Page 156 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

Both noticed that their hands were still timidly touching, but neither of them withdrew for several long moments. They remained there, in wordless reverie, until the full light of day sent them both home.

When they separated, they already shared the fragile beginnings of an understanding, as well as hopes for future sunrises that they might watch together.

Chapter 12

Although the time that he was spending in Brighton did not offer Darcy any more details regarding his mother’s past, his heart grew lighter and tranquillity slowly overcame most of his turmoil.

Every interaction with Elizabeth was a comfort for his soul and he often found himself wondering about the fortunate turn of events that had changed his life in less than a fortnight.

Until the age of eight and twenty, Fitzwilliam Darcy had never actually courted a woman, as he had never been in love.

As any young man of his age, with a good knowledge of the world, he had been in intimate companionship with pretty women previously and he had been charmed by beauty several times, prior to meeting Elizabeth. But the tumult of sensations that had tormented him for more than eight months, he could not have imagined and even less experienced before. And in the last few days, while his relationship with Elizabeth was continuously improving and developing, so were his feelings.

When he had proposed to her in Kent, he had claimed he loved and admired her ardently. But what he felt lately was different, stronger, deeper, more exhilarating, even slightly frightening for a man always in control of his senses, his mind and his actions. He struggled to be patient, to not say too much, too soon, to seek her approval for every gesture or word of admiration. He wished to be certain that this time she did understand his intentions and accepted them before he offered himself to her again.

Even though their stay in Brighton was limited, he had another—even more exciting—reason for joy: soon enough, he would welcome her at Pemberley, as he had dreamed so many times yet feared it would never happen.

He was still undecided about attending the colonel’s ball. Bingley had already expressed his acceptance, but Darcy still pondered over it, due to Wickham’s annoying presence. He had no doubts left that Elizabeth loathed the man, just as he deserved, although he still tried to insinuate himself around her.

Protecting Elizabeth from Wickham’s disgusting attention was enough reason to induce Darcy to accept the invitation and overcome his reluctance.

One sunny afternoon, Bingley was hurrying to the Crawford cottage.

His friend’s eagerness and his mention of escorting Miss Bennet on a walk signalled to Darcy that Bingley had finally decided to take the step that was long overdue.

He had still to complete his letters to his solicitor, to his sister and to Mrs Reynolds, so Bingley declared they would expect him to join them later on.

An hour passed before he finished his letters, changed his clothes and glanced in the mirror at his appearance, anticipating the next encounter with Elizabeth. He felt just as excited as Bingley, only he was more adept at concealing his emotions.

As he passed Julia’s house, he heard meowing from the tree and some barking. He glanced over the fence and a large smile spread across his face as he saw the kitten on a branch again and the puppy barking at her from the ground.

He reached out his hands to grab the kitten, remembering that the children had called him ‘the saviour’ on the first day they met. Could it have been only just over a week ago? Had his life changed so drastically in such a short time?

Darcy looked around but neither the children nor Julia were in sight. He held the kitten and after a brief hesitation, he decided to take it to safety inside the house. The door was closed and he knocked as he reflected that he had never been inside.

“Come in,” he heard a male voice call. He opened the door and stopped in the main hall that opened widely into a large chamber—likely a former drawing-room.

The curtains were only half open and it was rather dark in the room. Near the window, there was a large chair and someone—a man—was sitting in it.

“Yes?” the man enquired. His voice was strong, although it betrayed him to be an older man, who then turned his head towards Darcy. He bowed in polite greeting, introducing himself.

“Forgive me for intruding, sir. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mrs Norwood’s acquaintance. I found the kitten in the tree and I was afraid it might be in danger, so I brought it inside.”

“Mr Darcy! Yes, Julia told me you were here, in Brighton. She is visiting a neighbour, together with the children. Please hand me the kitten, sir. I will ring for the maid to take it.”

As the man did not stand up, Darcy stepped forward. As he approached, he could better observe the man, who was probably in his late fifties, if not older. His features were marred by age but still handsome, and on his left temple, reaching towards his cheek, there was a scar.

The man stretched out his hand and Darcy tried to give him the kitten but he fumbled clumsily. Darcy lowered the kitten to his lap, he grasped it and said, “Thank you, Mr Darcy.”

“You are most welcome, sir,” he replied.

Then, only moments later, he felt the entire room narrowing around him, taking his breath away. With his head spinning and his heart beating wildly, he needed to support himself against a chair, as his legs lost their strength.

The man sitting in the chair, with a blanket and the kitten in his arms, was blind. And all over the room, stunning paintings, obviously made by the same hand, covered the walls.

In danger of fainting for the first time in his life, Darcy had not the smallest doubt that it was the same painter who had captured his mother, more than thirty years ago. The same man who had called Lady Anne ‘the sun of my darkness.’

The man living in Julia’s house, the one who was sitting lost and silent in front of him at that very moment.