Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory

Chapter Eighteen

The return of my mother and sisters from London marked a decided change in the tone of the home. Gone was the tranquillity of the weeks past where reason abounded and intelligent conversation could be expected. Now, I often felt each room carried with it a collection of emotions stirring about frantically, the mixture differing depending on the occupants of the room.

My mother’s was the most outspoken opinion in any space. She was at times thrilled beyond measure at the news of Jane’s betrothal, smug with the belief she had foreseen it, and certain she was critical to its coming about. At other times she was darkly hostile to our clergyman houseguest, employing a coldness that thankfully he was not often around to notice, nor possessed of the intellect to recognise, had he been present. To my mother, his honourable offer to Miss Bingley was in fact an insult to her daughters and the future he might have—nay, ought to have—given to one of them. It mattered little how often or how reasonably Jane and I tried to help her see the necessity of that union. Mama was nothing if not single-minded with regard to the matrimonial prospects of her daughters. Besides, she simply did not like the thought that one day Miss Bingley might take her place as mistress of Longbourn.

And what of my own betrothal to Mr Darcy? Unexpectedly, my mother was entirely silent on that matter except to admonish me to set a date and make the event happen lest he gain his sight again and decamp. To her, his actions were to our benefit entirely. Mr Darcy was nothing but a rich future husband to her least favourite daughter. As pleased as she was that I was to marry—a feat she had long lost hope of my ever accomplishing, and to a wealthy gentleman at that—she had not changed her former ill opinion of my betrothed. Ironically enough, she imagined Mr Darcy was not very bright, for it was he who shackled himself to me by choosing to protect my life from imminent danger at the ruins. I might have hoped that my mother was grateful for Mr Darcy’s actions, seeing as the result prevented my death, but to me, it seemed only that she thought his actions foolish and impulsive. However, if such a rich man wished to be foolish and impulsive, at least he had the decency to do it so that one of her daughters might benefit.

I was not wrong in my fear that my mother would be a source of exasperation and humiliation to me. Her tactlessness often had me holding my breath and my temper, a prayer of gratitude sent heavenward that Mr Darcy’s health prevented any visits to Longbourn.

Excepting the first time, my mother did not accompany us to Netherfield, which was my only source of comfort with her return. I had honestly expected she might make the parlours of Mr Bingley’s home her permanent daily habitat, but thankfully, that was not the case. My younger sisters often walked to Meryton, hoping to spy the soldiers about, and my mother most often accompanied them. Still more common, she left them to their shopping and flirting and visited with my aunt Philips for gossip and gloating. She took every opportunity to jaunt about the countryside, calling upon her friends to revel in the good fortune of not one but two forthcoming nuptials for the Bennets. She did not require the presence of those daughters, enjoying more of the direct attention for their absence, especially since she might tell how often we were asked to Netherfield for the day.

* * *

The day my mother accompanied us to Netherfield was in truth a day I would rather forget. Mr Darcy sat beside me as had become our habit, though this time he did not reach for my hand. Each time he winced with the sharp outbursts of sound that my mother and younger sisters produced, I felt it. Much to my compounding horror, and despite multiple explanations as to the manner of Mr Darcy’s limitations, when my mother chose to speak to him, she spoke loudly and slowly as if he were hard of hearing. At length, before my relations could take their leave, Mr Darcy bent towards his sister on his other side and whispered to her.

I was not surprised to have him next lean closer to me to say, “Forgive me, Elizabeth. The pains in my head are severe today. I fear I must desert you for a lie down.”

If I had not become attuned to the little movements in the area around his eyes, I might have been hurt at his excuse to leave the room, avoiding my mother and sisters’ impropriety with it. Nevertheless, there was a pinch about his eyes that cooled my tongue, and I wished him a restful afternoon.

Mr Darcy stood then, his sister at his side, and bowed in the general direction of my boisterous relations and excused himself with sombre tones. It was well that he could not see, for whatever little affection Mr Darcy might have developed for me due to our situation, he would not have been happy to see the scowl my mother directed at me upon his departure.

“What have you done to scare Mr Darcy away now, Lizzy!” she hissed at me. Her volume was just loud enough that I felt certain, by the studied quiet of Colonel Fitzwilliam nearby, he had heard well enough what ought not to have been said in public.

I wished immediately to tell my mother that Mr Darcy was suffering one of his megrims, but knew it would change nothing to her. Instead, I was near to tears with gratitude for Mr Bingley, who at that moment directed my mother’s attention his way with a question about her holiday in London. Therein, the rest of the visit was spent listening to the latest styles she had witnessed, the shops she had frequented, and the other diverting aspects of London.

