Page 19 of The Painting (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

A lthough 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.

“Mr Darcy?” he heard the man repeat, and he startled, struggling to compose himself.

“Yes…Forgive me, I must leave now! Good day, sir,” he said abruptly, stumbling towards the door. He opened it hastily and slammed it shut behind him. The sunlight in contrast to the darkness inside hurt his eyes, but the sharp claw in his chest was much more painful.

Dumbfounded, bewildered, he looked around like an intoxicated man, trying to discern where he was and where he should go.

Who was that man? He must be related to Julia, of course.

Was he her uncle? She must have kept him hidden on purpose!

The man was not even surprised to hear Darcy’s name—he had admitted to knowing of his presence.

Julia had told the man about Darcy, but she had not told Darcy about the man.

She had pretended affection, friendship and loyalty, while she had purposely deceived him.

His first thought was to find her and confront her, but he quickly dismissed such an idea, as he could not trust his temper enough to carry on a reasonable conversation. Especially since Julia was likely to be with Elizabeth and her party.

He had been on his way to join them all, impatient to see Elizabeth again, and probably her closeness would comfort his suffering.

But he must deny himself that pleasure; he had no right to present himself in front of her in that state and even less to burden her with his torment.

Apart from Elizabeth, he loathed the mere idea of company.

Even worse, the thought of meeting Julia was appalling and made him nauseous.

He needed to be alone, far from everyone and everything.

He had to think, to reflect, to soothe the tumult of his mind and heart.

Yet he could not. He felt furious, betrayed, deceived, even mocked.

He tried to return to his cottage, but when he reached the gate, he heard Mrs Clarke’s voice and his headache only increased. How much of the story from the past was known by Mrs Clarke and her old maid Jenny? How much by Mrs Crawford?

He was certain the late Beatrice Fitzroy was part of the scheme since that man was her relative. Possibly her brother. And Julia—she must have taken over the deceptive role from her mother and continued it.

“Mr Darcy, are you well, sir? You took truly ill!” Mrs Clarke called, approaching him.

“Sir?” Stevens addressed him.

“I am going for a ride,” he replied coldly and the valet helped him prepare his horse.

“Sir, I beg your pardon but where are you going? You seem unwell—”

“I am going for a ride, Stevens. Are you content with this information, or should I inform you about more of my plans?” he responded harshly.

“Forgive me, sir, but what if Mr Bingley asks after you?”

“Tell him I have gone for a ride, do you not understand?” he raised his voice and the servant stepped back, lowering his head.

In the ten years that Stevens had been in his service, Darcy had had no reason to complain about him, he had never raised his voice to him, he trusted him completely. He knew he was being unfair, but his torment was stronger than his remorse.

Without glancing back, he pushed his horse into a gallop, with no direction in mind, only wishing to get as far away as possible.

From the main road, he took the path to the shore, to the bay he had discovered days ago.

But even there, in the complete silence and serenity, he found no peace.

He dismounted, letting his horse go free.

He paced along the shore, with his feet deep in the water, tempted to swim far, far away.

His troubled mind could not settle enough for him to allow reason to speak to him.

He did not seek answers, only allowed speculation to overwhelm him and assumed the worst, while his fury and disappointment grew.