Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory
Chapter Seventeen
Mr Darcy turned his head as if to look at our hands, though of course he could not see them.
“I believe I begin to understand you now, Elizabeth.”
“Will you tell me the reason for the difference? Is it simply that we are to be married and you wish to act as betrothed couples do?”
It took every ounce of my bravery to speak so boldly, and I was pleased to feel my feigned confidence hid my trepidation.
“I shall tell you someday. Will you allow me to share only a few reasons at present and trust me to explain myself fully at some later date?”
“Certainly. Are you becoming fatigued then? I ought to have thought of that.”
“No, it is not that.” Mr Darcy began the lazy circles in my palm with his fingers again, and thankfully, he could not see inside my mind, for I would have been mortified for him to know how wonderful it felt.
“To some degree, your intelligence has concluded rightly. I am a little altered by the experience. I imagine we both are changed in our outlook a little from that day. You are also correct that I am settled with the knowledge that we shall marry. It is not, perhaps, as it ought to be—I would not have wished to have robbed you of your choice. But since that is not an option, a little of my ease in your company might come from knowing, as you say, that our marriage is inevitable.”
He pulled my hand over to rest upon his lap, reverently enveloping it with both of his. The room heated several degrees and was overly warm now. I could not say it was entirely due to my cloak.
“In other ways, you have seen our acquaintance quite differently from me, and to this, I must own the fault. I found you lively and engaging, enjoyed our discussions, and had not at any time felt as though we were at odds. Rather, I feared at times that I was perhaps too friendly with you.”
I could not help it, and I scoffed at this notion. “I cannot see how you might have been less friendly!”
Immediately, I regretted my candid outburst, his fingers ceased their roving exploration of my hand. Mr Darcy had, since the accident, been unceasingly civil, and to my shame, I could not say I acted with equal consideration. After a time, his fingers moved again, and I released a breath I did not know I had been holding.
“Another fault of mine. Please accept my apology. I saw our interactions differently and obviously without clarity.”
“I accept your apology if you will forgive me my part. I was more often impolite than not. It behoves us both to move past our earlier interactions and make the best of our new situation. And so I must thank you for the kindness and openness you have displayed towards the ‘inevitability’ of our circumstances. When I think of all the differing ways you might have treated this obligation, I can only be thankful that you do not treat it with the aversion that I expect most men would upon having a marriage forced upon them.”
I felt Mr Darcy tense beside me, and I could tell that I had upset him somehow. I worked through what I said and could not discover what might have been the source of it.
“I do not like the word obligation,” he said, almost as if he could read my mind. “Yes, the results of that day did require that we marry. But I have never thought of this consequence as an obligation and shall never see you as such. Furthermore, I have felt many things regarding the prospect of marrying you, and aversion has never counted among them.”
I studied him then, from his stern brow to his clenched jaw. I could not say I totally felt worthy of such a generous reply, but I was thankful for it nevertheless and said as much.
“Please do not thank me for treating you with the respect and consideration you deserve as my future wife,” he said softly but with fervour. “Elizabeth, it is clear I have not presented myself to my best in the past. I should like that you see this side of me as the more accurate version. I cannot see your countenance or the flash of emotion that so often sparks in your fine eyes, much to my everlasting displeasure. But perhaps it is well enough for how little I accurately read your feelings from them in the past. If I am provoking, as you say, please understand, I am trying to see the world through new eyes. Eyes that in some ways are clearer and, in other ways, just as blind as they once were.”
The room was altogether too warm now. His words were heady in the air and wrapped around me, pressing into me in a perplexing manner. I could not escape them, nor could I feel I could make sense of them. Mr Darcy was much more than I had ever expected him to be, and while I could not say that this newer, more charming side of him was not a result of his head injury, just the same, I could not help but find it attractive and pleasing. I felt I could be in some danger from this gentleman by my side, especially if he was, as he suggested, showing a more accurate version of himself than he had before the accident. All these thoughts swirled around beside Mr Darcy’s words, mixing together and flustering me. Questions abounded but none louder than these: What reasons did he have for the change, and when would he explain them to me?
I shivered in quiet contemplation of all we had discussed, amazed at the depth of the conversation while within company.
