Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory
Chapter Five
No, no, it could not be. Mr Darcy could not have lost his sight. It did not make sense, for I could see with my own eyes that his face had not sustained any injury. I swiped such an ignoble, preposterous conclusion from my thoughts. Perhaps he was more able than I to handle the change in brightness emerging from our shelter. Yet I could not tear my eyes from where he sat speaking to Mr Jones, Mr Bingley at his side, a frown marring his normally tranquil features. Even as I watched Mr Jones wave a hand in front of Mr Darcy’s face with no change altering that man’s countenance, I could not allow the truth to take root. Mr Jones next examined the wound on the back of Mr Darcy’s head, his exploration causing the patient to wince. I had nearly forgotten about his head wound; it felt it had been ages since I had ministered to him as he lay unconscious. I felt now that he had done more for me than I to him to care for injuries sustained. I felt my cheeks heat and my heart beat faster just thinking of those first dark hours after waking.
“Lizzy…Lizzy, are you well? Shall I call the apothecary back?”
I blinked, turning slowly from watching the gentlemen to my father. His grizzly mien was plagued with fatigue lines. His normally crystal-clear blue eyes were disquieted, and I could imagine what I must look like through his eyes. Dishevelled, covered in soil and moss, slow and senseless in my manner. No wonder his gaze, usually surrounded by laugh lines, was creased with strain and barely-restrained fear.
I was sluggish and stupid in my thoughts, for I could not ease his worries as quickly as I ought. My mind was simply blank, empty of rational thought. I knew I ought to reassure him that I was well. Other than the injuries Mr Jones had pronounced, I believed I was simply stunned and exhausted.
When I felt the trembling of the earth begin again, my sluggish mind snapped to attention and fear gripped my heart—a startled gasp escaped me as I reached out with iron grasp to hold my papa’s arm. I looked to him with concern only to find to my consternation that the world had not begun to shake again. The trembling was coming from me, and I could no longer hold to any semblance of calm. Every limb was shaking, my grasp upon the sleeve of my father’s coat shaking his arm.
Immediately, he pulled his jacket off and draped it about me on top of the grey wool blanket that had at one point been placed on me, though I knew not when. With distracted attention, I heard him summon Mr Jones again. His voice was strange in its fierceness, for my father never used tones so solemn and grim. He was always full of sardonic wit, even in grave situations. I looked to where Mr Jones was and saw that my father’s call had all the gentlemen standing. Mr Bingley began to follow Mr Jones, who immediately trudged across the uneven ground towards us. Mr Darcy, too, wished to follow but stumbled over a rock, which caused his friend to turn and insist he seat himself again. Mr Bingley stayed with his friend then and looked at me with concern.
It was as if I was watching it all as a play. A drama unfolding in a language I could not translate. Why should Mr Bingley need to restrain his friend and persuade him to stay? Soon, Mr Jones was near me again and lifting his eye glass to his view as he covered one of my eyes and then the other.
“I believe she is quite in shock, Mr Bennet. Her shivering is testament to it along with the dilation of her eyes.”
They continued to speak of my condition, though truth be told, only one in five words were even discernible to me. All I could think was that I had nearly died. I had nearly died! In that moment I did not care for either my father’s or Mr Jones’s thoughts on the matter. I did not wish to have either of them fussing about my person, adjusting blankets and trying to get me to drink a little more water. I obliged them, naturally, for I wished they would finish and step aside. Deep within me, all I wanted…all I needed…I felt it was…no, it made little sense. I had, perhaps, in the horror of the whole experience, lost a little sanity. For it seemed to me that the only thing that could calm the beast of panic rising within my breast—the only medicine I needed to see myself to rights—was the calm presence of the man who had likewise escaped death with me; the man whose formidable brow was furrowed in discontent as he faced in my general direction.
That realisation, oddly enough, was sufficient to bring me a measure of control over my cascading thoughts. It was such an absurd notion that I should feel a need for Mr Darcy. Perhaps I was in shock as Mr Jones had said. It would all be put to rights soon, I was sure.
In time, my breathing began to slow a little and I felt myself settle. My father was insisting that I be allowed to be brought home, and Mr Jones, having witnessed my state, agreed. I looked up at my father as he spread his arms wide, holding the blanket that had been wrapped about my shoulders. His actions meant to lend me some privacy, it seemed, for Mr Jones began to wrap my ribs tightly with a length of muslin. The pressure of the binding added relief with the immobilisation of my ribs but also restricted my breathing exhaustingly.
My mind left me then to recall Mr Darcy’s steady and firm hands pressing on my sides in the enclosure. I recalled their incredible warmth permeating my thin pelisse while the gentle tones of his voice whispered in my ear, ‘be calm’. The feel of the binding was similar, and I wondered that Mr Darcy knew from what I suffered how best to give relief. Mr Jones had said I likely had a few broken ribs, that recovery would be long and painful.
Blinking, I brought myself to the present as Mr Jones finished his work. I looked up at my father.
“I am well, Papa.” I squeaked out, gladdened that the trembling of my limbs was less pronounced and my voice was steadier. “I am merely exceedingly tired.”
Mr Jones and my father debated the best method of transporting me to the carriage down the hill. The former was convinced that a litter would jar my injuries worse, and with the forthcoming carriage ride, he felt it would do me less harm to walk down the hill of my own accord with some assistance. With reluctance, my father conceded to the plan and called for aid from one of Mr Bingley’s strong footmen.
