Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory

Chapter Eleven

Mr Darcy’s astonishing question snatched me from my misery and my spine stiffened at the affront. Did he think that because we were betrothed, he could speak such improprieties? To speak of my clothing? And in the middle of the garden where another might overhear? I bit my lip to hold back a sharp retort. I may be bound to this man for the rest of my days, but I would not be subjected to humiliation. I had no doubt that if he could see my eyes, they would communicate just how offensive his question was. Good heavens, how I blushed at his words! At least his impropriety had the ability to help me regulate my swirling and suffocating self-pity. My breathing, no longer hindered, was hitched and huffing quite along now.

I lifted my face to his and there died my anger.

It all drained from me, limb by limb, like a pail of cool water running through my veins. The expression on Mr Darcy’s face was curious, lost. He was not wishing me to describe myself for any salacious desires, but because he had no picture in his mind. I sensed he asked in an attempt to ground himself. Heaven knows, we were probably both left off balance now that our fate was secure.

Still, niggling self-righteousness in the face of this, from my former-enemy-turned-betrothed, caused me to ask him why.

Mr Darcy tipped his head to the side in a gesture that seemed as if he were no longer aware of how to regulate his posture as rigidly as he once did. He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision of sorts with a slight nod.

“I feel the bench behind my legs; it has a swirling pattern on it. Its cool temperature feels more like iron than stone. The gravel stones beneath my feet have a softness around them as if the grass is encroaching on their space and softening their feel. We are facing nearly due east, for the morning sun is warming my face. I can hear leaves rustling, so we are not too far from the oaks around your home. Although I cannot see them, I know we are surrounded by roses of some variety. Their smell is strong but not robust enough to persuade me this bench is a large one…for I can still detect the vanilla and lilac scent you prefer. Had I not the sound of your voice confirming to my ears that you are nearby, your lovely scent would have assured me so. Your dress is the only portion that is missing from this picture I am trying to paint in my mind of this moment. I can readily imagine the way the sun dapples through the locks of your hair, colouring some to gold among the chocolate curls. That is, of course, if you are not wearing a bonnet. Are you wearing a bonnet?”

I was stunned by his words. They swirled around me like the scent of the rose bushes, brushing against my skin and making me feel every nerve and point of contact. How eloquently Mr Darcy spoke. How disarming it was to hear him describe everything around us. I had the power of sight, yet he saw more than I.

My lips replied without conscious thought, “I am not.”

His smile transformed his features, and once again I was seized, held captive by it. “Then I shall not try to correct my painting by adding such an unnecessary covering. I am glad, for I was loath to lose the sunlight through your hair. I want to remember everything as it is.”

I could not speak, and I suspected Mr Darcy was beginning to understand why. Never had he said anything so complimentary to me. It left me adrift and as lost to the world around us as his blindness left him. I did not like to think of myself as vain, yet I was profoundly affected by the gentle tones of his speech and the flattering way he described me.

He cleared his throat. “And your dress, Elizabeth?”

I was startled by his use of my name and tried hard to summon affront to it, but I was distracted almost immediately. I watched as his hand slid slowly off his leg and carefully, hesitantly, traversed the distance to where mine was. When his fingers encountered the fabric of my dress, he stilled. It was not until I spoke that he reverently pinched a little of the fabric between his fingers and felt its texture.

“It is white, with purple flowers.” My voice cracked, but I pressed on, using impertinence to settle my nerves. “The sleeves and bodice have pale purple ribbons and the hem—you will have no difficulty believing—is discoloured, wet with the morning dew.”

I was surprised when Mr Darcy tilted his head back with laughter. Despite the confusing feelings I was experiencing, I reached for his hand and he released my dress in favour of holding it. I could not help but be filled with some strange and terrifying elation for having produced such a reaction in the normally sombre man. It was heady and addicting, and I had the strange desire to attempt it again.

We settled into a comfortable silence for a time. I was conscious of the fact that our relations were steadfastly keeping their distance. I knew our garden did not boast of many unique florae to inspect, yet I was thankful for their consideration and willingness to grant us this reprieve.

In an attempt to distract myself from the fascinating jolts up my arm from the way Mr Darcy was, one by one, freely acquainting himself with the texture and shape of my fingers, I gathered my courage and asked about his condition.

“What is it like not being able to see?”

I almost wished the words unsaid, for his hands stopped their playful exploring, and the peace left his features, replaced by a frown. I had distressed him with my question and felt ashamed for the insensitivity of it. I had only wished to distract myself and to understand this new aspect that was surely to have some consequence on both our lives.

