That's What Makes It Love Read online

  That’s What Makes It Love

  by

  Iris Lim

  © 2019 by Iris Lim.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Meryton Assembly

  Chapter 2: The Social Call

  Chapter 3: The Welcome Visitors

  Chapter 4: The Flirtatious Upstart

  Chapter 5: The Netherfield Ball

  Chapter 6: The Fluttering Hearts

  Chapter 7: The Mingling Hopes

  Chapter 8: The False Betrothals

  Chapter 9: The Arranged Coincidence

  Chapter 10: The Ruinous Lover

  Chapter 11: The Momentous Choice

  Chapter 12: The Double-Crosser

  Chapter 13: The Emotional Dichotomy

  Chapter 14: The Surprise Proposal

  Chapter 15: The Friendly Promise

  Chapter 16: The Burgeoning Dream

  Chapter 17: The Catherine Trap

  Chapter 18: The Final Engagement

  To every man, woman, and child who lives daily with triumph and grace over their unlikely portions, you prove that love transcends all convention. I salute you as heroes.

  Chapter 1:

  The Meryton Assembly

  The bustle of the assembly hall did not escape him. He grumbled, angry at every turn. To his right, he had Wickham, both friend and assistant, guiding him towards the heart of their current social endeavor. To his left, he felt Miss Bingley’s inevitable claws – her fingers anxious for any excuse to sink into his flesh.

  He would always rue the day he allowed her to learn of his – disadvantages.

  “I assure you I am well, Miss Bingley. You truly ought to enjoy the assembly.” Darcy refused to move further beyond what his senses perceived to be the area for dancing. More than ever, he wished he had his friend’s persuasion. “Your brother requires your support.”

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” Every word was a screech from Miss Bingley, her words crackling louder than the layers of her dress or the clanging of her jewels. Darcy had heard often of the unflattering descriptions George, Richard, and even Charles directed towards her wardrobe. Standing beside her as he did now, Darcy himself felt the edges of her billowing skirts brushing against his legs.

  The sensation was unpleasant, to say the least.

  “But if I were to dance and mingle with these – villagers – then who, pray tell, sir, would accompany you?” Her whining tones did nothing to ease Darcy’s spirit. “Why, the crowd here is almost vulgar. How can I leave you, Mr. Darcy, to the wolves!”

  His impairments were not the kind to be easily distinguishable. To the untrained eye, his pupils moved as they should, his gaze focused as it ought to. Despite their lack of perception, his eyes still shifted towards wherever his mind set itself. He did not need her assistance in portraying a healthful man.

  For those purposes, Wickham more than sufficed.

  The fact that Miss Bingley’s proffered help was both unnecessary and unwelcome only rendered Darcy’s situation more uncomfortable.

  “Oh dear, my brother is dancing yet again.” There was a clucking in her voice that spoke of her disapproval. “Shall he never learn?”

  Darcy commanded his face not to frown and compelled his voice to level. “Is she unacceptable?”

  “I – I would not be so quick to judge.” There was a faltering in her tone – a window of opportunity.

  “Then perhaps you ought to make the young woman’s acquaintance. He may just fall for her beauty.”

  There was some helpfulness, he found, in a thorough understanding of his friend’s character. There was no doubt in Darcy’s mind, even then, that Charles was for certain dancing with the prettiest girl in the room that very moment. There were things about perfect eyesight that drew young men to local beauties like moths to a flame.

  If anything, Darcy was happy tonight that he himself was immune.

  There were better things to do with his life than keep the supposedly handsome Miss Bingley company in a populated ballroom.

  “I suppose you are right, Mr. Darcy – as you always are.” He felt her hand brush his arm one last time – before her skirts rustled away.

  Darcy heaved a sigh of relief.

  Wickham, of course, laughed. “You are deft as ever, Fitz. God forbid that you may arm yourself with the power of vision as well.”

  This time, Darcy found himself smirking.

  With twenty careful steps between them, George expertly guided him to a seat towards the side of the assembly hall. Darcy gratefully rested the back of his head against the wall. He hoped they had not aroused suspicion.

  “Why could I not have stayed at Netherfield with Richard and Georgie?” he asked just softly enough to keep his words audible only to Wickham.

  Wickham laughed again. He always laughed at everything. “You know full well that Bingley finds it his duty to attempt to enliven your life to the best of his abilities.”

  Darcy smiled. “I suppose I cannot attempt to alter his nature in one visit.”

  “Nor in a year.”

  They both chuckled. In the recesses of his mind, he remembered how George Wickham appeared as a child – golden-haired and cheerful. He had always been mischievous, never the angel. Yet, all the same, he had been fun.

  “Do you wish to dance?” Darcy asked honestly. Far be it from him to keep his most faithful friend away from an activity he so preferred.

  “And leave you alone?”

  “A drink shall be company enough.”

  “Shall I request Bingley to accompany you?”

  “No – let him be.” Darcy smiled, then sighed. “He is gladder where he is now, I am sure.”

  “Perhaps I ought to send for Richard?”

  Darcy waved the thought off. “He has just arrived. Do not disturb him.”

