voice. "You must not fret so. I am Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper of Pemberley. This is Mr Thompson, who is a physician. We shall answer the many questions I am sure you have."

At this, the girl began to laugh in a slightly hysterical way.

"Miss Elizabeth?" asked Mrs Reynolds, alarmed.

"I do have a great many questions, yes," she said at last.

"If you do not mind," said Mrs Reynolds kindly, "perhaps you could first tell us who you are and where you come from? Then we shall send word to your parents at once to inform them that you are safe and somewhat sound."

The young lady's face fell. "I was actually hoping that this would be amongst the things you would tell me."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr Thompson.

"I do not know where I am from, nor even who I am." The girl looked near tears.

"You do not remember your name?" asked the physician.

"I do not think I remember anything, any event, except for the past couple of hours—or was it more? It must have been, since this room is different. I only remember being in pain, what could have been a carriage, and another room. I think I may have fallen in water, too?"

"Then you know nearly all that we know about you, Miss. Young Mr Darcy and his men found you after your carriage fell in the Mersey; they rescued you. The contents of your reticule gave them your given name and your age, but that was all."

"This is why you called me Elizabeth? But perhaps this is not even my name ..."

"We are reasonably certain that it is your name, since you had on your person both a book which was a recent present and a letter in which the recipient was identified as Lizzy."

"What else can you tell me?"

"You are a gentleman's daughter, you are one of many sisters, and you have recently turned fifteen."

She nodded, then winced.

"What is the matter, miss?" asked Mrs Reynolds.

"My head hurts, and the ache is becoming more difficult to bear."

"I am reluctant to give you more laudanum since you already had so much in two days," said Mr Thompson. "The maid will close the drapes; try to rest and eat some broth to get your strength back. Your memory will probably come back at some point, when you feel better. Do not fret about it."

She nodded and sank back into the pillows after the doctor examined her, but she definitely looked worried.

Later, Mr Thompson went in search of Darcy, whom he found, as he expected, at his father's side. Gently, he laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You must get some rest, sir. The upcoming weeks will be difficult enough."

"I miss him so much already. I am not ready to be alone."

"He has not left you yet, and even when he will be gone, you will not be left by yourself."

"Yet I must now shoulder his responsibilities, and I am not quite ready for them to be transmitted to me already," the young man countered.

"Very true, but you know you can rely on Mr Wickham."

Young Mr Darcy nodded. After a moment of silence, Mr Thompson added:

"I just saw your houseguest."

Darcy frowned, until he remembered who the physician meant.

"Is the girl doing better?"

"In a way, yes."

"In a way?" he frowned.

"Physically, she is on the mend, but it seems she has no memories of her life before the accident."

"What?"

"I shall have to see her again once she is less in pain, but it appears she does not remember any actual event, nor her own name or that of her home."

"Oh."

"Apart from that, she is doing very well and ought to be able to leave her room at the end of the week. I shall assess her progress regularly."

Darcy nodded distractedly.

Mr Thompson visited regularly during the week and, though his official purpose was to see to the elder Mr Darcy and to monitor the improvement of Miss Elizabeth, he carefully kept an eye on the younger Mr Darcy. As his father slipped further away with each passing day, the young man showed a tendency to neglect himself, though he gave the appearance of holding himself together reasonably well. As for the girl, she improved daily, and now only felt some lingering stiffness. Regarding her memory, some careful questioning revealed that, though it was obvious that she had been educated, she had no idea where or how she had learned about history, etiquette, or anything else she knew. The physician summarised this as her retaining knowledge of facts but not of events. His patient was very frustrated by this, saying that if she remembered how to read, when it must have been a complicated endeavour, why did she not remember something as simple as her name?

The next few weeks were somber for Darcy. Learning as much as he could from his father in his moments of lucidity. Spending time with Georgiana and comforting her as much as he could. Reassuring the girl in the guest room that surely her family would make enquiries about her and find, through the inns at which they left word, that she was at Pemberley; that if anyone asked after her, the initials in her letter would help them to check that she would be going back to the right family; that they would not allow her to be taken by anyone before thoroughly investigating them first.

