Fitzwilliam wiped his mouth. “So when will my brain decide to listen?”
Scott sighed. “There’s no way to know. Most patients with shell shock of this nature regain their faculties within a relatively short space of time. Oftentimes the catalyst that affects a cure is an obscure event such as standing in the rain or an outburst of laughter. Others find the symptoms disappear after adequate rest or they come to terms with a disturbing image or experience. We’ll hope that occurrence will be sooner than later.”
Elizabeth tapped the message on Fitzwilliam’s arm.
The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “Now that the captain’s headaches are less frequent and he’s in a more open frame of mind, I think it is time to consider a visit to St. Dunstan’s. Meeting other blind soldiers while getting a taste for the skills they’re mastering and the activities that entertain them will help prepare him for a life—”
“But I thought there was a chance he’d regain his sight?”
The doctor’s expression turned grim. “I’m waiting to hear back from an American neurologist who specialises in this type of injury. But in my experience, if a patient hasn’t had any signs of sight returning within a month of the injury, chances are he won’t.”
Elizabeth felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She was teaching Fitzwilliam braille and preparing him for life as a blind man, but until this moment, she hadn’t fully accepted the reality that he would be blind for life.
“...this is why I’m especially pleased he’s taken on the dog.”
Elizabeth blinked back to the present. “Yes. It gives him something outside of himself to care for that occupies both his mind and hands.”
“Don’t mention any of this to him just yet. Hopefully I’ll have heard back from the neurologist and the captain’s hearing will return before I have to break the news to him about his sight.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I’d also like to encourage him to resume some management of his estate. That would be in line with our goal of having him see that, even deaf and blind, he can still be productive. It will help him feel useful and take his mind off what he’s lost.”
“He still has some work to do in navigating stairs and moving about. And learning braille, of course.”
“But if it can be interspersed with meaningful activities like caring for the dog and managing the estate, it will make the tedium of learning braille more tolerable.”
Elizabeth was still swimming in a daze, trying to grasp the reality of Fitzwilliam’s blindness.
Dr. Scott tilted his head. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Y-yes. I am fond of him.” And growing fonder every day.

The next morning at breakfast Darcy nearly choked on his coffee as Miss Thomas tapped on his arm. “You think I’m ready to navigate the route on my own?”
Miss Thomas squeezed his arm. Like we practiced. With no extended arm or shuffling.
Her expectations were ambitious. Negotiating the hall, staircase, and garden with his arm threaded through hers was one thing. Navigating solo was another. But he would push himself—for Elizabeth. “I’ll give it a go. But I make no promises.”
She squeezed his arm in affirmation.
“Are you ready now?” Darcy laid his napkin on the table.
Few minutes. Aunt E arriving.
Darcy groaned inwardly. He appreciated Aunt Eliza’s accommodation and care, but her repeated recommendation of Sarah was most annoying.
The floor shimmied ever so slightly with his aunt’s distinctive footsteps. “Good morning, Aunt Eliza.”
Her bony fingers patted his hand in greeting. A few minutes later, Miss Thomas’ hand translated a monologue about Margaret’s journey to an orphanage in France and Robert’s work near the Front.
Darcy sighed. These three-way conversations were tedious. Aunt Eliza spoke her thoughts to Elizabeth while Darcy waited in silence. Then Miss Thomas relayed the message, no doubt compacted into a tactful summary.
Waiting for the next instalment of news, his mind wandered to the dog. The vet’nary was due to return the dog to the stables this afternoon. Darcy smiled. Elizabeth would have liked—.
Sarah over worst. Will return few days.
His heart dipped. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Sarah, he just preferred Miss Thomas. Sarah was a little like an enthusiastic puppy, full of energy and ambition, but somewhat untempered by maturity. Like Elizabeth. His lips curled to a wistful smile, recalling his first encounters with her in Meryton. She’d certainly had no reservations about speaking her mind and passing judgement on everyone and everything. But her time on the Front had matured her. He’d grown as well.
