Blinded By Prejudice by KaraLynne Mackrory
Chapter Nine
The cool crispness of the morning was beginning to give way to what promised to be a bright, warm day. Given the capriciousness of the weather at this time of year, I was grateful for any day that might be dry enough to afford me some pleasures out of doors. Although I could not yet convince my family or Mr Jones that I was well enough to venture beyond our small gardens, this little wilderness of foliage was sufficient for now to work its magic over my senses. The restless, caged animal that resided inside my body during my long recovery settled some at the feel of the breeze kissing my cheeks. My companion was speaking of her wish to press some of the rose petals before they lost their bloom to the frost.
“Smell this, Lizzy, is it not lovely?”
Jane pressed a small rosebud clipping into my ungloved hands as she turned to find another among the bush. I obliged, my senses filling with the sweet distinctive aroma. With my exhale, I felt a little more tension roll off my shoulders.
“Jane, you ought to hang this one. It might do well for a shoe flower, or in your hair, when next you are able to dance with Mr Bingley.”
My sister looked at me with mock rebuke, laughing lightly at my teasing. The gentleman was never long from the house, and indeed, I fully expected he would call again that day. Now that his sister’s betrothal was secured, and her reputation with it, I wondered why he did not speak for himself when it came to my sister.
As we continued along the garden path, stopping now and then for Jane to select a clipping for her basket, I asked, “Has he given you any indication as to his feelings?”
Her natural loveliness was enhanced by the warm hue of her cheeks, matching the blush of the rose she held in her hands.
“I…well, I cannot be certain. When can a lady ever really know a gentleman’s heart? But I do believe…he cares for me.”
Impulsively, I wrapped my arms around my sister and embraced her fiercely as I chuckled softly between us. I was momentarily delayed in my response by the thought that my actions brought only the slightest of twinges to my ribs, and it pleased me to have this little proof of my recovery.
“Of course he does, Jane! For a man like Mr Bingley, it is more a matter of trying not to read his feelings, as he displays them for all to see in his expressions. He loves you; his eyes tell it plainly.”
Jane’s eyes became bright, and with a smile, she modestly turned to inspect another bloom rather than admit that my words affected her.
“Why do you think he does not declare himself?” I asked hesitantly, not wishing to remove the contentment brimming upon my sister’s face. I wondered how she could be so serene with his constant attentions but no formal declaration. Certainly, Mr Bingley was open in his admiration, which ought to be comfort enough, but it had been several weeks since he first began showing a preference for my sister, and I wondered what held him back. My thoughts turned darker as it occurred to me that perhaps his friend would have an opinion and it was likely Mr Bingley would seek it. Mr Darcy had yet to speak his own words to uphold his honour with me, though little I anticipated them as my sister did with his friend. The more reasonable side of me knew that he would, that his excuses for delay had been valid. Added to this was the fact that neither of us wished to rush to the altar, but I could not help resenting Mr Darcy’s delay as it seemed to mirror the hesitation that Mr Bingley displayed. It could not be coincidence.
When Jane spoke, I forced myself to remove the creases between my brows so she could not read my thoughts as readily as she usually was able to.
She spoke softly; her voice had something more than contentment, it carried with it an undercurrent of confidence that had me studying her beautiful features.
“Now that his sister is not a worry, I have reason to believe he only hesitates in declaring himself because of his friend.”
My jaw became rigid, and I felt it might break in two, so tightly I was pressing my teeth together. So Mr Darcy was behind his friend’s delay. I suspected as much, yet along with my anger came disappointment. Why could he not allow his friend to marry for love? Someone, after this whole mess of an affair, ought to be able to. It was not as though he and I had that luxury.
“He has hinted that his friend’s recovery is his primary focus at present.” Jane’s cheeks pinked further, but she looked me in the eye as she changed her voice to a lower octave, presumably quoting her Mr Bingley. “In due time, I very much hope other essential matters might take precedence.”
Her lips quirked and soon gave way to a delighted smile, one I could not deny affected me. My own features mimicked hers, and once again I embraced my sister, a smile upon my lips. Her happiness—and indeed this subtle hint given by Mr Bingley of his hopes—was all that was required for me to set aside my concerns in this matter. I never claimed to have a perfect understanding of all things, nor have the humility with which others might be blessed, so I did not dwell long upon my hasty judgment of Mr Darcy and his influence on Mr Bingley. After all, it was not an unreasonable assumption, and what proof had I that Mr Darcy had not spoken against Jane to Mr Bingley? No, instead I allowed her happiness to ease my conscience and push away those unpleasant thoughts.
“Has Miss Bingley conceded to setting a date for her wedding?”
Jane looked to me and held back a smile. “She has not, as you no doubt might guess. And as a result, Mr Collins has informed me he will be spending the day in the back parlour writing to his patroness to inform her of his betrothal and asking for permission to extend his stay until the nuptials. He is not to be disturbed.”
“What, the whole day to write a letter? I suppose it would take that long, for our cousin never uses less than ten words when two will suffice. Or in this case, three: ‘I shall marry.’”
Jane laughed. “No doubt it will take him many revisions. He may be excused, for his absence is no loss to us.”
