“As he claims at present to be in straitened circumstances, I assume he is not. But I have sought no knowledge of his doings or goings, and I am almost wholly ignorant of them. The man who had the living recently became deceased, and Mr. Wickham called on me while I was still in Bath, and he asked for me to now give him the living, as had been my father’s wish — you can well imagine my response.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“At the time he was quite angry and abused me viciously with slanderous words. But…” Darcy shrugged. “I considered it as of no moment. I received a letter from him in the morning post in which he demanded another three thousand pounds, and threatened that he would revenge himself upon me and upon my good name if he did not receive it. And so I came out here, to this lovely southern autumn view, to think.”
“Can you involve the authorities against him? Do you think that he might… use some sort of violence.” Elizabeth spoke quickly with real worry in her voice.
“No, no.” Darcy waved his hand. “I fear nothing of the sort. I doubt very much he has the tenacity to carry out any other sort of scheme, nor the consequence to bring it to fruition even if he has the tenacity. It was not that which made me so solemn. Only… memories of childhood. Of my father… whether he would be proud of me. And how he would be sad to see what became of Wickham. He loved Wickham very much, as a son — but…” Darcy sighed again. “And now I am talking too much.”
“You do not think that you ought to present this letter to the authorities. If he is threatening you? That is quite frightening.”
“You have never been threatened?”
“No.” Elizabeth shuddered.
“I am glad that you have not. I find though…” Darcy shrugged. “I have lost the use of my legs, and it has not hurt me. I doubt he can strike at me in any way that would be closer or dearer to my heart. Besides, an unspecified threat in such a letter is no matter upon which a prosecution can be based. He has broken no law, and I doubt that he will. He is not the sort. Not a violent sort of man.”
Elizabeth looked at him seriously, listening.
Darcy smiled. “I do not know why I was unsettled. I thank you for listening.”
“I would happily… anything.” She flushed. “If my audience helped you, it was the least I might do.”
Elizabeth soon rose again, saying that she must complete her walk and then return to Jane.
Darcy smiled at her and waved her off, standing himself. “I’ve been seated out in the cold rather longer than I ought — my legs are beginning to ache again. They tend to.”
He returned to Bingley’s library, and sat in a chair by the window, but near the fireplace, with the final of the three volumes of his book about the agriculture of Hertfordshire on his lap.
He could not concentrate once more.
But this time it was because he was just smiling out at the world. The leaves were blown in little swirls, the clouds were white and puffy, the fire was yellow and leaping, and Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes were deep and lovely.
The door to the library opened suddenly, and Elizabeth rushed in, her face pale and frightened once more. “Mr. Darcy, you must call Doctor Thompson to return. Jane’s eyes — she can barely see the sunlight.”
Chapter Nine
It was a nightmare returned.
Instead of an afternoon sun, it was an early morning sun that beamed through the windows. Outside the world was more windswept, the ground was covered deeper in detritus, and there were fewer red, gold and brown leaves sitting on the branches of the oak trees in the yard.
In essentials nothing had changed: Once more Elizabeth gripped Papa’s hand while she watched Mr. Thompson examine Jane and prepare to proclaim her fate.
Jane’s beautiful eyes were unharmed by whatever was killing their sight, but over the course of the afternoon, the sight in them had progressively worsened until she could barely see the candles.
And this morning she woke wholly blind, unable to even perceive in which direction the sun came from.
This was for Elizabeth the worst thing that could happen.
Not Jane.
No, I beg you Lord. If one of us must be blind let it be me. Not my sister Jane.
Anyone, anyone but Jane.
At least Jane was alive.
That was what Elizabeth had to keep telling herself. At least she was alive. And there was hope. There always was hope.