A longing for her wrenched his heart.
…Duke of Norwich coming to dinner on George’s birthday. Hospital benefit concert to follow.
Darcy sensed Miss Thomas’ mirth as she obediently relayed details of the upcoming elegant affair, complete with distinguished guest list, roasted pheasant, spinach soufflé, and strawberry mousse.
Playing along, he made the appropriate affirming vocalisations while pressing his lips to suppress a snigger. Miss Thomas was a good sport. Why was it that, of the hundreds of women he’d met in the past ten years, the only two who resonated with him were Miss Thomas and Elizabeth—one a commoner and the other one missing?
At last Aunt Eliza took her leave. Miss Thomas brushed his knuckles to confirm his aunt’s exit, then squeezed his hand in sympathy. Without thinking he squeezed back. Blanching, he swallowed hard and retracted his hand. “Ah, shall we begin our morning lessons?” He rose to his feet, nearly knocking the chair backwards.
A mutual awareness of his intimate gesture hung between them before her fingers tentatively tapped on a safer part of his arm, I’ll get cane and hat.
Darcy blew out a breath. They’d had a few other instances of unintended intimacy, but he couldn’t ask for a better nurse. She seemed to have an intuitive understanding of him and his brooding nature—which more than made up for any awkwardness.
A moment later she handed him his officer’s cap, and he turned his attention to his solo expedition. He took a step, and then another.... Plank floor... carpet... threshold—turn right.
With Miss Thomas just behind him, he made his way down the hall, guided by each landmark. Table... fireplace... doorway.... Nearing the stairs he paused and extended his right hand. When it met the polished railing, he inched his foot forward to the top step. Sliding his hand over the bannister, he descended the stairs with Miss Thomas hovering at his elbow.
Once outside, he lifted his chin to the warm May sun. So far, so good. But could he navigate the garden alone?
She pressed the cane into his hand then patted his arm.
Sweeping the cane across the uneven flagstones, he made his way down the path. His steps and taps settled into a comfortable rhythm, and he picked up his pace. Perhaps this cane-walking wasn’t so difficult after all. If he could master getting about, it would provide one more reason to dismiss Aunt Eliza’s marital meddling. He huffed. Did dear Auntie think her granddaughter would be content living in the Derbyshire countryside strapped to a blind man? Ridiculous. Sarah had no aspirations of becoming mistress of Pemberley or any other estate. She was likely to fall in love with a mover and shaker regardless of the chap’s social position. Darcy was far too traditional for her. Besides, he loved—.
A wave of regret for all that should have been washed over him. Pressing his lips together he smacked the ground with his cane. Of all the women in England, why did the one he love—
His toe caught on an uneven stone and plunged him headlong to the ground. Gasping from the shock, he pushed up on his hands, his palms burning with abrasion. Blast it! Would he ever be proficient enough to move about without humiliating himself?
He dusted off his hands, then palmed the ground, searching for the cane. “Miss Thomas?” He paused, waiting for her touch. Nothing. “Miss Thomas!” he cal
led louder. Had she not been beside him?
Darcy growled. He shouldn’t have allowed his thoughts to become so distracted by Elizabeth.
On hands and knees, he crawled about, scrabbling for the stick. Where was that blasted cane?
At last his palm happened upon it, and he clambered to his feet. With the cane crooked over his arm, he brushed himself off and straightened his tunic.
He startled when her fingers landed on his arm.
Well done.
He took a half-step back. “Why didn’t you help me?”
You needed to prove to self that you’re fully capable on own.
Her words struck a chord of truth within him, and a comforting assurance settled over him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he could be productive and adjust to being blind—even if he didn’t fully understand how.

That afternoon while Fitzwilliam lay napping in his room, Elizabeth flipped to the next page of the newspaper. Glancing over the familiar Cowart was no Coward feature, she sighed. Hadn’t the country tired of the silly man? The papers had made no new mention of spies, but perhaps silence was worse than having her name emblazoned on a headline. At least then she might know the particulars of the investigation. But as it was now, she knew nothing.