“Brava. I believe that is the most unforgiving statement you have ever made.”
It was wonderful to spend time with Jane in this manner, our spirits light, enjoying the garden. I looked at my sister and thought she had never looked so lovely.
It was a good thing too, for quickly we both turned at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive. I squeezed Jane’s arm, pleased for her that Mr Bingley was such a loyal suitor. She turned to me then with excitement bubbling in her eyes, a grin marking her lips. I loved to see her so animated since usually Jane hid her feelings with those outside our family behind proper serenity. I had no such talent for hiding my thoughts, and it had often been to my detriment.
“He has come at last. Oh, Lizzy, look at you!” She began brushing at my hair, tucking in an errant curl at my temple. Her eyes quickly assessed my dress, adjusting my sleeve and pulling my shawl up about my shoulders, and paused to evaluate the rest, her lips pressed in contemplation.
I laughed, reaching to still her hands. “Jane, he does not come for me. It matters little how well I look. You are his ‘essential matter,’ and you look radiant and lovely.”
She tipped her head slightly and met my eyes. Finally her questioning expression cleared, and she smiled as she patted my cheeks with both hands.
“Lizzy, that is not Mr Bingley’s carriage. The crest on that one is Mr Darcy’s. And he most certainly is not coming to call upon me.”
It was just as well that she then pinched my cheeks—like our mother might!—for I felt the blood drain from my face, and at once I was filled with nervous energy. He has come? He has come! My heart lurched at the thought of seeing Mr Darcy for the first time since we were trapped together in the rubble of Bodden Chapel. I could not be at peace then, as quite unexpectedly, my mind was bombarded with memories of his voice in the calm blackness. The timbre and accent, so clear in my mind, and his cadence of speech, unique to him, pushed all rational thought aside. I was wholly gone from the garden and once again in the black vault we shared. His hands—I could almost feel his hands pressing against my ribs, holding me together. I wish I had something to hold me together now, for how was I to appear even the least bit calm when I saw him again? Why had I even once complained of his delay? Now that it was upon me, the very notion of seeing him again for the first time since that day wracked my soul with a mixture of panic and need such as I had never before experienced nor could have anticipated.
I dared not think of his purpose in coming. We all knew why, and it was terrifying in the extreme, with the power to disturb the emotions already cascading through my veins.
It was Jane’s fingers taking the rosebud from my numb fingertips and placing it in my hair near my ear that pulled me crashing back to the present—and away from phantom strong arms that had the ability to both disquiet and give comfort.
By the time the carriage rolled to a stop and the impressively-matched, chestnut horses stilled by the groom, I was certain there would be no need for Jane to bring colour to my cheeks with further pinches. Indeed, before the door could be opened and the step let down, I felt the warm evidence of a blush in full force on my cheeks.
By this time, we had left the garden path and met the emerging guests at their carriage. Mr Bingley descended first, a resplendent smile stretched across his features. There was no attempt on his part to adopt a more proper mien as he bowed low at the waist and spoke his greetings.
I squeezed Jane’s arm, which was looped through mine. Mr Bingley’s obvious delight in calling on us this morning brought a measure of harmony to the moment, and my thoughts settled despite seeing, from the corner of my eye, another gentleman descend. Resolutely, I kept my gaze upon Mr Bingley as we curtseyed and gave our welcome in response to his enthusiastic greetings.
Perhaps my mind was not as steady as I had thought, for I was taken by surprise when I looked to see the second gentleman was both a soldier and a stranger to me. His easy, open expression was quick to help me overcome my astonishment. He did not hesitate to turn and hand down a young lady from the carriage.
I studied her while half listening to the warm enquiries as to health being exchanged between my sister and Mr Bingley. The young woman was dressed quite fashionably, her gown costly yet subdued in a way that was very becoming. At first I could not see her face, for she kept it focused on the gravel drive. Her companion, his regimental red coat pressed to perfection, whispered words to her ear, earning a slight nod as he led her a step or two away from the carriage. My eyes followed this womanly girl, who seemed too young for her beautiful features. Although she did not raise her head farther than the hem of my gown, I could see the delicate curve of her jaw, finely shaped lips, and golden curls.
Made unusually self-conscious by this elegant being, I wished I had not the ready habit of walking about in poor conditions, for the hem of my gown, while not muddied as was oft the case, was still fully damp from the wet grass around the garden.
My fixation with the unknown lady’s elegance was quickly dispatched by the firm tones coming from inside the carriage. I knew those tones even though I could not hear the exact words being spoken to the soldier standing at the door. That voice could only belong to Mr Darcy, and with no accounting for it, I felt all the ground I had gained in settling my thoughts was lost in an instant. Blinking, I tried desperately to regulate myself. There was absolutely no reason the sound of Mr Darcy’s voice ought to have this effect on me. Although it was a harrowing event we had both endured, and despite the plaguing dreams of this gentleman that still afflicted me, he was not some divine being with bewitching powers. Be reasonable, Elizabeth! I told myself, even as I tried to remember the distasteful future we both had in store. Somehow, the thought of being married to Mr Darcy was not as effective as it usually was at lowering my spirits. Blast that voice of his!
