Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory

Chapter Twenty-Five

Regained his sight in full?

My thoughts skidded to a halt, and although I felt all the eyes of the room upon me, I could not utter even the merest of sentiments. My soul grew with joy for my beloved and plummeted with dread in the next second. Charles took up my hands, which felt as if they had turned to ice, and expressed his delight and relief to me and my sister, who by this time had stood to lend me the support of her arm. Fitzwilliam could see now, and I was selfish enough to wonder, despite my happiness for him, how this much-hoped-for blessing would further change things for me. Would it hasten his and the colonel’s plans?

“We are come to fetch you to him, for he would not countenance staying at Netherfield as a precaution otherwise. If your family can spare you, the carriage is yet waiting.”

The room erupted in exclamations of happiness, my mother’s outburst sounding above the rest. Her joy was intermixed with utterances of concern that Fitzwilliam might change his mind when he saw me so altered by my recent illness.

“For I fear she may have lost her bloom!” Mama was saying none too quietly to Aunt Gardiner.

Her untimely reminder that Fitzwilliam had at one time called me merely tolerable did little to strengthen my confidence or add to my courage. Still, it could not be helped. I would go to Netherfield, not only because it was expected and right of me to do so, but because I longed to see his face more than I wished to draw breath. To know he was no longer plagued by the disconcerting blackness that he had been mired in for more than a month was a source of joy for me because I knew it would bring him happiness.

“We ought to all go!” Mama declared, and before any objection might be raised, Charles seconded her pronouncement and assured her of her welcome at Netherfield. And so in very little time indeed—under the inconsequential span of thirty minutes—the entire household wrapped up against the cold and pressed into carriages en route to Netherfield to congratulate my betrothed on his returned sight.

For myself, I was apprehensive and scared. There was not much more I could say than that. Fitzwilliam’s blindness had been a security blanket of sorts for me. I could look upon him anytime I wished, and take pleasure in it without his knowledge. I needed never to hide my blushes or school my expressions around him when he had flirted, touched my hand, or spoke of any number of topics near my ear, where his breath would tickle my curls there. With his eyes unclear as they were, I could hide my feelings from his view and convince myself of any returning sentiments I wished.

At once, I recalled the stern and disapproving way he used to stare at me before the accident, and I feared for its return. Would he realise all the more the incongruence of our stations when his eyes could not hide the truth from him any longer? It would certainly not help to have my family all there, yet a part of me was glad for it. There was little to no chance that I might be left alone with Fitzwilliam with all of my family there to see him. I spent the entirety of the ride to Netherfield practising my smile at any words sent my way regarding this fortunate turn of events. With any luck, I would be able to hide my fears behind the real happiness I felt for him. He would know I was pleased, but he would not be able to detect anything further.

* * *

I walked into the parlour with legs numb and a heart floating someplace outside my body. Hesitantly, I lifted my head and surveyed the room. I knew where he was before I had even set eyes in that direction—the part of my soul he had claimed pulled me there. I might have laughed to see Fitzwilliam standing once again near the window, as he had often done before the accident. It almost seemed too familiar, and yet strange. All the time since he lost his sight, he had been safely seated. So his stance, tall, broad, and independent against the light behind his shoulders, was a shock straight to my chest.

How handsome he looked, virile and strong. Used to free perusal of his person, my eyes unabashedly scanned every inch of him. I admired his fine leg jutted out in a masculine stance, his blue waistcoat pulled tight against a trim waist, and his superfine tail coat stretched across strong arms and beloved hands held behind his back. When at length my eyes had drunk their fill yet still thirsted for more, they lifted to his face, and at once I realised how dangerous this habit of being free with my observation might be. I had forgotten myself and the fact that my greedy eyes were no longer hidden from their object as they once had been.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes met mine in a manner such that I could not walk further into the room. My impropriety was justly returned in measure, for at once I saw his eyes take their own studied journey of my person, and I felt all the more embarrassed for my rude perusal. Every inch that his eyes travelled along the length of my dress, up my arms, into my hair, and finally settling their scorching search at my face, felt like fingers dancing along that same path.