A little light came from Miss Elizabeth's presence at Pemberley, for she and Georgiana had become friends—as much as a ten-year old girl and a fifteen-year-old one can become friends—and leaned on each other for comfort. It did relieve him to know that he need not feel guilty of neglecting his sister while he was in the process of taking full responsibility for what was, before, his father's business. Mr Wickham, the steward, who was not only a reliable assistant but also an excellent instructor, appeared more tired than Darcy remembered him, which was an additional source of worry.

Sometime in July 1807

Eventually, Mr Darcy died.

Darcy's family had come to the burial, as well as the friends of his father. His mother's brother stayed a couple of days at the estate afterwards, and it was then that he learned about the stray that he had brought into Pemberley.

"Let me be certain that I understood you properly," said the Earl of —. "You found a young lady in a river, ascertained that she was gently born, and since there was no one you deemed trustworthy enough to take care of her, you took the task for yourself?"

"This is an accurate summary," said Darcy, arms crossed, on the other side of his father's—his desk.

"Did you even tell your father about it?"

"Of course I did. He approved of my actions."

"This is not reasonable. You ought to send her elsewhere."

"Where? We do not know where she hails from."

"I am sure I could find a family which could be persuaded to take her in."

"We are such a family. Why would I throw an orphaned young lady out of my home?"

"She is not an orphan."

"As long as she does not remember anything about her relatives, she could as well be."

"That memory loss is very convenient, if you want my opinion."

"I do not."

"In any case, you cannot be expected to have a single young lady as your charge."

"I already have Georgiana, why not another one?"

"That is another thing I wanted to tell you. I am not sure Georgiana ought to stay with you."

"Pardon me?"

"You are barely of age. What do you know about caring for a young girl? Maybe it is a good thing that you have a temporary guest: she and your sister could come to live with us or with Catherine, and that way Georgiana will have a friend with her to ease her into her change of circumstances."

"No. You and Aunt — are more often in London than at your estate, and the girls love the countryside too much for me to consider depriving them of their rambles. As for sending them to Rosings? Georgiana is terrified of Aunt Catherine. She is already shy enough; I do not want for her spirit to be crushed. My sister stays."

"You are being unreasonable!"

"We just lost our father. We will stay together."

"As you wish!" cried his uncle. "However, do not come complaining when people begin to speak!"

"Of what?"

"Georgiana is still in the schoolroom, this Miss Elizabeth is older."

"Miss Elizabeth is not old enough to go in society and will keep taking lessons with my sister."

"For now, yes, but in two or three years? That situation cannot go on forever. Your sister will go to school someday, and by then your guest will be old enough to socialise. What will you do?"

"I shall cross that bridge when I come to it. It is likely that she will be back with her family long before that. They must be searching for her as we speak, and I am sure her memories will slowly come back."

"You are probably right," conceded Lord —. "Meanwhile, since it appears there is no way to convince you to entrust us with your sister, I suppose that the company of another girl cannot do Georgiana much harm."

Early August 1807

A couple of weeks after the Darcy patriarch died, the young Darcys and their guest had fallen into a routine. There still had been no news about Elizabeth. No notice of the carriage accident had appeared in the newspapers, nor any announcement that a young lady was missing. No note was sent to Pemberley from the inns where they had made their own enquiries. The girl herself had not remembered anything about her former life, which often frustrated her to the point of tears. Between her, Georgiana, and sometimes Darcy, there were many tears at Pemberley these days. There also was laughter, however, as Georgiana had decided that they would experiment in order to see what Elizabeth knew.

When the younger girl asked her whether she had learned French, Elizabeth, of course, could not have answered, but her friend had reasoned that she remembered how to speak English, and also how to behave as a proper young lady, though she had not remembered learning this, and determined that instead of questioning their guest, they ought to experiment. Thus Elizabeth was addressed in French, of which she understood a little and could hesitantly answer; Italian, for which she admitted that she used the French to understand it; and German, at which she stared. The sampler that had been in her reticule hinted at her knowing to embroider, and indeed she was rather proficient in that art, as well as sewing in general. Sheet music was brought, which she could decipher—this led to an immediate expedition to the music room in order to discern what instrument she could play.