He was speaking again to the soldier whose hand was stretched forth within the carriage. Curiosity led me to unconsciously step closer. There seemed to be some dispute, but soon it was resolved, and I witnessed the unnatural scene of Mr Darcy taking the military gentleman’s hand and stepping out into the late morning sun. His movements were graceful, yet at the same time hesitant, in a way I had never seen with Mr Darcy.
When he unbent himself, standing firmly on the ground, he quickly released the other man’s hand and adjusted his clothing, smoothing lines in his vest and great coat. My eyes involuntarily scanned up to his face, and I studied his familiar features as a jolt ran up my spine: the patrician nose—straight and slightly turned up—the usual press of his lips in discontent, and his jawline held firm. Nothing seemed altered from the close inspection I had been afforded when the light of day seeped into our enclosed space at the ruins, yet I could not help the sigh of relief that escaped at proof he was well—though I stifled it as best I could. When at last I allowed my eyes to settle on his, it was accompanied by a sinking sensation. Looking at Mr Darcy, it was easy to confirm that the dazed uncertainty that marred his usually focused glare the last time I had put eyes on him was still there.
For an unfathomable minute, I allowed myself to forget. But perhaps it was not really forgetfulness but a wilful denial. I was naturally hesitant to feel the disquiet, the concerning unanswered questions that came with acknowledging the truth. I had somehow begun to think that Mr Darcy’s coming today was indication he was recovered. That he was not…
Faced with the truth before my eyes, I could not describe the feelings that hammered down upon me. Mr Darcy was whole in body, his limbs and face no longer bore evidence of the scrapes and bruises that once disturbed them. But he had not yet recovered his sight. I could not fully contemplate all the facets of this news before the two strangers stood before us, the lady’s arm gently guiding Mr Darcy forward.
“Welcome, Mr Darcy, it is good to see…to know you are well.” Jane winced, the awkward phrasing causing her to blush, mortified. It was such a hopeless, strange situation.
Immediately, I came to her rescue and spoke up to cover her embarrassment. “Indeed, sir. We are pleased to welcome you to Longbourn, as it is evidence of your health.”
Mr Darcy, who had been looking in our general direction, snapped his eyes at me. It startled me; it was almost as if he could see me even though I knew that was not the case. I had never before felt my voice to be distinct, yet the gentleman honed into it as if it gave him sight! His features softened slightly, enough for me to know that I had removed from him some of the empty picture his world was now.
“And your guests are welcome too,” I continued, my voice slightly strangled.
My reminder awakened Mr Darcy to his duty, and for the first time in weeks, I heard his voice spoken directly to me.
“Might I have the privilege of introducing to you my sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy, and my cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam?”
He gestured to his sister, who was still carefully clasping his arm. His cousin tapped his shoulder with easy camaraderie, an action cleverly done to allow Mr Darcy to know where the colonel stood while preventing any embarrassment. Mr Darcy’s expression softened slightly in thanks, and he lifted his arm in the approximate direction of his cousin.
“And these are our neighbours and friends, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.”
Why did it disquiet me to hear him speak so warmly of us? If asked, I would hardly have called him a friend. The generosity in his introduction was yet another unsettling question that lingered, like fog in my brain. Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward and gracefully bowed. He had a knowing look in his eyes when they met mine. In them, I could see both wonder and concern, coloured with a measure of misgiving. It was not enough, though, to prevent me from liking him immediately.
He had the easy manners that his cousin did not, and a way of speaking that told of his amiable nature and pleasant demeanour. It was evident to me that he and his cousin were close, given the puckering of his brows that creeped into his happy features whenever he turned to Mr Darcy to include him in the conversation. That man did not speak much, but I felt he was listening intently to any words I spoke, however inconsequential. It was disconcerting, to say the least. I felt Mr Darcy was drinking every word from the cup of my lips and living off the life source. It made me uncommonly stupid in my conversation. I was ridiculously flattered in a way that did not make sense and, at the same time, agonisingly self-conscious that his focused attention was ill-placed.
With awkward, poor grace that I had never before felt in company—for I had always prided myself on my ease among anyone, be it stranger or friend—I began to draw out Miss Darcy. She had pulled her brother nearer to me as she moved closer, a fact that did not go unnoticed.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Darcy. I have often heard your praise.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it immediately. She was quite obviously and painfully shy, and I had heaped upon her shoulders an expectation that looked to burden her small frame. Mr Darcy rested his hand upon his sister’s on his arm and rubbed it reassuringly. I blinked, for I recalled when he had utilised a similar gesture on me.
“I do hope you will feel welcome here. Longbourn has many beautiful attractions.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled at my attempts to ease his cousin, and with careful and gentle efforts, I was able to pull from Miss Darcy one or two words now and then. I felt for the girl. I remembered that the only close family she had was her brother, and he could not have been much of a source for confidence, for Mr Darcy owned all the confidence in a room when he was present. Well, perhaps such was not the case any more. The thought troubled me in a way that it should not have. He was naturally too proud. Wouldn’t anything that capped that pride be a good thing?