Between us, Fitzwilliam was surrounded then by my mother, dragging along my youngest sisters, to loudly congratulate him. She stood praising him for his cleverness in getting his sight back and flattering him with all manner of ingratiating excess that could only enflame my cheeks beyond the hue they were already stained.

He smiled politely to my mother, tearing his eyes from me briefly to thank her for her sentiments. Although his eyes only left me for but a moment, I felt the air cool around me and was grateful for the reprieve. Soon enough, his well-wishers stepped aside and I was presented before him by my mother’s clawing hand, like the sacrificial lamb for his approval. The heat of his glare once again burned my skin.

Tipping my head down, I curtseyed and mumbled a barely discernible greeting. “Mr Darcy, I am pleased you are fully well.”

I anticipated it, held my breath so that I might not miss a single second of the sound of his voice when he replied, but it did not come. He cleared his throat a number of times, and I agonised with the desire to look again into his features to see how he felt in this moment, but I had not the bravery. In the end, he merely bowed low to me. He would not even attempt the apparent difficulty of pronouncing my name.

The rest of my family then stepped forward, taking their turns to express their sentiments to my intended, and although I was deposited by his side throughout, I could not help but notice how cold he seemed to one and all. To my aunt and uncle, he was everything polite and civil but without the feeling of expression he had developed when they met at Mr Collins’s wedding. I had some relations for whom I need not blush, yet Fitzwilliam could hardly speak a word to them any more. His sight had returned and so, too, it would seem, his reserve.

At least he was speaking, making me jealous of every word that spilled through his parted lips to another when he had yet to gift even one to me. I was also drunk on the sound of his voice and wished to hear as much of it as I could. I had been far too deprived over the past week of pouting and wallowing in my despair. It seemed now such a waste of time to cry in my bed over a lifetime without him when I might have been listening to the deep timbre of his voice and feeling his accent caress his words, making them interesting in new ways.

When my father’s turn came, Fitzwilliam gestured for us to seat ourselves. We three moved to some chairs partnered together not far off, and once again he was speaking to my father about—of all the possible things—fishing! My jealousy drove me to anger. So he could speak of fish but not breathe my name.

“I suspect the time for casting is past, my young man. ’Tis time to reel in your catch.”

Fitzwilliam laughed then, the first moment since we arrived with any hint of the amiability I had witnessed in him during his sightlessness. I marvelled at it even while the envious monster inside me grew more discontented. I felt all the perverseness of my jealousy even as I acknowledged it was the feeling I was swimming in. I knew better than anyone in this room, save Fitzwilliam himself and his cousin, that I had no real claim to the man beside me. I had no right to be jealous of words and laughter aimed at another. Nor should I feel envious of fish!

While I sat there trying to harness my growing ire, I realised soon enough that we were left to ourselves when Fitzwilliam gently pressed on my bouncing knee.

The unexpected touch jolted through me, and I pulled my legs to the side and his hand dropped away. The silence then was deafening. I tried mightily to not let my leg bounce again, but I had agonised for days at the loss of him, and now that proof of the return of his sight had resurrected his disapproval of me, I could not suppress the burning anger at it. Whereas before I had felt unworthy of him due to the improprieties of my family members, now I felt all the perverseness of being angered that Fitzwilliam acted above his company. Present company especially.

“I thought you might be pleased that I have regained my sight.”

Would the sound of his voice always pull me in two directions? Both addictive and painful to hear?

“You mistake me, I am very happy for you.”

“Your bouncing knee tells otherwise, Elizabeth.”

“Perhaps I wonder at how easily you managed to speak to members of my family yet, until a moment ago, could not utter a single word of welcome to me.”

Biting my tongue, I wished my words unsaid for they were far too revealing of my feelings, and I did not like how exposed I felt with them out in the air now.

Fitzwilliam again cleared his throat, bent his head towards mine, and with a voice pitched so low I felt it scrape right through to the inside of my belly, he said, “A man who felt less might have said more, Elizabeth.”