When I could see that Mr Darcy’s mood had shifted irreparably, my own turned once again towards frustration. Who was this mercurial man I was to marry? Was I always to watch my words and actions lest I displease him and make my life a misery? I attempted to reclaim my hand and gasped when he would not release it.

His fingers pressed around mine, preventing me from pulling away. I opened my mouth to protest when he cut me off.

“In a word, infuriating.”

Mr Darcy would likely be gladdened to know he could, with the power of few words, set me on my head. His obvious displeasure and unwillingness to relinquish my hand were still sources of irritation, yet his brief, terse reply left me curious enough to wish for him to elaborate. Curious and once again spiralling towards compassion.

I ought to have excused myself, hailed one of our relations, or dismissed Mr Darcy to make his speech to my father. But instead, I ceased trying to retrieve my hand and studied his face as I asked, “In what way?”

Mr Darcy turned fully to me, and the look on his face seemed as if he were hoping by sheer will to force his eyes to work again. “There are things I cannot imagine doing without the ability to see, Elizabeth.” His voice gentled. “There are things that are agonising to contemplate never seeing again.”

The alteration in his voice penetrated me, and I could not find words to respond. My first thought was of never seeing loved ones’ faces again. It was, as he said, agonising. I knew Mr Darcy was generally not an amiable man, but I feared this accident would have him sink into lower moods than even those for which he was known. I wondered what kind of life I was to have with such a man.

My eyes closed of their own accord with every attempt I made to still the burning behind them. I could not, would not, shed tears in public and certainly not for an audience. I utilised every method I could to bring my emotions into check.

When I felt the unexpected caress of Mr Darcy’s hand on the back of my neck, I did not scream, though it was hot in my throat. My eyes snapped open, and I jumped forward, his hand falling to the back of the bench that had provided him a route to me.

“Mr Darcy!” I finally uttered in shaking tones.

He turned again on the bench, pulling his arm high above him so as not to inadvertently make contact with me again. It was embarrassing in the extreme for both of us. Mr Darcy’s face closed off to any indication of his previous motives or current thoughts. His cheeks pinked though, and he released the hand he had been holding captive. I had humiliated him. His surprise touch was still galloping in my heart.

“I beg your pardon, sir. You startled me.”

“I meant you no harm.”

“Still, it was unexpected,” I tried to explain gently.

“Forgive me, then.”

The defeat in his voice was there even though I knew he attempted to hide it. So much had changed in a matter of weeks. Before our trip to the ruins, this man was confident, arrogant, and proud. In the cave he was sure, comforting, and compassionate. I hated that it felt as if these aspects of his character were undermined by the helplessness of his injury. I disliked seeing him this way, and I suspected he loathed in equal measure being seen as such.

“I know enough of you, Mr Darcy, to understand you could not have meant me harm.” Even as the words left my lips, their truth ran through me. I hoped he believed them also.

“Yet my very presence makes you uncomfortable! I cannot see, but I am not a monster.”

We were at constant odds and misunderstandings, it would seem. Was I ever to find a place of serenity in my life? His words cut me in a way I could not have credited possible. I could not allow him to persist in believing what he did.

“I do not think you a monster, Mr Darcy. You could not have known, but my eyes were closed, and so your touch was a surprise. I realise that with our new understanding, certain liberties…”

“Liberties!” He groaned and framed his face with his hands. His clear disgust at the very thought caused my cheeks to catch fire. Anger and shame assaulted me at turns.

Mr Darcy turned his head to me, revulsion clear on his features. I was prepared to leave him at the sight of his expression. But his words forestalled me.

“Elizabeth, please understand that although we are to marry, you do not need to…please do not feel obligated to endure any…liberties from me.” He spat the word as though it were abhorrent to him. “I did not mean to startle you or force you to accept my attentions. I listened carefully for any protest when I moved to… I apologise that it was unwelcome. I…blast these eyes!”

I did not know the proper way to reply. I was certain anything I might say would be wrong, for I could not fathom what it would be like to fumble through life without one of my senses. Nor could I rightly decide whether his touch was unwelcome. It was mostly, as I said, a matter of being startled.

“Mr Darcy…”

He fell still once again, his jaw firm, waiting on what I might say.

“I was just startled, sir. Truly, that was all. I thank you for your consideration with regards to future attentions. I assure you, I shall tell you whether they are not welcome.” Good heavens, this was a mortifying subject of which to speak! “A little warning, perhaps, might not be amiss is all, Mr Darcy.”

“Fitzwilliam. Please call me Fitzwilliam.”