The bed creaked in the adjoining room. Was Fitzwilliam awake? Abandoning the paper, she crossed to his room and peered in just in time to see him disappear into the bathroom.
She leaned against the doorframe and stared at the space he’d just vacated. Fitzwilliam now navigated his room almost as well as a sighted person. But his progress came at a price—for both of them. For him it meant hard work that taxed his stamina and resolve. For her it meant standing back and allowing him to struggle no matter how badly she was tempted to step in and help him. But his recent progress made it all worthwhile.
Being his teacher had shown her a whole different side of him. In Belgium she’d witnessed the capable captain. Now she knew him as the blind patient and student—and it only deepened her regard and affection for him. But when Sarah returned, Elizabeth would no longer have afternoons with him. A tinge of jealousy snaked down her spine. Elizabeth genuinely liked Sarah, a headstrong woman so willing to take on the world, but a certain familiarity formed between nurse and patient spending so many hours together. Didn’t that explain why Fitzwilliam had squeezed her hand this morning? What if that happened with Sarah? And what if Aunt Eliza succeeded in securing Fitzwilliam for Sarah? They were a logical match.
Fitzwilliam’s footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Thomas?” he called out, fresh-faced and tidy. He crossed the room and retrieved his tunic from the back of a chair.
She reached his side as he shrugged the coat over his shoulders. Feel better?
“Indeed. And I’ve been thinking.” He started on the tunic’s buttons. “I’m ready to see my sister. I’d like her to join us in London while we tour St. Dunstan’s.”
Excellent!
“And if I’m to get stronger, I must push myself. This afternoon I’d like to try walking to the stables to see the dog.”
Elizabeth smiled and squeezed his arm. Can’t keep calling him Dog.
“I’ve been considering that as well. What about Spero, meaning I hope? Given that he and I have similar circumstances, it seems rather fitting.”
Cuffing his arm in affirmation, tears pooled in her eyes. Could she love this man any more?
~THIRTY-TWO~
Ten days later
Darcy stretched his legs out on the picnic blanket beside Miss Thomas. Lately, every morning after breakfast they set out for a shady tree beside a pond not far from Donwell. With a basket lunch and Spero by his side, he and Miss Thomas worked through a list from Pemberley’s steward, then tackled braille. After luncheon and a short rest, she walked him to the stables where he met Sarah for the afternoon.
“Is that the last of the estate correspondence?” He crossed his ankles.
Yes.
“I’ve enjoyed returning to business. I much prefer making decisions about Pemberley over leading men into battle.” He smoothed his hand down Spero’s back and began massaging the dog’s nearly-healed leg.
You love it don’t you?
“Love what?”
Pemberley—the land—all of it. And you find deep satisfaction in being its owner.
“Pemberley and the land are in my blood. But I don’t really see myself as owner. I’m more like a caretaker. Of a timeless entity that existed long before me and, God willing, will go on long after I’m gone—if I manage it well.”
G lucky to have you for brother.
“She’s a sweet girl. I’d do anything for her. She’s all I have.” A cloud of grief for the loss of Elizabeth drifted over him. He swept it away and shifted. “Tell me about you. You rarely speak of yourself.”
Had scarlet fever at six, favourite poet is Byron, don’t like beets, scared of horses.
Darcy chuckled. “So that’s Juliet Thomas summed up in a dozen words.”
She squeezed his hand.
“I suppose your interest in nursing comes from your father. What of the rest of your family? I only know you’ve recently returned to England from America. What made you come back?”
She hesitated before tapping. War changed everything. Since war began, parents died and sister married. Wanted to start over and busy myself. Help save as many men as I can.
“You mentioned once that you lost someone in the war. A beau?”
She responded with gentle pressure on his hand.