My eyes lifted to his then, and held. They were clear, focused in that way they were before the accident, yet unfathomable in new ways. My soul lurched and stretched thin as we continued to stare into one other’s eyes. When I thought of what he had endured to save me, the blindness and uncertainty of his future, I felt my anger melt away, replaced by compassion, love, and the desire to have the God-given right to care for this man for the rest of my days as reparation. Yet I could not even hold on to that wish, for it felt so very fragile, and my eyes began to swim, water filling them to where I could no longer see his face clearly. I willed the tears away; they were stealing him from me as surely as his plans to end our engagement would soon enough.

I looked down and endeavoured mightily to suppress those sentiments that were making my eyes well up.

“I missed seeing your fine eyes—”

“Please do not say such things,” I blurted unthinkingly. Fitzwilliam was being kind, but knowing what he planned to do, I could not cope with it.

He sat upright, away from me. The space between us cooled.

“If that is your wish, if it does not please you for me to say such things, then I shall not.”

“It does not.”

He nodded then but remained silent. How could I explain to him that such words did not please me because of how much they cut? Every tender emotion within me felt exposed for his examination and rebuffing. I had no sure hope that anything unwillingly expressed in my eyes of my sentiments towards him would ever be returned to me in his.

The gulf between us now felt impossibly wide. We were away from others in the room, and I now suspect that this might have been intentional. I noticed from where we sat that Fitzwilliam and I might have a private conversation without anyone interrupting. I began to worry that he would say the words I had been dreading, and I searched the room for some means of escape. I saw the colonel end his conversation with Mr Hurst and begin walking our way, and I knew retreat was now essential.

I stood at his approach, and Fitzwilliam stood beside me. I wondered whether I would always be so attuned to his every movement.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have yet to greet Miss Darcy.”

Before either could reply, I slipped quickly to the other side of the room. Every step away from him felt a personal betrayal, yet a lifeline. I greeted Georgiana with genuine warmth and true affection. In the weeks since I had met her, I had grown to really love her. I thought about how the colonel had said Georgiana knew of their plans and agreed, yet I could not feel any of the resentment for her that I felt towards her gentlemen relations. She was all that was good and sweet, and it was only right that she would trust her relations to know what was best.

We spoke of my illness, and I assured her of my well-being. Then I asked about Fitzwilliam’s sight, easing the curiosity I had not dared voice to him that had clawed inside me for answers. Unexpectedly, I learned that he regained his sight more fully a few days ago but had not wished to say anything until he was certain it was a lasting change. When each day showed that he could maintain his vision for the entire day without bouts of haziness or darkened fatigue, he agreed to trust in it. However, it had been the work of Georgiana, her cousin, and Charles to convince Fitzwilliam to wait at Netherfield for me to come to him. He rightly chafed at this insinuation of his frailty, but acquiesced when reminded that they had yet to test his vision after a jolting carriage ride. Georgiana seemed to believe it was more important to her brother to truly see me—no matter the locale—than it was worth the risk that travel might reverse his sight again and take from him the opportunity.

As Georgiana and I spoke, I would occasionally allow my eyes to fall upon Fitzwilliam where he stood with his cousin. Indeed, I could not help myself, for my eyes craved him more than they ought to. At times I was startled by a focused stare aimed directly at me. I wondered what fault he was categorising then, for he seemed almost unaware of the weight of his gaze. At other times his cousin would say something to him, and it was clear they were in discord over the topic. Fitzwilliam would shake his head and run his hands through his hair, while the colonel seemed to be insisting on something.

I became distracted once, when viewing this, by his movements. In company, I had witnessed him before the accident to be always controlled and unemotional. After the accident, he seemed almost human with his fluctuating emotions, as if with his sight gone he could no longer hold anything within. Yet this morning, as soon as I entered the room, he was shut off again and inscrutable. Now, when his back was turned to me in a quiet argument with his cousin, he was again impassioned.

The difference made my heart sink. It seemed Fitzwilliam was controlled and closed off as long as he could actually see me. The very sight of me must make him aloof, and the thought of it chilled my heart.