When Georgiana later returned, after my mother and sisters had taken their leave, I took the opportunity to further my intimacy with my new sister. The effort was sufficient to clear the earlier visit from my mind. We had a pleasant afternoon together. Georgiana sweetly requested I play the pianoforte for her and I could not help but be flattered when she recalled a desire to hear me, first instilled in her when her brother wrote to her in London of his pleasure in it. My soon-to-be sister was kind in her praise and seemed genuinely delighted with my mediocre musical efforts. It took much more to persuade her to play for me, her natural hesitancy endearing. Georgiana’s performance was superior in every way, and I told her as much. She blushed with embarrassment, and I determined that one day my new sister would not be fearful of displaying such an astounding accomplishment.

It was not until we were gathering our cloaks to depart late in the afternoon that I was reminded of the morning’s earlier humiliation with my mother. It was when Colonel Fitzwilliam bid me goodbye.

“It is a pity that my cousin could not enjoy the pleasure of your musical afternoon with Georgiana. I would wager it is an afternoon he has pictured before. Oh well, it is of no use reflecting on what could not have been. I knew the moment I saw him this morning that he was already suffering but was determined to be present for your visit.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words cooled the pressure building in my chest. It was unnecessary for him to reveal that Mr Darcy was already doing poorly before my relations added to our numbers, but the knowledge was powerfully reassuring. I could not entirely erase the mortification of my mother’s behaviour nor the knowledge that her shrieks added to my intended’s discomfort, but perhaps realising he was likely already in need of a rest did ease a little of that sting.

“Please give my best wishes for a healthful rest to Mr Darcy.”

The colonel nodded and bowed to me, allowing Mr Bingley to hand me up into the carriage beside my sister for our return home.

In the following ten days, I noticed Mr Darcy rarely afforded himself the luxury of any rest, often stubbornly remaining present during the entirety of my visits despite the pinch about his eyes towards the end of them. On two occasions, I found it necessary to force him to bed when it was obvious to me and his relations that his suffering was severe.

On those occasions Mr Darcy was not without his own successes. He learned quickly that bargaining with me over health measures could be a profitable business. He was often able to persuade me to read softly to him in the quiet solitude of the library rather than insist he retire to his chambers. Nevertheless, one hour of reading alone with me was the agreed-upon value for the stubborn gentleman’s concession to spending the remainder of his afternoon resting above stairs.

On one memorable afternoon my voice lured my intended into the sleep he ought to have succumbed to in his bed. I sat with him for over an hour, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. I told myself then that I ought to leave him to rest in private, but I was forestalled by the boyish look of his face in repose.

How my reading could have been at all restful, I know not; my voice was not soothing, not with its cadence and pitch often disrupted when my patient captured that sensitive curl by my neck or ran playful fingers along my nape, sending maddening tingles down the length of my spine.

I likewise found that because Mr Darcy’s recovery necessitated quiet, we were often afforded generous chaperonage, or at times no chaperonage at all. Perhaps all knew, due to the circumstances of our union, it was unlikely any real impropriety would occur. For goodness’ sake, Mr Darcy had nearly announced to Meryton at large that I was not tempting to him.

His desire to be near me was puzzling, though I admit, a little gratifying. I often wondered whether having me near was reassuring to him, given that the moment he woke after the accident, I was there beside him in our earthen tomb. However, Mr Darcy seemed distracted as often as not. He dwelled within his own thoughts while busy unsettling mine and making me lose my spot in the book with his touch at my neck. No, I could not believe my presence brought him actual pleasure. A comfort, perhaps, was all I was then, and given the lasting consequence of his actions on my behalf, I could be honest enough to say it was the least I could offer him.

The London physician soon was required to return to his practice in town, but he left my betrothed with the firm belief that when the headaches ceased and his brain healed, Mr Darcy would regain his sight. I was at times angry with the medical man for constantly projecting that hope at us like incessant waves on the sea sand. I could not see how a blow to the back of the head might have anything to do with the working of the eyes, but I kept my lips together and did not allow others to see my doubts. I could only feel that by giving Mr Darcy that hope, he was preventing him from settling into his new reality.

I could tell that Mr Darcy did hold on to that hope, and on occasion even relied upon it. There were times when I could see he was well enough physically, but in spirits he was poorly. It was on those days that Mr Darcy seemed more like the man I knew before the accident, prone to long moments of brooding silence and abrupt answers to simple enquiries.

I could not help my feelings then. For many days, I had begun to feel a small measure of anticipation for a kind of happiness with Mr Darcy. In spending time with him, I found him pleasant, for the most part. He was still on occasion ‘provoking’ in his words, and I could now admit that by provoking, I really meant flirtatious. His playfulness at times was bewildering, but promised a future of laughter and contentment. However, when he would fall into spells of brooding, I was plucked abruptly from that brighter future into a reality where I was promised to a man who would not have made me his choice had he been given one. I was too far below his notice for that.