  “And Geor –”

  “She is not out. Do not consider.”

  Wickham paused only very slightly. “Very well. I shall retrieve you a glass.”

  Darcy smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

  His friend’s footsteps disappeared quickly in the rambunctious country hall.

  • • •

  “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!”

  He heard her voice and felt her fingers brush the side of his leg simultaneously. He straightened and pulled away instantly, anxious to add distance between himself and his sudden interlocutor. His state of body had created false cause for more than one single lady to attempt physical liberties that a perfect slate of health would not have permitted.

  He was not about to start permitting such gestures today.

  “Sir, again, I apologize.” The lady’s voice was young – almost vibrant. He could not tell if her apology was sincere.

  The uncertainty caused him to frown.

  “I – I observed your friends to be occupied, sir; and I wondered at your solitude for the past hour.”

  He felt a slight relief in her statement. There was, at least, no allusion to marriage or assistance of any sort.

  He nodded as politely as he could. “You observe well, madam.”

  She did not answer right away, and he could only hypothesize as to the expression she currently bore.

  “Would you wish for a bite, sir – perhaps a drink?”

  He turned slightly towards her. The scent that wafted off her smelled feminine – a hint of lavender, a touch of mint. The trajectory of her voice indicated that she was not tall – and her head hovered only slightly higher than his while he sat and she stood.

  “You are kind to a stranger, madam,” he answered vaguely. How long had Wickham been gone? Where had his promised drink traversed?

  “I overheard your words – earlier tonight.” There was a hesitatio
n in her voice. For her altogether bold – if accidental – approach, she sounded nearly shy.

  He leaned his head to one side. “I fail to understand –”

  “Your companion referred to us as wolves, sir,” she explained hastily. Darcy slowly remembered Miss Bingley’s former comments. “I – I thank you for refusing to agree.”

  For the majority of his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy knew that whatever he spoke could be easily overheard. Given his sensory limitations, he had grown even more accustomed to avoiding gossip.

  He never did know whether listeners stood close or far.

  It was Miss Bingley’s indiscretion – perfect vision notwithstanding – that surprised him.

  “I do not know what to say.” He began to ponder who it was that conversed with him. Truly, the company was welcome. Yet, at the very same time, life had granted him a lot that prevented him from trusting easily. Was this woman – this sudden acquaintance – single or married? Was she old or young? If, by sheer luck, his every surmise regarding her person had been correct – what of the traits his ears could not perceive for him?

  And when would Wickham return to be his eyes in proxy?

  “Thank you, sir, for your civility.”

  Darcy nodded, unable to commit himself to further expression of any sort.

  Silence ensued for another moment, causing him to wonder if his mysterious female companion had rejoined the dancing throngs.

  “You do not dance, sir?” There was a clear question in her voice. He congratulated himself for not acting startled at her persistent presence.

  He cleared his throat, shuffling slightly. “I do not dance.”

  “But your friend dances.” She did not seem willing to accept his simple profession.

  It did not take long for him to decide that she referred to Bingley.

  Darcy almost smiled. “Mr. Bingley much prefers the act of dancing. I dare say he is dancing this very moment with the prettiest girl in the room.”

  She paused slightly, then said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Her reply confused him, and he frowned once more.

  “Did you dance – with him?” He stuttered in his speech, unsure how to proceed without Wickham’s guiding remarks. Did people’s faces truly speak as much as Wickham said they did? A quick memory assured Darcy that faces did indeed often communicate more than words did.

  “Your friend dances with Jane alone. I have not the pleasure.”

  He did not know if she complained or merely observed.

  “You are friends with this lady?” He asked without thought.

  There was a smile in her voice. “Very much so. Is your friend – a good man?”

  The question, so ill prompted, disturbed him deeply. The natural defense in his spirit that she had worn down in the past few minutes quickly rose back to its usual place. He recalled how her hand had landed on his person earlier, and he remembered that she herself had never called the act an accident.

  “I doubt you have much reason to wish to know, madam.” His entire person stiffened significantly. He was anxious to be rid of her now. Fortune hunters had no room in his life – nor in his friends’.

  “It is you and your friends, sir, who have descended upon our company. I merely ask out of concern and curiosity.”

  “Do you not find it rather inappropriate, madam, to ask so openly of another man?”

  “Curiosity is hardly a fault, sir. I possess every right to ask after your friend.”

  “Because he is wealthy?” He knew a sliver of his own pain had seeped into his words. He knew that Bingley was friendly and good-looking – that women did not clamor for him only for his wealth, since he had so much more to offer. It was Darcy who did not have such privileged excuses to offer himself.

  Yet experience – painful experience – had taught him that women who expressed interest in a man upon first acquaintance could only be motivated by desire for that man’s deeply-lined pockets.

  The sage wisdom of repeated experience was difficult to ignore.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!”

  Whatever observational skills the lady may have – they clearly did not apply to his inner struggles.

  He closed his eyes, frowning keenly.

  There was a stillness in the darkness – a serenity in knowing that he had chosen the darkness of his own volition.