My companion’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Elizabeth, are you cold? I ought to have asked whether you wished to be seated nearer the fire.”
I laughed, for it felt as if I had not been this warm in my whole life. “Not at all, sir. I am quite the opposite actually. I need to take my cloak off, for I have warmed sufficiently from our journey here.”
Mr Darcy released my hand, and with shaking fingers, I untied the string at my neck and pulled the cloak from about my shoulders. I felt his hands find the fabric behind me and pull it away to fold on the space at his other side.
His hand rested on the fabric and I could tell he was trying to picture it. For some reason this moment of familiarity was endearing, and I spoke up to help him.
“It is not a new cloak, but new to me, and you will not have seen it before. Aunt Gardiner gave it to me at the end of last winter, and I have not had a chance to wear it until now. It is made of green wool, edged in a little brown fur at the neck. It is long, perhaps a little too long for my stature, and I realised this morning that I ought to have altered it before wearing it, but I was a little eager to make use of it for the first time.”
Mr Darcy turned his face towards me and smiled widely. He was pleased to have me describe it for him, and I flushed with happiness.
“I am not wearing a bonnet now, like when we last met, sir. But perhaps you expected that, given we are indoors.”
“No, it is helpful information for my mental designs. And I could not have known for sure; you are often an unconventional lady.”
“Take care, sir, if you wish me to continue to help you see the world around you that you do not insult the lens which you have to employ to do so.”
“Believe me when I say that being an unconventional lady is intended as a compliment.”
I pressed my lips together, my eyes casting down to my lap to hide the way his words made me feel. It was silly. I knew he could not see me, yet it gave me a measure of safety to do so.
“Well, then. Shall I carry on?”
“Please, Elizabeth, paint my world.”
This time when he reached his hand out to me, I did not hesitate to give him mine. I suppose you could say I was getting accustomed to the feel of his hand and it was quite tolerable.
“My sister and your friend are charmingly placed on the yellow settee across the room near the windows. The sunlight is streaming in at their backs, and the lightness of both their hair halos them. It suits their amiable and angelic dispositions.”
I went on to describe the rest of the party, their occupations and attitudes. At times, I confess, I relished in a little bit of impertinence, for the first time doing so in my descriptions of something, Mr Darcy laughed contentedly and with pure delight. The sound was such that I felt compelled to prompt it again, and every time I was successful, it made my heart jump a little, falling afterwards in that intoxicating manner that makes one feel a little disconnected from their body.
By necessity, I, on occasion, directed his vision one way or another to show him where he might place persons or objects. If this required me to gently nudge the firm edge of his jaw or lean into him slightly, it was simply part of the service I was providing and nothing more.
We paused now and then to discuss one portion or another, with Mr Darcy asking questions where he needed more description to complete his mind’s-eye image. In the instance of Miss Bingley and Mr Collins, therein began an interesting exchange of unexpected observances—some from overheard conversations of my cousin’s prior visits and some from the things I was seeing.
Indeed, the manner of their interaction was a little disturbing yet fascinating. She seemed full of disdain for her betrothed, belittling him subtly at times. And Mr Collins, fool that he was, seemed to relish in the abuse, becoming even more obsequious in accordance with the amount of incivility from Miss Bingley. Yet there was a turn of her countenance now and then that seemed to indicate she liked his fawning. It was all quite interesting, made more so by the secret exchange of thoughts between Mr Darcy and myself on the topic. Who would have thought I would enjoy such conversational intimacy with him?
“Oh, goodness! What a mess.” I pulled my hand from Mr Darcy’s warm ones, and left the sofa to pick up the scattered leaves on the carpet before us.
“What is it?”
Mr Darcy leant forward, obviously wishing to be of some service but clearly unable to.
“You will think it silly. It is only some autumn leaves I collected outside when we arrived. They were in my cloak pocket and must have fallen about the floor when I removed it.”
Mr Darcy sat back and patted the seat beside himself again. I eyed the space, noting the ample room to seat myself just a little further away from him this time. I could not explain my actions except to say that if Mr Darcy needed me to describe the room around him, it would be best that I did not become hoarse having to speak louder for him to hear me. So I resumed my previous place nearest to him. It was not a matter of being close enough to once again indulge in the pleasurable aspect of holding his hand. I was a rational creature and thought only of the added comfort of a close proximity with regard to communication. Totally unrelated, I observed that Mr Darcy’s soap had an appealing scent to it.