After one such afternoon of alternating between perverse irritation at Mr Darcy’s moods and self-pity at my future with such a one, I arrived at my home and abruptly intruded upon my father’s solitude.

“I wish I did not have to marry that gentleman!”

My father looked up from his book with brows lifted high, slowly removing his spectacles and lowering his book to his lap. He placed a scrap of parchment to mark his spot, as he responded to my outburst with infuriating calm.

“Please come in, Lizzy. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Papa, he is…he is a changeling!”

“Indeed, well that is concerning, to be sure. I had thought him only a man.”

“A boorish, proud, and presuming man, perhaps!”

My father sighed, and I wanted to stomp my foot at his prevailing calm, this perverse non-reaction to my frustration.

“Come, my girl. I shall not listen to you if you are going to harangue me, but if you can settle yourself to some degree of sense, I shall be happy to hear your complaints.”

My arms were folded around me in tense resistance. It felt good to dispel some pent-up emotion. I had held myself in check for some weeks now at this future that was thrown down upon me when the earth itself turned upside down. I had behaved with aplomb and measured acceptance. I had certainly tried to make the best of my fate. It was only reasonable that I was allowed a moment to shake the bars jailing me to a future I had not asked for.

In the end, exhaustion prevailed, and I collapsed inelegantly into the chair beside him with a sigh.

“Now that is better. List for me all of your complaints, Lizzy, and I shall see what I can do to appease them.”

“And you will not mock me?”

“I shall not.”

I eyed him, suspicious still, despite the solemnity in his eyes.

“Mr Darcy is at times an intelligent companion, speaking eloquently of a number of interesting topics, and then at other times he is arrogantly silent and disdainful of the company around him to the point that he hardly participates in any conversation.”

“Go on,” my father said, resting his head in his hand on the arm of the chair.

“He is uncivil and rude, yet on occasion excessively attentive, almost affectionate. I cannot make out whether I am a nuisance to him or quite the opposite.”

“What else?” His calm once again made me a little exasperated.

“Well, he is handsome and distracting and surprising and handsome!”

I nearly leapt out of the chair to leave when I saw my father’s smirk. He sobered quickly, hiding it and imploring me with a gesture to settle again.

“Well, Lizzy, you do have a difficult conundrum before you. I can well see why you would be upset by it. In short, you are being forced to marry a man, and a handsome man I am told, more pity to you.”

I groaned, clenching my teeth together. I could hardly say whether I was more angered with my father for mocking me when he had promised not to or with myself for revealing one of the greater sources of my discontent about my future marriage to Mr Darcy. I found him quite captivatingly handsome. Oh, how I wanted to rant at that truth. Of course, Mr Darcy had always been a well-favoured gentleman, but then his features had little connexion to my own happiness, and likewise, he was frequently marring them with an ugly tendency towards arrogance. Before the accident, I found myself largely immune to their effects. But over the course of the last several weeks, I had seen glimpses of a pleasant Mr Darcy and now was irrevocably tied to him for the rest of my life. Both of those factors slashed at any resistance I had to his pleasing features.

I could not now push that immunity back into place for the sake of my sanity. So I was indeed destined to marry a handsome man who could employ that allurement over me with swift accuracy should he ever learn of my weakness to it, and worse, who was at times profoundly irritating.

I channelled the helplessness into a scowl at my father.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Lizzy, did you think that you would marry a man who was always in a gracious mood, who was pleasant and happy and never experienced irascibility?”

I folded my arms and refused to answer. How could my father sound so reasonable at the moment and not allow me to wail at him over this.

He tried again, his tone imbued with greater patience. I wanted to grind my teeth but was perversely affected by his steady tone, and I found myself calming.

“I did not like that you had no choice in your future partner; however, I found Mr Darcy to be surprisingly well matched to you. I admit it brought me a great deal of comfort in having to resign you to him once I learned a little of his character. But, Lizzy, he is only a man. Is he not allowed moments of petulance and ill temper, such as you are now experiencing?”

“How can you say you know his character after only one interview?” I responded, fully aware of the sulky tone of my voice, purposely ignoring the hypocrisy he pointed out in my behaviour. I was beginning to feel a little foolish in my anger.

“It was an enlightening interview. I had not expected it to be such, yet it revealed to me that any concerns I had over the match were unnecessary.”

Curiosity and a hungry need propelled me upright and leaning towards my father then. What could Mr Darcy have said to reassure my father in so short a time?

“Tell me then, Papa, what makes you such a champion for Mr Darcy? What could he have said to you?”

Papa just stood, patting my shoulder in a way that I knew meant he would keep his secrets. “I daresay you are beginning to learn of it yourself, Lizzy. You need only prevent yourself from being blind to it.”