End of August 1807

Another blow was dealt to Darcy shortly afterwards. Mr Wickham died suddenly that month—apoplexy, the physician said—and the young man had to throw himself more into work before he found a replacement, as said replacement could not exactly be found while the harvest was upon them. He would have neglected himself if Miss Elizabeth, sometimes with Georgiana trailing after her, had not come to force him to spend some time in company and actually eat.

"Mrs Reynolds would have sent me a tray," Darcy said one day with a smile when the girl had scolded him for not taking enough care of himself.

"But would you have eaten its content if I were not nagging you to do so?" she countered.

A slight smile. "Perhaps not."

She smiled back. "Now, you do not want to worry your sister. Do eat what is on your tray, and I shall leave you to your work without disturbing you further."

"You and Georgiana never disturb me."

"So you say," she answered with a laugh as he quickly took his collation.

Darcy was not the only one to miss Mr Wickham. Though she had not met him often, Elizabeth had taken a liking to Pemberley's trusted steward and had seen how much Darcy had relied on him. Losing both his father and his advisor so quickly after each other could not be easy. Elizabeth then frowned. She knew that Mr Wickham had a son, for Georgiana had shown her a miniature of the young man. It was displayed, along with one of her brother and one of herself, in a room the elder Mr Darcy had favoured. George Wickham appeared to be a very charming young man. The little girl had told her that he was currently at Cambridge, and that it was the wish of his godfather—Mr Darcy—that he was ordained in order to take a living nearby. She heard he had come to his father's burial, of course, and maybe he had come to the house afterwards, but she had not met him, for she had been in the schoolroom with Georgiana. She was quite certain, however, that the young man had never visited his father since she had arrived at Pemberley.

December 1807

As weeks turned into months, it appeared doubtful that Elizabeth's memory would ever return. The Darcys accustomed themselves to the idea that the young lady was with them to stay, which did not displease Georgiana in the least. The little girl had come to consider Elizabeth as an older sister, and was disappointed when she was told that they could not introduce her as Miss Darcy.

The day following that disappointment, as they were taking their breakfast in the schoolroom—Mr Darcy would rather eat with his sister and their guest than by himself—she spoke in a decided voice.

"We must find you a name."

"I do have a name."

"I mean a family name."

"Is it really that important?"

"It is! I cannot introduce you as Elizabeth, no known name!"

"You could call me Elizabeth Blank," the concerned lady suggested. "As in a blank that would be filled later. Moreover, the second letter on that handkerchief could have been a B."

"This is not funny," said Georgiana, wrinkling her nose. "You do need a proper name. Maybe Mersey? Or Undine, or, oh! Belisama! Or perhaps—"

"White," Darcy said, which stopped Elizabeth's own frown from forming.

The girls stared at him.

"Miss Elizabeth does not appear to like the idea of being named after water entities, and Blank sounds somewhat silly," he explained. "White can have a similar meaning, while also being a common name."

"I like that," mused Elizabeth. Georgiana huffed and conceded that her brother's suggestion was an improvement over Elizabeth's, even if it could not fit the handkerchief.

"What about Brown?" she nonetheless suggested. "It would fit your handkerchief and your eyes."

"Because brown eyes are so extraordinary," Elizabeth said, her lips twitching.

Georgiana pouted—but her suggestion was adopted.

...

That's all for now, folks! The second chapter ought to be posted next weekend. The next two ... depending on the level of mayhem at home, either the two following weekends, or one in the middle of next week and the last the weekend after next.

I love comments, I'd be delighted if you shared your thoughts! Keep in mind, though, that if you have a point to make or a clarification to ask, I won't be able to answer you if you're not logged in (I do try to answer comments when I can).