As attuned to him as I was, it was with no surprise that I followed him with my eyes as he concluded his conversation with his cousin and strode to join in the grouping with my father, uncle, and a distracted Charles, who was casting long looks towards Jane seated a little away.

My mother spoke too loudly then to Mrs Hurst, inadvertently drawing the attention of the entire room.

“And you must have heard about what happened to poor Mr Wickham.”

Silence reigned, and far from being deterred or embarrassed by the sudden attention, my mother relished in it and her voice grew louder. I felt Georgiana still beside me.

“It is truly disheartening to see how unchristian some might be to a man wanting to make it in this world. Mr Wickham had some debts, I know, but who among the gentlemen do not? I think it quite hard on him that the shopkeepers drove him from Meryton. For myself, I feel it very badly done.”

“And now they will hang him!” Lydia burst out, shocking all and making me feel as if the bindings Mr Jones had insisted I wear after the accident were still on.

Georgiana reached for my hand, and the tender entreaty for support compounded my humiliation at my relations. Would my mother and sister not learn to spare their breaths to cool their tea! I cared little after that about what was spoken regarding the topic. I knew only that Mrs Gardiner blessedly tried with futility to remind my mother that Mr Wickham had not proved honourable, and she was aided in that endeavour by Colonel Fitzwilliam. I turned to Georgiana, and upon seeing the distress in her eyes, apologised for my mother.

“Please do not worry, Elizabeth. It is only that I had not known they will…that his punishment would be…”

Seeing that she would soon be overcome, I spoke aloud, “Come, Georgiana, there is an excellent prospect out this window I wish to show you.”

After some minutes with our backs to the room, my companion composed herself and thanked me for my efforts to help her gain control of her emotions.

“Do you still have feelings for him, Georgiana?” I prayed she did not, but could think of no other reason than this to have her be overset by the news that Mr Wickham would face the established consequence for his desertion.

“So he has told you. I had agreed with Richard that it ought to be done, but then you became ill, and I had not thought he would have the opportunity.” Georgiana drew in a deep breath, and after a moment, continued, “No, you mistake me, for I do not still care for George Wickham.”

“Then why…”

“It was simply the shock of hearing he will lose his life. I had not considered it, though I should have, as that is the accustomed price of his actions. I am saddened by the loss of the life he ought to have been able to live given the opportunities my father handed him, and I was surprised by the natural conclusion to the one he has instead chosen to lead.”

“That is a mature outlook, Georgiana. For my sister, I apologise for the unmannerly way she spoke of such a morose subject.”

“You must not worry about Miss Lydia. In a way, I admire her high spirits. Neither my brother nor I have ever been able to emulate them.”

I turned then naturally, to her brother and once again saw his eyes locked in our direction. With a sigh, I turned towards the window, utilising it for my own composure this time.

“We are both drawn to such characters though,” Georgiana concluded.

I offered her a small smile at the compliment. I hoped that I might have the pleasure of maintaining a friendship with the girl when this was all over. Surely, with my sister marrying his best friend, we might at one time or another cross paths. The very idea was both a lifeline and a piercing pain.

I contemplated my family and their many improprieties. Today’s example still smarted as I could hear my mother continue to amaze the room with the absurdities spouted from her lips. While I loved each of them, I could not help but feel cheated by them. I wondered how nearly losing my life when Bodden Chapel collapsed around us could feel a blessing, considering all the changes it had brought to me.

Fitzwilliam and his relations entered my life in a way that I had never imagined and left their mark on my heart indelibly.

A touch at my shoulder again brought me back from the brink of emotion to see the welcome sight of my father. His eyes were creased with worry, but he turned a congenial smile towards Georgiana even as he said, “Lizzy, will you do me a favour and see whether Mr Bingley has a book on drainage that might solve our problems in the west fields?”

I very much doubted Charles had any such useful book, and began to say as much when he cut me off with a focused look.

“Go on, my dear. Look in the library for it, will you?”

It was as clear a dismissal as I was going to get, and I realised at once what a boon it would be to escape for a short while. I felt his gaze upon me as I curtseyed and left the room as unobtrusively as I could.