I held the leaves in my hands and looked down on them, grateful Mr Darcy could not see the redness in my cheeks.
“What do the leaves look like, and why did you gather them?”
He spoke softly, as if these leaves and their provenance were more interesting to him than anything else I had described around him.
“I saw the wind blowing them, and they looked…well, I wished to rescue them from the wind.”
“Were they in need of rescuing?”
I eyed him, thinking at first he was making a mockery of me. But his brow was lowered in earnest regard. While I was retrieving the leaves from the floor, he had shifted in his seat, his arm, I now noticed, was laid across the back of the sofa behind me. Suddenly the curl at my neck itched, and I reached to pull at it. I jumped a little when my hand brushed against the sinewy strength of his forearm.
“Elizabeth,” his voice seemed lower, hoarse.
“They are some brown, one red, but mostly yellow and orange. They are a little damp, not quite crisp yet, so they are still soft and pliable.” I spoke quickly, my voice pitched higher than normal.
He did not respond for a minute. It felt as if it were a hundred.
“Are your eyes open, Elizabeth?”
Startled by his shift in conversation, I replied automatically. “Of course, sir.”
He looked at me, and I felt pulled into his gaze. I wished in that moment that he could see me, but could not explain why.
Slowly, I felt his hand slip from the sofa behind and, soft as butterfly wing kisses, brush from my shoulder to the nape of my neck to that curl that even now was tingling my scalp. My hands twitched, wishing to pull at it again, when his fingers enclosed around it, and I held very still.
His fingers pressed the curl between them and fairies danced along my scalp at the feeling. I could feel my breath become shallow, yet I held too still to accommodate the needs of my lungs.
He leaned towards me then, never letting go of my hair.
“This little minx has been a source of torture for me for a very long time, Elizabeth. You tend to worry it when you are nervous or thinking. It always made me wish to worry it too.”
The remaining air in my lungs rushed out with a whoosh, and I drew in deeply. He paused, holding himself stiff like a statue.
“Forgive me, I did not ask for this liberty. If I make you uncomfortable, please tell me.”
I turned my head to look at him, amazed at the courage it took for me to do so. With the movement, the lock of hair was pulled from his fingers and they landed with searing heat upon my neck briefly before he flexed them, breaking the contact, and held still once more.
“You may if you wish.” My throat felt so dry, I might have welcomed the servant’s entrance with the tea cart, no matter how much it would have ended our quiet interlude. I was astonished at my boldness. I was becoming rather weak when it came to Mr Darcy. The way he spoke of me, of wishing to know my thoughts and of recalling his own from times past, it all combined to make me susceptible to any wish of his and my desire to fulfil it.
To his credit, he did not further my embarrassment with comment, but simply wrapped the little lock around his finger again in a gentle caress.
“While you are being generous, might I importune you further and ask whether I may have one of your leaf treasures?”
I looked down at the forgotten foliage in my hands. I nodded, and he, feeling the movement, lifted his other hand to receive it. I picked the red leaf; it was my favourite, and I did not take the time to consider why I selected it before placing it in his palm. He slid his fingers along the leaf to feel its texture and then carefully put it in his breast pocket with a quiet thanks.
After a time, he leant near me again and said, “You have described the room in its entirety except for one thing.”
“What is that?” I replied, a smile on my lips at the playful tone in his voice. It was a relief to hear after the husky whispered tones of the last few minutes.
“Your dress, Elizabeth?”
Warmth stole through my centre as I described the plain yellow gown I wore, adding to it some little memory of when I first purchased it. All the while, my companion sat next to me, a smile about his lips that I had often seen directed at me before the accident. His finger carefully twisting and wrapping itself around the little lock of hair at my neck. I had never felt so interesting, so captivating, to anyone before as I did sitting much too close to my future husband, being pointedly ignored by the rest of the room. And his continued attention to that lock of hair? That was the most maddening thing I had ever experienced, for it caused the rest of my locks to wish for a turn as well.