  “My sister, sir – is no fortune hunter.”

  And with that statement, she loudly marched away.

  • • •

  Nineteen Years Ago

  • • •

  The wooden floor creaked under his feet. He increased his speed slowly, testing each step. He hadn’t run for so long – hadn’t run since God took away his ability to see. In his mind, he still remembered the hallways – the corners and the rugs. He’d tripped twice yesterday.

  It was Mother who insisted he should try again.

  “Oh, Master Darcy!”

  He reeled back at the last moment, just avoiding the items he heard crashing to the floor. All in all, he’d run for just ten steps.

  “Fitzwilliam!”

  He tried not to cry, tried with all his might. He felt his mother’s arms surround him just when the tears came loose.

  He was a smart boy, even though he cried. He knew Mother was watching him. He knew the maid forgave him because she had to. He knew he failed at running in his own home.

  “Hush, Fitzwilliam. All will be well.” Mother hugged him and soothed him. He wondered if Mother would cry today. She cried last year, when the doctor said he would never see again. “Oh, my son, my son.”

  Mother liked to call him that. She called him ‘son’ even more since he hurt his head last week.

  “I can’t run.” He sounded like a babe. He did not like sounding like a babe.

  “You are strong, son. You will learn,” Mother promised.

  “What if I keep hitting things? Or people?” He cried again. He worried. Would he never have friends? Would he never climb a tree or ride a horse or walk down the stairs by himself ever again?

  “You won’t, dear. You won’t.”

  Mother never lied. He believed her.

  Behind him, he heard servants talking and cleaning. He knew he caused trouble, and he didn’t like causing trouble.

  “George will help you,” Mother promised again. She put her hands on both sides of his. Her palms were warm. She smelled nice. “Do not run, then you won’t be hurt.”

  He nodded repeatedly. He would obey. He would do anything to be normal again.

  “My Fitzwilliam, my darling Fitzwilliam.” Mother hugged him again. He cried on her shoulder. The embroidery on her dress tickled his cheek.

  He would obey. He would be careful.

  He would let George help him. Mother loved him. Mother wouldn’t lie.

  Chapter 2:

  The Social Call

  Mama, energized by the view of the impending guests, ordered about the entire household – unhappy until she saw the very flurry of activities she had demanded. Papa sat where he had all morning, unfazed, his spectacles lowered until they nearly hung off the tip of his nose.

  “Is it someone very important, Mama?” Elizabeth, for all her intelligence, had a tongue that cost her trouble nearly every single day.

  “Elizabeth, are you mad!” Mama cried, predictable to the utmost. Behind the portly matriarch, Kitty and Lydia chose to quarrel over the lace instead of putting it away as requested. “Mr. Bingley might be here to propose!”

  Jane’s kindness and eternal understanding bid her to protest. There was no possibility, of course, that the new tenant of Netherfield would be arriving to propose marriage a single day after making her acquaintance. Given Mama’s frantic preoccupation with tidying up the sitting room, however, no on truly paid heed to Jane’s said kindness and eternal understanding.

  “Miss Bennet, what an honor!” Mr. Bingley, deposited far too soon in the midst of the flushed occupants of Longbourn, greeted Jane right after he did her parents. Dutifu
l as could be, he gave each subsequent sister his due attention before fixing himself beside Jane once more.

  His sisters, overdressed and over-coiffed, bestowed their much less-desired scrutiny soon after.

  Quite quickly, each family member fell to his or her own activity. In their own corner, Jane blushed prettily while Mr. Bingley chatted away with her in perfect friendliness. Mama, never far, hovered with a lovestruck look in her eyes. Mary, perhaps reveling in her newfound privacy now that Mama’s focus had removed itself from her, returned to her trusted sermons. Kitty and Lydia provided well enough company for Mrs. Hurst while Papa spared them his occasional glances.

  The entire family ran nearly as smoothly as a well-oiled carriage.

  It was simply unfortunate that Elizabeth’s role in running said carriage was keeping company with the least amiable guest today.

  “Miss Elizabeth, your home is rather charming – is it not? Not nearly as fashionable as the houses in town, but I daresay it proves comfortable enough for the likes of you.” There was a simplicity to Miss Bingley, Elizabeth observed. She did not strive to belittle. She merely did.

  “Longbourn is, of course, near and dear to my heart.” Elizabeth smiled, the last vestiges of her politeness drying rapidly.

  “Well, nature often knows what it is doing, does it not?” Miss Bingley kept her face directed away from the sole person conversing with her – choosing instead to keep her gaze open towards the room, as if all of its occupants hung on her every word. “My dear brother, charming and handsome as he is, quite deserves the good fortune our father left us. Our dowries, I assure you, are everything as attractive as London’s debutantes.”

  Why anyone would expose such mercenary measures of oneself was a rather simple mystery.

  “Your sister has caught his eye, I see,” Miss Bingley continued, the lack of reply notwithstanding. “I dare say, he’ll declare himself in love soon enough.”

  Elizabeth, remembering the tender words Jane had lavished upon Mr. Bingley before the sisters slept the night before, could not help feeling rather abused.