“Blind! Ha, I am not the one blind.” I felt the shame of my childlike outburst the moment my eyes met with my father’s. “I apologise, that was not kind. Yet I cannot help but acknowledge the fear behind that statement. I am worried about caring for a man who may never be independent and who cannot see me. Who might not even know the faces of his children.”

My cheeks pinked at the inevitability of being a mother, of carrying a child of his. The act required to produce such an outcome was itself a source of mixed emotions. Despite the whispered conversations I had heard between my mother and her friends on the subject of the marriage bed, I had always hoped it was more an act of love. That the vague reassurances my aunt Gardiner had given me were the rightful way to see marital relations. Did I really think it was possible to be happy, truly married, to someone who could not find me tolerable and might actually bless his lack of sight when it came to that?

“I cannot say I wish to know your current thoughts, Lizzy, but let me at least address your words. You are rightly anxious about marrying Mr Darcy with his current disability. You may own that sentiment, for it is a just one. However, do you think you are the only one allowed to feel that disconcerting worry?”

“Of course, Papa, I would understand without hesitation that you would be concerned too. I am your daughter; it is natural that you should likewise be troubled.”

My father raised his brow at me, and I found his expression puzzling. That is until the incredulity in his features pressed upon me with such force as to physically knock me back into the cushions of the chair. How selfish and presuming I had been to think that Mr Darcy having moments of ill temper had to do with his being forced to marry me rather than his blindness. But how must he feel about the possibility of never knowing the faces of his children? Had he not spoken of how infuriating it was for him on the day he proposed?

With shame, I recalled how he had said, ‘There are things I cannot imagine doing without the ability to see. There are things that are agonising to contemplate never seeing again.’ Yet I had allowed myself to assume his black feelings were merely unpleasant aspects of his character. A man, my father had called him. A human with varying emotions. How vexingly reasonable it now seemed to me to realise that, yes, Mr Darcy was allowed on occasion to be in a poor mood—and perhaps with more reason than I!

At the moment, I felt all the littleness of my earlier pet. With new eyes, I saw that despite having ample reason to mope and rage against his limitations, Mr Darcy had more often than not acted resigned, determinedly pleasant, and hopeful. I could now no longer resent his physician for bolstering that optimism. I only fervently prayed that the hope he fostered might soon be proved worthy of his faith.

“Perhaps, despite the many hours you and Jane spend at Netherfield, you are not using your time to its best.”

It was the closest thing to a paternal reprimand he had ever given me. I felt all the weight of it as I considered how proud I had been in my interactions with Mr Darcy since becoming betrothed. I had often told myself how good I was to decide to treat him well despite how poorly he had treated others. To care for him as proof of my gratitude for his actions rather than because he was a person worthy of being cared for. I had worked strenuously to resist any allure he had, ignore the reactions to his touch that skipped up and down my body with each pulse, banish any admirable side of him, all so that I might not fall in love with him. I told myself it was for my own protection, but I realised now, in my pride, it was so that I might maintain myself in a position of superiority over him. For loving meant giving of oneself regardless of what might be returned to you.

I looked at my father, certain that at least a little of what I was realising could be discerned in my eyes. He returned to me with a small, brown, leather-bound book, placing it in my hands, dust and all.

“You would do well, my girl, to give Mr Darcy a little chance. I think you may be surprised at how well-suited you really are. He might not have begun this acquaintance by giving you the best of first impressions, but I daresay he has learned that lesson and is suffering all the more for it. You might give your betrothed a little patience now and then, and allow him both to be human and to redeem himself.”

Chagrined, I smiled at my father, acknowledging his wise words. I looked down at the book he had given me and frowned at the unfamiliarity. Opening it, I found it was an herbal-healing compilation. The book’s appeal tripled as I flipped through the rough sketches of differing plants and brief descriptions of their usefulness. I had spent hours looking everywhere for this, wondering whether I was remembering it to be one of my uncle’s books instead, and had determined to write him about it.

“Thank you, Papa!” I said, and then pausing to catch his eye, added, “For everything.”

“I have been known now and then to have a little wisdom. Bring it here, Lizzy, and let us see whether that old book might have something useful in it. A friend of mine at Cambridge gave it to me when he cleaned out his rooms. I admit, I have never much looked into it.”

Together we paged through the small book. I had no such illusion that I might find a cure for Mr Darcy’s blindness, but perhaps there was something to help his megrims and give him a greater measure of comfort.

It was not long before I was taking out a sheet of parchment and writing a letter to my uncle, hoping he might have connexions among his import and export acquaintances. And I shall admit, for the first time in many days, I felt more at peace inside, more myself, than I had ever hoped to feel again.