I swallowed thickly. Were all men this impossible to predict? It was a reasonable request, and he had already made free with my Christian name, but it felt like far too much at this point for me—probably because I felt so exposed, having to speak so freely with one I barely knew, and generally disliked. I could not explain my reluctance, even to myself, yet I hoped he would understand. I could confidently say my nerves were raw from the cascading and transitioning tones of our conversation. I longed for the quiet of solitude; I had much to contemplate. Mr Darcy was an enigma, and the prospect of learning to understand him left me feeling rather irritated. My foot began tapping the ground as I tried to form the most diplomatic words of denial I could.

“As I can imagine it is for you, our sudden shared future is something with which I am still coming to terms. Might I have a little time to get used to the notion of speaking so informally with you?”

Mr Darcy tilted his chin up and away, but a moment later he turned again to me. I could not read the expression on his face then. It was determined, to be sure, but also disquieted. How much his condition must make communicating clearly all the more difficult for him.

“Of course, take your time. Would you prefer I not use your Christian name?”

My foot tapped all the more quickly, and Mr Darcy soon turned in that direction as if he could see it. I pressed my palm to my knee in an effort to still myself. It made little sense, and I was the worst kind of hypocrite, but I did not think I wished for him to cease using my given name. But how was I to say as much without revealing my double standard? I decided finally to defer to the gentleman on this.

“What is your preference in the matter?”

He pressed his lips together, drawing my eyes to the movement. “I regret that so much of our situation requires us to forsake the way we might have wished for…events to transpire.”

Indeed, if I did not already know it, this speech of his was proof enough of his reluctance to enter into this marriage. I began to wonder: had either of us been able to foresee the consequences of the outing to Bodden Chapel, would we have gone?

“I think it would be well for us to take advantage of any opportunity from this point forward…”

Mr Darcy, I knew, was a man of action, yet his careful wording, his dancing around the answer to my question, pushed me to interject heatedly, “You may speak plainly, sir.”

He paused, but then with a resolute nod of his head, spoke his mind. “We must marry, as you know. And while the circumstances regarding our union are less than ideal, I would wish that wherever possible, we take advantage of choice. If we have the ability to choose what would make us happy, then we seize upon it. So to answer your question—and I do beg your pardon, but you did say to speak plainly—yes, it is my desire to call you by your Christian name.”

My eyes fluttered as I processed the fullness of his speech. The circumstances of our marriage were less than ideal, yet if Mr Darcy, possibly facing a life full of darkness, could wish to focus only on the things we could decide for ourselves, then I could too. His choice was not a difficult one for me to accept. I had already admitted to myself that I preferred the way his voice formed my name.

“Then for certain, you must call me by my given name.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

I wondered whether I would ever get used to the swiftness with which Mr Darcy changed his moods. He was at times gruff and in the next moment gentle. Likewise, his moods had the power to influence mine. It was maddening. Even now, as I heard him stifle a quiet chuckle, I was bemused by it.

“Perhaps it would be best, Mr Darcy, if you were to simply tell me what amuses you so. It is not as expertly hidden as you might think.”

“It is only that I think there may be some aspects of your personality that I can see better now than I could before the accident.”

“And what might those be?”

Mr Darcy did not answer at first. Instead he tilted his head and replied, “I think perhaps I shall not tell you just yet. My theory has not been adequately tested.”

“If there is a question that pertains to me, do you not think it might be best to simply ask me instead of testing your theories?”

Mr Darcy could not withhold a chuckle this time. I wanted to be amused with him, but little did I understand its source, and so I could not. Instead, however, I felt a little frustrated at the gentleman for being so disobliging. I was beginning to wonder whether I was just as mercurial as he was, or perhaps it was being in his presence that sent my emotions circling so haphazardly. Never have I felt such an array in so short a time as I did when Mr Darcy was present.

“Very well, I believe now I do have sufficient evidence.”

“Do enlighten me, and I shall see whether you are correct,” I said through clenched teeth.

Mr Darcy leaned slightly forward and with nearly perfect accuracy, pressed his palm to my bouncing knee. The jolt of sensation that shot through me had me jumping again in my seat.

“When you are displeased, you bounce your leg.”

“I…”

I was ready to contradict him most adamantly, yet I was stunned to think that he might be correct.

Mr Darcy slid ever so slightly closer to me, his palm still pressing against my knee. The impulse to bounce it decreased as he drew nearer.

“I am not saying you are correct, Mr Darcy; however, I might point out that is quite the observation for you to make in one morning without the benefit of sight.”

“I first noticed it long before today, Elizabeth,” Mr Darcy said, a glint in his eye. “You tapped your foot at times in our space in the ruins. And when I think on it, there were times during your stay at Netherfield before that, when your poor slipper was abused horribly.”

