Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory
Chapter Twelve
During the course of the rest of our time with our guests, the only rational thought that had any clarity in my mind was how grateful I was that my father asserted uncharacteristic authority and concern over the situation as to send my mother and sisters away for a time. It was enough to have the knowing glances, disjointed conversation, and obvious anticipation scenting the air as we sat in the parlour having tea while Mr Darcy—my future husband!—spoke with my father alone in his study. If Mama had been home, her abrupt outbursts would have ensured my every humiliation. Miss Darcy and her cousin were amiable to be sure; nevertheless we all knew why their relation was not with us. Everyone was aware of the purpose of Mr Darcy’s visit with my father, yet we could not speak of it. Perhaps if our engagement had happened in an organic way, resulting from mutual affection, we might all have been sitting comfortably together with smiles in happy discussion of our futures.
Instead, I was acutely aware that I was not Mr Darcy’s choice in a bride, and his relations knew this was a matter of honour, not love. Still, I could not help but be glad that, regardless, we were spared the effusions of my mother and the silliness of my sisters.
After a time, our guests stood to make their farewells, and the colonel expressed a desire to be introduced to my father. We both knew it was a means for him to be of assistance to Mr Darcy upon leaving the study, and so I played along readily. While Jane escorted Mr Bingley and Miss Darcy out to the courtyard to their carriage, I walked the colonel to my father’s study.
I rapped lightly on the door, unsurprised to feel the echo of the knock on the pace of my heart.
My father greeted me at the door, and for some reason I could not meet his eyes. I imagined how little he liked giving his blessing, needful though it was.
“Papa, this gentleman wishes to be introduced to you. May I present Mr Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Sir, my father, Mr Bennet.”
I spared a glance into the room as my father and the colonel exchanged pleasantries. Mr Darcy had stood when my father opened the door to me. He circled now behind the chair he had occupied and held the back of it in as natural a stance as I had yet to see him since he had lost his sight.
“Well, Darcy, we ought to leave the Bennets to the remainder of their morning,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a chuckle. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Bennet.”
My father smiled and returned the sentiment. “Colonel, if you do not mind, I might ask you a little about your profession. The militia has recently descended upon our poor town and sent its female residents into a flutter.”
To my surprise, my father gestured to the colonel to walk ahead, and turning to me with an affectionate kiss to my cheek, he whispered, “It will be well, my Lizzy.” Conversationally, he added, “Elizabeth, be so kind as to show Mr Darcy out, will you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
I could see by the amused expression on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face that he approved of my father’s arrangement of persons, and he readily began an animated comment about the wreckage soldiers are apt to leave in the hearts of the female sex. The two of them, well on their way to fast friends already, walked on down the hall leaving me alone with Mr Darcy.
I turned to him and stepped into the room for the first time.
“Your father is an astute man, Elizabeth. I should not have expected otherwise, given what I know of you. Yet I cannot help but feel he wielded his powers of observation with disconcerting accuracy upon me.”
I smiled at this description of my father. “He fancies himself a student of characters.”
“As I remember, you do too.”
It had been such a short, inconsequential conversation at Netherfield when Jane was ill. For my part, it was an effort to soothe the awkwardness of a comment made by my mother when she had come to enquire about Jane’s health. I did not expect he would remember it at all, or with any accuracy.
“Yes, though I am beginning to suspect I am not as skilled as I once thought, nor as talented as my father.” I certainly was finding aspects of Mr Darcy’s character that I had not anticipated.
Mr Darcy rubbed his jaw with one hand and his throat made a sound of contemplation. “Nor I. My interview with him has given me much to ponder.”
Did I imagine sadness in Mr Darcy’s tone? I studied his face and determined it was in my head, for his expression did not reflect it. I began walking towards the gentleman, ready to escort him from the house.
In an effort to hide the tremor in my movements, I spoke lightly. “You have discovered my favourite chair, sir. That is the very one I prefer while ensconced in this room with my father.”
Mr Darcy smiled then with interest in his eyes as he ran a hand across the glossy wood of the chair frame and onto the cloth upholstery below, with a caress I almost felt along my spine.
“Is that so? I wish I knew how it looked so that I could picture you thus.”
I would have to get used to the disconcerting way Mr Darcy spoke of picturing me in different settings and remember that he was without sight and could remain so for some time. I would not have thought one consequence of that lost sense would be this eloquence of speech. He meant nothing romantic by it, to be sure, but I could not help feeling my face flame at any instance of myself in Mr Darcy’s thoughts. He merely wished to form the world around him in the absence of first-hand visual knowledge.
I cleared my throat as I came nearer. “It is merely a dull maroon pattern with brown stripes. Not a fine piece of furniture, but as you will now know by experience, it is comfortable and soft.”
Mr Darcy chuckled softly. “My experience in it held little comfort, Elizabeth. No doubt facing your father had something to do with that.”
His answer was so human, so attractively vulnerable and humorously deprecating that I had to laugh with him. I ran my hand fondly across the fabric, smiling softly at the image of the master of Pemberley being under the power of my father’s wit.
When Mr Darcy’s hand captured my roving one, all thoughts of humour fled with the currents pulsing up my arm. My eyes snapped up to his and were mesmerised by the gentle look of amusement in them. Mr Darcy’s face was relaxed and serene. Different from the slightly troubled expression lurking almost imperceptibly on his features when my father had opened the door to me.
