Women. He shook his head as he pulled on his trousers. He obviously didn’t understand them at all. On his initial proposal to Elizabeth, her rejection shocked him. And now Juliet. Her every mannerism suggested interest, yet she’d declined his invitation to correspond. Was he so socially inept that he couldn’t read a woman? Granted, he was blind, but how could he have been wrong about Juliet? The attraction between them was like—well, the attraction he’d had with Elizabeth. On more than one occasion she’d called him by his given name, teased and baited him, and on their riding outing.... He shook his head. Surely anyone who had seen the way she’d cozied up against him on their ride back to the stables would have thought they were a promised couple.
Regret stabbed his heart. He and Elizabeth might have been married by now had she not fled. He scrabbled the bedside table for the silver music box. Lifting the lid he sank back onto the mattress and let the melody wash over him. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you... He snapped the lid shut and exhaled. Tonight he would showcase his manners and dancing skills, but tomorrow he would depart and his time with Juliet would be over. Then she would live only in his memories.
Just like Elizabeth.

Darcy tightened the knot in his tie and smoothed his hair, then pulled out his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes until the long-awaited dinner. As he slipped the watch back into his pocket, a knock sounded at his door. “Enter.”
The door creaked open. “Captain?”
He whirled around. “Miss Thomas? I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.”
“Neither did I.” She spoke with a nervous titter. “Your aunt summoned me an hour ago. Apparently the Duke was expecting I’d be at the dinner party, and since Sarah’s not here....”
“I’m delighted.”
“The footman asked me to deliver this card from Mr. Bingley. It came in the day’s post.”
Unfamiliar clicking heels crossed the floor. “New shoes?”
“Not new. They’re Sarah’s. I had to borrow appropriate evening attire.”
“Will you describe your gown that I may attempt to picture you?”
“Well, it’s emerald green. Crepe de Chine embroidered with gold thread. It has a V-neck, organza capped sleeves, and the skirt cascades down in tiers.”
“Crepe de Chine? Organza? I’m afraid I’ve not paid proper attention to these details of fashion.”
“They’re fabrics. Crepe de Chine is—. Perhaps feeling it would be easier than trying to explain.” She drew up his hand and placed it on her side.
He slid his hand down her narrow waist, feeling nothing but the contour of her feminine form. It was all he could do not to step closer and draw her to himself.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’m sure you look lovely. Perhaps we should read Charles’ letter before going down for dinner.”
“Yes. Of course.” Paper rustled as she slid the note from the envelope in the loaded silence.
“It’s a birth announcement.” The words came out on a rush of air. “The Bingleys have a son. They’ve named him Charles Fitzwilliam. He was born three days ago.” Her voice quavered and she sniffed. “And he’s written you a message on the back. ‘Darcy, I owe you much, my friend. Jane and I would be honoured if you would be your namesake’s godfather and join us for the christening on the 19th. We understand if you cannot come, but it would mean the world to us if you could. Charles.’”
Darcy smiled and blinked away the sting in his eyes. Charles and Jane had a son. An heir. And he had...lost the only two women he’d ever cared for.
“Congratulations, Captain.”
“Thank you. It’s an honour indeed. We’d better be going.” He turned, then stopped short and held his arms out to the sides. “Do I look presentable?”
She came closer. He could feel her inspection. She brushed his left sleeve, then adjusted his tie. He didn’t need sight to sense the attraction between them. When her fingers brushed his earlobe, he closed his eyes. Did she know what she was doing to him? Then her thumb grazed his jawline. Oh sweet agony! Was she trying to provoke him? The woman was maddening! She was stroking his face, yet wouldn’t concede to correspond with him! He tilted his chin away from her hand.
“You left a few traces of shaving cream, sir.”
Shaving cream! He stepped back and swiped his hand across his face. “Did I get it?” he bellowed.
His angry words loomed in the momentary silence.
“Yes, sir.”
He could feel her hurt. “I’m sorry.” He relaxed his shoulders. “It’s just—”
“We should go, sir. The others will be waiting.”
She turned and proceeded towards the door without even offering her arm.

Darcy applauded the duet, then discreetly tugged on his collar. The concert was entertaining, but he was eager for its conclusion. Filled with guests, the officers’ recreation room at Hartfield was overly warm, and his mind kept returning to the dejection in Juliet’s voice after his outburst just before dinner. He had overreacted to her innocent gesture with the shaving cream, and he wanted to apologise.
Dinner with the duke had gone well, but with Juliet sitting next to him, he could hardly pay attention to the party’s conversation.
The concert’s final act was announced, and the musicians assembled on the stage. Would he even have a private moment to bid Juliet goodbye? He should have considered it before now. He’d known for some time that today would require his full attention, and tomorrow he was scheduled on the early train. He could ask her to dance. It wouldn’t be private, but at least he could apologise. But, blast it, she of all people should have realised how her intimate gesture would be perceived by a blind man. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was toying with him.
A burst of applause startled him back to the present. He hadn’t even noticed the musicians had finished.
Darcy rose from his front row seat while the scuff of shoes and mingling voices enlivened the room. He caught Juliet’s voice not far behind him and angled his ear in her direction.