My mind blanked and then spurted the most inappropriate response. “Well, what a valuable tool to have at your disposal for when we are wed.”

All humour drained from his face and was replaced by a careful schooling of his emotions. His brown eyes, although lacking the focus they had when he could see, filled with a churning liquidity in their depths. They were like melted chocolate now.

His voice became hoarse, and more than once, he paused to clear it. “When we are wed…,” he repeated, almost to himself. “How clever you are to point that out. I shall certainly tuck that away for future use. It will surely help in preventing me from making matters worse.”

“No doubt you will have learned this from one or another of your married friends, but it behoves a husband to learn more than how to detect when he has angered his wife, but how to fix it! Or better yet, to prevent it!”

I laughed softly at him as I said this, while gently lifting his hand off my knee where it had already disconcerted me enough with its presence. I thought it would be a very good thing if Mr Darcy did not learn at this time that a gentle touch such as that was the key to eradicating any contrary feelings I might have.

Mr Darcy may not have been in possession of his sight, but he certainly could perceive—much to my relief—that the current topic was disconcerting me.

“Since we are speaking plainly. Do you have a preference as to when we marry?”

I ought to have taken the opportunity he presented to request a long engagement, but the words that came out of my mouth were there before I could hold them back.

“If you have a preference, sir, you may state it.”

“I do not wish to rush you, Elizabeth, and there are factors to be considered.”

He was back to running his fingers across my hand as if memorising its shape. I tipped my head up and focused on the passing clouds. They held no fascination, to my chagrin.

“I should like to see my bride on my wedding day.”

His voice came like a soft breeze, and I stilled to feel it against my heart. It had been said in so subdued a manner that I at once wanted to think I had imagined it. But no, the words still pressed against me and spoke more of what his sight had stolen from him than anything he had up until now conveyed. I had no notion what ought to be said. I could not fathom not being able to see the events or parties of my wedding day. It was too painful a thought. But then that loathsome, selfish creature inside me, that one I was most ashamed of, raised her head, replacing compassion with my own concerns once again.

“What are you saying, sir? Do you wish to postpone the ceremony until you can see again? Please do not misunderstand me. I wish you might regain all of your abilities, and I do share with Mr Bingley and others every hope that this…condition is only temporary, but if that is not to be the case, we must still marry.”

Mr Darcy hands stilled, and he threaded his fingers between mine in a most shockingly intimate way. “Elizabeth, hear me now. We shall marry regardless. There is not an alternative that I can tolerate. However, among other things, it is disagreeable to me in every way to burden you with my care.”

The sound of footsteps approaching prevented me from any reply adequate enough for such a statement. Instead, I was left only to say in hurried and whispered tones, “Let us not set a date just yet, sir, if it allows you time to regain your health. However, know this, Mr Darcy: the male sex is not the only one to possess integrity and honour. If it should transpire that you do not regain your sight, please afford me the ability to determine what I deem a burden.”

I felt the slight pressure of Mr Darcy’s hand on my knee again, stilling that limb’s infuriating movement. He could not know that I was angrier with myself than him. I vowed to banish this selfishness within. I stood then, breaking his contact, and with a forced smile, turned to welcome the rest of our party. Mr Darcy’s relations were nearly upon us, with my sister and Mr Bingley not far behind.

“Miss Darcy, I hope you have adequately educated your cousin on the flower of his interest.”

“I have, thank you, Miss Elizabeth. You have a lovely garden.”

“Thank you.”

These words were the most Miss Darcy had ever uttered in my presence, and I was pleased with her growing comfort. It would be good to have at least one Darcy that could be easily understood, and who likewise did not turn my insides upside down with every conversation.

Mr Darcy stood then and spoke, his voice regulated in such a way that I could not decide whether my impertinence just now had any real effect on him. Infuriating man!

“Before we depart, I would like to leave my regards with Mr Bennet.”

It was clear then to all that the deed had been done. My eyes darted between our companions and retreated to the ground in embarrassment.

“That is kind of you, sir. I believe he is in his study,” Jane offered gently.

“If the ladies are ready to return to the house, shall we make our way now?”

More than likely, Mr Darcy said this for the benefit of his relations, so they might once again take his arm and subtly guide him in the direction of the house. But before either of them could so much as step forward—and indeed, before I could question my own motives—I slipped my hand through Mr Darcy’s sleeve.

“Come then, I shall show you to his book room.”

Perhaps it was a lingering wish to put point to my statement that I would choose what was and was not a burden to me that possessed me to take the task of guiding Mr Darcy towards the house myself. Whatever the reason, since Mr Darcy did not object, I did not choose to evaluate it any further.