“We will have you home soon, Lizzy. Here, take this.”
From his jacket he produced a small vial. He rightly interpreted the question on my face for he answered unprompted, “Mr Jones gave it to me earlier for your pain. ’Tis laudanum. I intended to recommend you take some of it when you…”
When I lost myself in panic, remembered pain and terror, became senseless in my trembling, and succumbed to my nerves. He did not need to say it, for we both knew what was left unsaid. The strain around his eyes told me his concern for my state of health did not end with the extent of my physical injuries.
Nodding, I accepted the laudanum. He placed the brown glass vial in my hand, and I unstopped the top and drank down the bitter tonic. Grimacing, I moved to hand the bottle back to my father with one hand, the other covering my mouth, trying to not fall prey to a cough, knowing the pain that would overtake me if I did.
With a gentle push of my hand, my father urged me to take more, reasoning it was a long carriage ride home and the jarring would not be pleasant. I agreed reluctantly, disliking the foul taste and the foggy sluggishness of thought I expected would come soon.
“Here, let us attempt the hill now, Lizzy. Before the tonic takes hold.”
How we managed to make it to the carriage, I cannot recall with clarity. I remember only the screaming of my ribs, the suffocating lack of air, and the pain hazing my vision as my father, with the help of a groom, walked me part way down the hill to the carriages. At one point, I remember the edges of my vision dimming then going dark, followed by the rough pull of my bindings as I was lifted and carried the rest of the way. The pain was beyond anything I had ever experienced. I wanted to protest for them to put me down, for being pressed into the side of the groom carrying me intensified the screaming of my broken bones worse than walking had. But I could not speak a word to stop it all, the tearing in my side sending echoes of anguish cascading around in my mind.
Soon, however, the torture was over, and I was placed standing next to the carriage, trying to catch my breath, my father’s steadying hand holding me upright. He argued then with Mr Jones, insisting I was not well enough to travel, should not have had to endure the walking, for clearly, I could not manage it.
With laboured breaths, I managed to forestall any more of my father’s concerned vexations. Between measured breaths, I confirmed what Mr Jones was saying; that walking had been better, that I was well and needed only a minute to recover. I reassured my father as best as I could that soon the laudanum would do its trick and I would have some relief.
“We ought to have waited till it took hold of you.”
I gave him a slight smile; perhaps he was right in that at least. But I wondered how I was meant to walk at all if insensible with laudanum. No, Mr Jones had been right. Although it was an unbearable journey down the hill, it was better made before my senses were gone.
A sound to my right caught my attention, and I looked to see Mr Darcy on the arm of his friend make it down the hill to the other waiting carriage. My eyes, I knew, would be a little glossy with the beginning effects of the tonic, and my brow covered with perspiration from the descent from the ruins. No doubt the rest of my state would be appalling, yet I wished with a fervour that could not be explained for him to look at me. Everything inside me, every vestige of mental strength I had left, willed him to look my way and share with me our burden; communicate that he, too, was overwhelmed, filled to the brim with a mixture of relief and panic for being out of our tomb. I needed the communion such a look with him would give me, but Mr Darcy was hesitant in his steps, his face placid and dull. He did not look at me at all.
When they reached his carriage, he spoke to Mr Bingley. I could hear only the tones of their exchange, for my mind was beginning to feel the fog enter, creeping in the edges and lapping at my lucid thoughts. Mr Bingley disagreed with his friend, but Mr Darcy—ever commanding and in control—seemed to insist. His friend wavered, but after ensuring Mr Darcy had found the handhold of the carriage, reluctantly began walking our way.
My father was attempting to persuade me to take my seat in the carriage. I nodded groggily, and with the help of the groom—everyone careful to follow Mr Jones’ spoken instructions—I was settled with surprising swiftness and little pain into the carriage.
I listened as my father turned at the sound of Mr Bingley’s voice. I wished heartily that I could understand a word of the whispered exchange, but my head had become exceedingly heavy and the weight of my eyelids almost impossible to hold up. My father glanced at me in the carriage, then with a nod of his head, returned with Mr Bingley to their carriage.
I knew that I could not simply allow myself to slip into a stupor, no matter how lovely the seduction of pain relief or how much my mind begged me to. I leaned my head heavily against the squabs of the carriage and looked out the window to where my father was nearing Mr Darcy.
They spoke only briefly, the discomfort on all their faces clear even to one whose mental lucidness was as hindered as mine. Neither gentleman seemed sanguine about the subject of their discourse, but Mr Darcy seemed adamant and my father appeared resigned in the end. He glanced back at me, and I saw his face but could no longer interpret his look. He returned his attention to Mr Darcy and nodded reluctantly. Mr Bingley said something to Mr Darcy and that man returned the gesture to my father. I supposed I was the subject of their discussion, though I had little enough strength to fathom of what they might have to speak.
Mr Darcy then lifted his chin and turned in my direction, the determination on his brow incongruent with the worry about his eyes. I used every bit of wit I had left to keep myself alert enough to see him look my way. It was not the communion I had wished for earlier, for his eyes were as unfocused as I was sure mine were. But that was the last thought I would have as the gentleman’s image faded from view. The fog had taken hold of me, the haze closing my eyes and submerging me in inky darkness.