CHAPTER ONE #2
The answer, she supposed with a sigh that tasted of dust and resignation, was that most of them simply didn’t feel it with the same acute, painful sensitivity that she did.
Or, perhaps, they chose not to. Magic, for many, was a convenience, a status symbol, a useful tool for social advancement or personal advantage.
Deeper connections, such as the primal link to the land and the intuitive understanding of the delicate balance that sustained their magical existence, were largely forgotten, dismissed as antiquated, or simply ignored in the pursuit of more immediate, more tangible pleasures.
But Elizabeth thought of a land vibrant with magic, of rivers that sang and stones that spoke. She felt the change, the sickness, in her very bones.
It was only a matter of time until it consumed them.
The Meryton assembly rooms buzzed with a heightened energy that went far beyond the usual social anticipation of a country gathering.
Tonight, the much-heralded arrival of the Netherfield party, particularly the eligible and reportedly very wealthy Mr Bingley, had filled the atmosphere with a frantic sense of speculation and competitive hope.
Even the music was brighter, and more desperate.
Elizabeth observed her mother already in animated conversation with Lady Lucas, their heads close together, caps practically touching, no doubt exchanging the latest, most detailed intelligence on Mr Bingley and his fortune.
“He is here!” Lydia suddenly hissed, her voice a stage whisper that carried further than normal volume. “Mr Bingley! And his entire party! La, they look terribly grand!”
A ripple of heightened excitement, almost a physical wave, passed through the crowded room. Necks craned. Conversations faltered, then resumed in more hushed, speculative tones as the Netherfield party made their entrance.
Even Elizabeth, determinedly unimpressed, had to admit that Mr Charles Bingley cut a most pleasing figure.
He was undeniably handsome, with a cheerful countenance, bright eyes, and an easy smile.
The magical feel about him, as her mother had gleefully reported, was warm and inviting, an uplifting energy that seemed to radiate goodwill.
His sisters, however, possessed noticeably scornful demeanours. Miss Caroline Bingley was undeniably elegant, a vision in a gown of silk that shimmered with an inner light, as if woven with frost. She left a distinct chill in her wake.
Mrs Hurst, her married sister, possessed a more subdued magical capacity, best described as wholeheartedly unremarkable, much like her husband, Mr Hurst, whose own magical signature was so indistinct it was barely detectable.
He seemed more interested in the refreshment table than in the social dynamics of the assembly.
And then there was the other gentleman. The friend. The almost afterthought in her mother’s earlier effusions of the Netherfield party.
He was no afterthought.
He entered slightly behind Mr Bingley, and his arrival was not so much an entrance as a distinct and complete shift in the atmosphere of the room.
If Bingley’s aura felt like gentle, warming sunshine, this man’s presence was like the arrival of a storm — immense, controlled, and overwhelmingly powerful.
Elizabeth felt it like a sharp pressure change in her ears, a prickling on her skin as if the air itself had become charged.
Her own magic, usually a restless hum beneath her awareness, recoiled violently for an instant, then, peculiarly, seemed to strain towards this new force.
The air around him seemed denser, heavier, subtly darker, the candlelight in his immediate vicinity appearing to dim slightly, as if drawn into the vortex of his concentrated energy.
The sheer force of his power spoke of generations upon generations of accumulated magical strength and of years of rigorous, disciplined study.
He was tall, strikingly handsome in a severe way, with dark eyes that surveyed the room with an air of cool assessment, as if cataloguing and dismissing its occupants in a single, sweeping glance.
“Lord, he is divine!” Lydia breathed in that horribly overloud whisper, her eyes wide and star-struck, her earlier interest in Mr Johnson entirely forgotten.
Kitty giggled in agreement, already adjusting her ribbons. “That is Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley,” she said, in tones of great importance, “He has ten thousand a year and he owns half of Derbyshire!”
“Hush,” Elizabeth whispered, mortified.
“But they are all saying it,” Kitty pouted at her.
Even Jane, usually so composed, seemed a little awed. “His magical presence is remarkable, Lizzy,” she murmured. “One feels it quite distinctly, like a great weight.”
“Oh, do not be alarmed, Jane,” Elizabeth said under her breath, a smile touching her lips. “It is merely the weight of ten thousand a year. I am told it is a considerable burden to bear.”
Mr Bingley, entirely unpretentious and seemingly oblivious to the effect his friend was having on the room, was soon making his cheerful way around, introduced by a beaming Sir William Lucas, whose own magical talents were mostly confined to producing overly enthusiastic, slightly blinding bursts of congratulatory light whenever he made a public proclamation.
Bingley quickly charmed everyone he met, requesting dances with an indiscriminate disregard for rank, fortune, or perceived magical standing.
Mr Darcy, however, remained pointedly aloof.
He stood near the edge of the dance floor, his expression one of haughty boredom.
He danced only twice: a stiff, formal measure, with Mrs Hurst, and, with slightly more animation but no discernible pleasure, with Miss Bingley.
He declined all other offered introductions and invitations to dance with a curtness that bordered on open rudeness, his refusals delivered with an air of a man conferring a great favour by simply remaining in the same building.
At last, Mr Bingley, having noticed his friend standing alone and looking like a thundercloud, approached him.
“Come, Darcy,” Elizabeth, seated nearby with Charlotte, overheard him say, his voice carrying easily in a momentary lull in the music, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance. There are many pretty girls here, you know.”
”I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be an absolute punishment to me to stand up with.”
Elizabeth felt a flush rise to her cheeks. What a remarkable study in conceit he presented, to find an entire assembly of respectable people so entirely beneath his notice.
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr Bingley, his cheerfulness undaunted, “not for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty. Really, Darcy, you must try to be a little more accommodating.”
“You have been dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr Darcy, his gaze flicking briefly towards Jane. Jane, indeed, was in excellent looks that evening, her serene beauty enhanced by a calming influence that made those nearby feel unconsciously at ease and inclined to smile.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” Mr Bingley declared with heartfelt enthusiasm. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” Mr Darcy asked, his gaze reluctantly following Mr Bingley’s indicating gesture.
His eyes swept across the group of ladies seated near the wall, passed over Mary who was engrossed in a book she’d brought, skimmed over Kitty and Lydia who were whispering animatedly and attempting to catch the eye of any officer who happened to glance their way, and then, for a brief, charged moment, met Elizabeth’s.
Elizabeth, who had been listening to the entire exchange with mounting pique, felt a distinct shock, as if a spark of his immense energy had leapt across the intervening space and struck her.
Then, just as quickly, Mr Darcy turned back to Mr Bingley, his voice, though low, carrying with deliberate clarity to where Elizabeth sat, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
Tolerable! Not handsome enough to tempt him! A laugh threatened to bubble up. The insult was so grand, so utterly without civility, that it fell just shy of magnificent.
Her first impulse was to rise and thank him graciously for his notice. After all, to be pronounced merely ‘tolerable’ by a gentleman who found an entire room beneath his consideration was, in its own way, high praise indeed.
But no, the performance was too perfect to be interrupted. His arrogance was not merely an insult; it was a masterclass in disdain, and she resolved not to mar its perfection with a display of an ill-bred outburst.
Instead, she turned to Charlotte, who had remained seated beside her throughout the entire exchange, and said cheerfully, “Did you hear that, Charlotte? Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, the great arbiter of taste and beauty, finds me tolerable. Why, I believe that is high praise from a gentleman so discerning he can find no one here worthy of his notice. I shall endeavour to live up to the distinction.”
Charlotte gave a knowing smile. “Indeed, Eliza. And a distinction few others in Meryton seem to have achieved in his eyes.”