“Thank you, sir. Working with him was—”
“Congratulations, Captain.” Dr. Scott clapped him on the shoulder, returning his attention in front of him. “I’d say your performance today was as successful as the concert.”
“Thanks to Miss Thomas.”
“She is outstanding, isn’t she?.” The doctor leaned closer. “Might I have a word before the dance?”
“Certainly.” The crowd filtered away behind them as Darcy retrieved his cane.
Scott led him into the nearby library and stopped just inside the doorway. “I’d intended to speak with you several days ago, but with all the preparations, I lost track of time. Sir, if I may be so bold—as your physician and friend. You are leaving in the morning and Miss Thomas is scheduled to leave next week. The two of you get on well, have similar interests, and she’s been incredibly devoted—”
“And you think I should consider marriage.”
“Well...yes. I can’t understate the value of having a strong, capable woman by your side. I know it may not be my place to say so, but I can’t help but notice the two of you have developed a fondness for one another. Will you think about it?”
“I have. Apparently the interest is not mutual.”
“So you’ve spoken to her about it?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, if I don’t see you again tonight, I’ll stop by St. Dunstan’s next Monday when I’m in Town for a meeting.”
Darcy extended his palm. “Thank you for everything, Scott.”
The doctor shook his hand. “My pleasure, Captain.”
“William,” George Knightley called from the doorway, “the music is about to begin, and you’re promised to the duke’s wife for the first dance.”
Using his cane, he tapped his way to the entrance hall, which echoed with the hubbub of guests.
H
e groaned under his breath. He hated these sorts of affairs. And being sightless would make it all the more dull. He wouldn’t have the luxury of retreating into a corner and entertaining himself by observing the posturing and scheming that seemed to be an integral part of these events.
“William, there you are.” His aunt sidled up to him. “Her Grace is waiting.” She tucked her arm through his and drew him several paces away.
Darcy greeted the duke’s wife, then offered her his arm.
Dancing among the other couples, they exchanged pleasant conversation, but his ear was drawn to Juliet’s voice amidst a cluster of men. She bantered and laughed with them over the ragtime tune, but it was obvious they were in awe of her. Why would she settle for a blind man when she was in such high demand? It was a wonder she wasn’t already betrothed.
The duchess proved a poor dance partner, and he resented her imposition on his eavesdropping. In the middle of asking him yet another question, she stepped on his toe. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Captain. Perhaps I should concentrate on dancing rather than conversing.”
Darcy smiled politely, relieved to be free to listen for Juliet again. But before he could hone in on her voice, the music ended and applause filled the room.
A moment later his aunt’s hand was on his arm. “William, have you met Lady Lytchfield....”
And so began a succession of matron dance partners, one after the other. He occasionally caught Juliet’s voice, but she was always either dancing or the centre of a bevy of admirers. Their fawning and frippery became annoying, and the crowded, smoke-filled room grew hot and stuffy. His patience was running out. Would he ever have a moment with her?
“...and that Miss Thomas is a real looker. I wouldn’t mind—” Darcy’s ears riveted to the mention of her name, but a trumpet solo drowned out the rest of the man’s words.
Darcy huffed under his breath. He’d had enough. At the end of the dance, he requested his cane and begged off to the refreshment table. After downing a glass of champagne, he requested another.
“Darcy! So good to see you.” A hand clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s Rupert Mundy. Do you remember me?”
A wave of heat washed over him as a haunting image of Rupert’s dead brother stormed his mind. He blinked away the recollection of the severed blond head lying in the mud, and mouldy photographs scattered beside a half-rotten corpse whose fingers had been gnawed by rats.
Steadying himself, Darcy forced a smile. “Hello, Mundy. It’s been a while.”
“Indeed. How is your sister?”
“She is well. I was sorry to hear of your brother.” He sipped from his glass as the band struck up a new tune.
The man sighed. “Died in a churchyard, God rest his soul. He...”
Sweat broke out on Darcy’s forehead as his mind skipped across other images of that day. A steeple sitting atop rubble that had once been a church. Unearthed bones beside a broken tombstone. A severed hand covered in maggots. Flies circling the remains of a horse. A fetid pool of water, shimmering with an iridescent slime. And bodies. Dozens of bloated, grey-faced corpses. A gaping mouth...a smashed face...the lobe of one ear.... And an evil smell like the stench of hell.
The floor tilted under him, and Darcy braced his hand on the table. “Excuse me.” He fumbled for his cane, then tapped his way towards what he hoped was the wall.
“I say, Darcy, are you unwell?” Mundy’s voice trailed behind him.
“I just need some air,” Darcy called over his shoulder. In his mind he knew he was safe, but the heat of the room, the champagne, and the intensity of the flashback had transported him back to Flanders and a hellish experience he thought he’d left behind.
Relief washed over him when his hand met a wall. He traced it around to the opening leading to the back hallway and slipped away from the crowd.
Once on the terrace, his cane found the far corner, and he leaned against the balustrade, drawing in deep lungfuls of air.