“And I suppose you sit here on occasion, your feet tucked charmingly under your skirts, a book in hand, and your slippers discarded haphazardly on the rug below.”
I gasped, for that was precisely how I occupied this chair most frequently. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to have him picture such an unladylike image of me. It took all my effort to muster enough power of speech over my embarrassment to deny it, only to have his next words send my thoughts flying again.
“No, do not contradict me. I should like to imagine you in such a relaxed posture in this chair, regardless of whether it is true.”
“Come, Mr Darcy, your friends will wonder at our absence.”
I placed my arm through his and tried not to react to how quickly he placed his other hand atop mine.
“Perhaps, in time, you might find its like at Pemberley.”
For such a seemingly innocuous statement, I could not help noticing the hope that dripped from each of the words. Mr Darcy was looking ahead when I reacted to the plaintive tone of his voice and searched his face. It seemed like such a strange thing to hope for. I was sure there were any number of fine chairs at his estate in which I might find comfort.
It was simply another odd aspect of his personality I could not understand. I wondered whether I would ever comprehend this man who was to become my husband.
“I am certain I shall.” Even as I said it, I knew intuitively that I had missed something important in our unusual conversation.
Mr Darcy grimaced slightly, although he hid it well with a slight turning up of his lips. “Would you allow me, Elizabeth, to call on you often? It would be my wish that we learn about each other as much as we are able before we wed.”
My instinct was to deny this, as natural a request as it was. The longer I was in this man’s presence, the easier it became to forget the arrogance and pride he had often displayed before the accident. I could not yet decide whether this softer side of Mr Darcy was a result of the accident or, as Jane had often suggested to me, that the gentleman improved upon further acquaintance.
In an effort to push aside such a conundrum and avoid answering Mr Darcy, I spoke with false humour.
“My friend Miss Lucas would say that ‘happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to spend your life’.”
Mr Darcy did not find amusement in my words as I had hoped. Instead, he stopped our movement towards exiting the house and said to me, “I have found Miss Lucas to be an intelligent lady in all other aspects, but I cannot agree with her on this. I hope very much, Elizabeth, despite the beginnings of our union, that in knowing me better, you might find it possible for us, in time, to find happiness together.”
I swallowed at the intensity in his eyes, shuttered as they still were. I could not deny the sincerity in his words. Despite this, I did not feel comfortable with the notion. Did I want that with Mr Darcy? Could happiness wed to such a gentleman even be possible? I could not help but feel the weight of that unanswerable question press upon me.
I am ashamed to say that I could not answer with the same earnest hope he did. I took the coward’s way and deflected once again—as was seeming to become a detestable habit of mine—with a reply of flippant impertinence.
“Well, Mr Darcy, you have already discovered a means to know when I am cross. You are well on your way to having every advantage a husband might want over his wife. Perhaps before we marry, you will discover other methods of divining my moods.”
“One can hope. Shall we?” Mr Darcy smiled at my words, though I thought there was something off about it. When he gestured with his other arm ahead of me, I guided him towards the entrance.
With little obvious help, the enigmatic gentleman was soon comfortably seated in his carriage, his passengers alongside him, and our morning guests departed. No sooner had they left the lane, I propelled myself in the opposite direction towards a forest path I preferred. I heeded not the calls of my father and sister, but pressed on, walking at a heated pace. Mr Jones could choke on his supper! I was well enough healed for a long walk and would do so forthwith!
My whole world felt on its end, and none of the events of the morning would settle in my mind in any acceptable manner. They bounced and shifted so rapidly, I felt as battered on the inside as my body was after the collapse. Nothing was as it ought to be. Mr Darcy had upheld his promise and offered for my hand, securing my reputation. If I were honest, I was not ever really concerned that he would not. Yet now it had happened, and I was engaged to Mr Darcy.
Abruptly my legs stopped, and I reached out to steady myself against a nearby trunk. Engaged to Mr Darcy! Great grasping breaths heaved through me, reminding me that despite my impetuous exertions, I was not fully recovered.
But the sharp stabs of pain did not prevent me from reflecting on increasingly more upsetting notions. Notions that did not calm my breathing or settle my body so I would not feel the shots of discomfort. No, these notions were absurd and whispered against the storm in my mind that the idea of marrying Mr Darcy was not as awful a thought as I had always suspected it would be.
That ought to have brought me comfort. For who would want to marry a man they disliked? Unfortunately for me, I was marrying a man I wanted to dislike, but was having an increasingly difficult time doing so. What mischief, what sorcery, did that impenetrable darkness cast upon me? I was captive with the man for less than four and twenty hours, yet I left that tomb of sorts into the light of day and could not seem to look at Mr Darcy in the same light as I had before.
In that horrible, earthly enclosure, Mr Darcy had lost his sight and mine had been forever altered. Once I thought I could not imagine a worse fate then marrying someone like Mr Darcy. Now I began to fathom one, and my heart lurched in a pain greater than my sides at a new, worse alternative. If my view of Mr Darcy changed, if I could not dislike him as I once did, then I was at risk of greater agony. My heart might be touched, and I might lose it to affection for him. God forbid! Worse, I might come to love him.
I must prevent it from happening. Mr Darcy was as he always was. It was only his blindness that rendered him different. As soon as his sight returned, I would see the proud gentleman I had always known him to be. It must be so, because I could not endure the alternative. I could not be married to a man who could need me the rest of his life but never love me. Into what kind of hell had I emerged from under those ruins?