A melancholy silence hung between them. His question about her beau had been thoughtless. She was probably as pained by her loss as he was by his. Perhaps their mutual grief was one reason for the resonance between them.
A sudden awareness of her hand covering his and the close proximity of her body sparked a yearning inside him. Clearing his throat, he withdrew his hand and sat up. “Shall we begin our braille lesson?”
She set a thick book on his lap. Found new book of war poems thought you’d like.
He found the first page, then stuttered his fingers over the raised braille dots. After three stanzas, he swiped the beads of perspiration from his brow, then resumed his faltering reading aloud.
After gently patting his knuckles to halt him, Miss Thomas tapped, Don’t have to finish.
“I’d like to complete it—if you can endure my blunders and painfully slow reading.”
She removed her hand, and he began again, slowly interpreting the dots of the last stanza:
“...as Tommies trudged across the barren wasteland of the Somme.
Little did they know that day
Their lives would be forever changed
On a Flanders field of grey.”
His hand lingered on the page, the poignancy of the poem’s last lines piercing his soul like a needle pricking a hidden splinter. His life had certainly been changed on that Flanders field of grey.
You were there, weren’t you.
“Yes,” he sighed, closing the book. “And I’m forced to relive that day over and over in my nightmare.”
Spero nuzzled his hand, and he smoothed his palm over the dog’s head.
Will you tell me about it?
He closed his eyes, and an image of men falling like dominoes and smoke drifting across the Somme sprang to his mind.
Talking may take its power away.
Could he talk about it? Tell her what he’d seen and done—or rather what he’d not done?
Her hand slid over his, bathing him in an assuring calm, and his words flowed out in a torrent like a dam given release.
“We knew it was coming. Our artillery had been pounding the German line for a week. Finally, our orders came. We were told it would be easy—so easy we were ordered to walk across No-Man’s land—promised the Huns would all be but dead in their trenches.
“As soon as we went over the top, machine gun fire mowed my men down like a scythe in a wheat field. The generals had been wron
g. Very wrong. But we had no choice. Our orders bound us to press on over the field that was nothing but a wasteland of shell holes and splintered trees jutting up from the sludge. Not a blade of grass or green leaf was left in sight.
“Shells were raining down all around us, spewing earth and men into the air. But I hardly heard the noise. Time seemed to twist into slow motion. It was like I blocked out everything outside myself so I could focus on my duty to press on. I forced my feet forward, when in truth, my every instinct was to flee.
“A shower of bullets took down the men in front of me, and it was like it shook me from my trance. I can still see the two dead privates I stepped over—their eyes wide and bodies riddled with holes. We got close enough to the German line that I could see the points of their helmets sticking up above their trenches. Then another round of gunfire swept over us. Tipper fell, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground too.
“With bullets peppering all around, I crawled towards a shell hole. It was the only thing within sight that offered protection. I was dragging my wounded leg and shouting over my shoulder for Tipper to follow. When I tumbled into the hole, a German not four feet away grabbed his bayonet and pointed it at me. I whipped out my revolver, and he dropped the blade, begging for mercy.
“My finger sat poised over the trigger. The slightest movement would have taken him out. In that agonising moment I held the man’s life in my hands. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. He was so young and helpless. Eyes as big as saucers, his foot swathed in a wad of dark red bandages, and covered in mud from head to foot. And he had that look of primal fear—like a terrified animal cowering in the corner of a cage. He was the enemy, but right there, up close, I couldn’t shoot him.”
Miss Thomas squeezed his hand in sympathy, and Darcy blew out a breath. “I finally lowered the gun, but I had to be sure the Fritz wouldn’t kill us. I heaved myself across a puddle of putrid water in the centre of the pit. It stank. Worse than any trench. Fritz pressed himself against the pit’s wall. He was terrified of me. He had no idea what I intended. I tossed his bayonet out of the hole, then patted him for other weapons. All he had was an empty canteen, a package of cigarettes, and a photograph of a pretty girl.
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 20