The reminder of Vincent Mundy had been like a needle puncturing a hidden splinter, and pus was oozing out. What other septic memories still lurked in the recesses of his mind?

Fox-trotting with the duke, Elizabeth worked to keep her attention on her partner. A moment ago she caught a glimpse of Fitzwilliam at the refreshment table, and something about his posture told her all was not well.
“...I understand your father was a doctor. Is that what fuelled your interest in nursing?” The duke spoke over the jazz tune blaring from the small ensemble.
“Yes, it was.” She smiled politely.
As they circled around, Elizabeth discreetly craned her neck in the direction of Fitzwilliam just as he lurched forward and braced a hand on the table. Fear gripped her. Was he ill? He fumbled with his cane, then started towards the back of the room, but she lost sight of him amongst the dancing couples. Was he hiding? Leaving? Would she have no chance for a final goodbye?
A moment later she spied the top of his dark head bobbing down the back hallway. At least he wasn’t retiring to Donwell. But blast this dance! She’d endured the attention of dozens of other men this evening, waiting for an opportunity with Fitzwilliam. Now she saw one and desperately wanted a private moment to make their peace and say goodbye.
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax with the duke. She couldn’t slip away until the music ended, but her heart stretched towards Fitzwilliam. Having studied him over the past several months, she knew him. His moods and temper, his every gesture and movement. And she loved him more than ever.
The duke suddenly stopped and stepped back, smiling down at her. “I believe a certain captain has lost his way. Perhaps you will kindly assist him.”
Elizabeth could have hugged the man. “Thank you, sir.” Turning towards the door, she nearly bumped into Colonel Brandon dancing with Marianne.
Hastening down the back hallway, she glanced into each room. The recreation room, dining room, and library were all empty. Had he escaped outdoors?
She hurried out of the terrace door and stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. A moment later she spied him in the far corner with his head down and hands splayed on the balustrade. A heaviness hung over him like a cloud, and a wave of sympathy swelled in her heart.
Her heels clicked on the flagstones as she crossed the terrace. He momentarily angled his head over his shoulder, and then turned back.
Instinctively she knew his melancholy wasn’t about her. Would he allow her access to his thoughts?
She drew up beside him, then leaned against the railing and gazed into the night as a new tune drifted from inside. After several bars of music, she turned to him with a hint of teasing. “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”
Smiling, he chuckled and raised his head. “It wasn’t my intent, but a blind man can hardly barge in on a band of ardent admirers.”
“He can if the lady wishes him to.”
He turned to her, then held out his hand with pained longing in his sightless eyes. “Will you dance with me, Juliet?”
A wave of regret compressed her chest. She swallowed hard. “I’d be honoured.” Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to draw her to himself, then followed his lead on the next downbeat. Closing her eyes, she relaxed in his arms, moving in perfect harmony with him.
He released a heavy breath and drew her closer.
She raised her chin. “Are you tired? It’s been a long day.”
“Not as tired as I was in France.”
“In France?”
“On the Front. There were times I was so exhausted that every situation required twice as much energy just to comprehend the moment. Given the opportunity, I could fall asleep instantly, regardless of the noise or conditions.”
“It’s hard to imagine that men are enduring so much violence, pain, and suffering just across the Channel.”
“I’m thankful it’s in my past.”
They danced a few more bars of music in silence before
she spoke again. “Do you often think of your time there?”
“Nearly every day. Sometimes innocuous memories are sparked by small things, like buckling my belt or the smell of coffee. But sometimes the memories are...bigger. Harsher. More severe. I saw gruesome sights I shall never forget. Scores of good men dead. And it was all so useless, to gain a few yards of ground, only to be lost a few days later.”
“You are recalling one of those memories now?”
“Yes.... Faces of fallen men. Crying out and screaming in agony. Limbs blown off, gaping holes, bathed in blood. But in an offensive, we were ordered to rush the enemy, forbidden to stop and help the wounded. Even had I stopped, there was little I could do, but I felt guilty nonetheless. Guilty for ignoring their suffering. And oftentimes the horrors came in quick succession, one after the other. It was not uncommon to come upon a section of ground littered with dead. And photographs. Photographs and postcards scattered everywhere. Once a man’s dead, his pockets are looted, but the photographs are left to scatter in the wind like rubbish. No one counts them as valuable. But to that soldier, they are his most valuable possessions. Seeing all that death surrounded by symbols of a man’s connections to living people is a stark reminder that the soldier’s death isn’t just one tragedy. It’s the catalyst for exponential suffering to be endured by all whose lives were entwined with his. The pain inflicted on the families, wives, and children of the men is perhaps the most tragic of all.”
He sighed and went on. “Before the war, any death or tragedy was talked about in the village for weeks. But there, the incidents came in such rapid succession we had no time to sort them out or assuage our grief. So we set the thoughts and images aside, closed them in a box for another time, and readied ourselves for our next encounter. But another time never came. So the boxes just kept stacking up until they were so high that no man dare open one for fear of what he might find inside. But when something triggers a memory, the box flies open, and out comes whatever horrors are buried inside. It’s too much. The sorrow and grief are more than the human heart can bear.”
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 27