CHAPTER SEVEN #2
In the incredibly uncomfortable silence that followed, the Lord Magister’s words — a true union, a catalyst — seemed to echo in the air between them.
Elizabeth felt a hot blush at her ears as her thoughts returned to the indelicate implication.
She did not dare to look at Darcy now, but she could feel his tension and his overwhelming presence of heat beside her.
Darcy said, quietly, “We must resume our efforts to master our magic with greater perseverance.”
In truth, it was the very last thing Elizabeth wished to do. And yet, she could not dismiss the Lord Magister’s grave warnings and the undeniable urgency of their situation.
She thought of Longbourn’s great oak, its vibrant song now silenced.
She thought of all of England, slowly, inexorably, being smothered by this encroaching, magical death.
A fresh, grim resolve began to settle in her spirit, extinguishing the flames of her self-pity. The Blight was a war, and in a war, one did not have the luxury of succumbing to one’s own private ghosts.
They had to keep trying. She had to keep trying.
“I agree, Mr Darcy,” she said resignedly. “We need to make progress. We must.”
A dejected sense of inevitability led Elizabeth to accompany Darcy to the lesser library.
She took her usual seat, expecting him to set a task.
But Darcy offered no instruction, no candle to be lit.
Instead he crossed over to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantel, his back to her.
He stared down into the empty grate as if it held the answers to an impossible question.
Elizabeth waited. The air between them was heavy, fraught with the awkward memory of their last argument and now burdened by the Lord Magister’s stark reminder of their duty. She could almost hear the echo of his warning about the dire consequences of their continued failure.
When Darcy finally turned from the hearth, his expression was one of carefully assembled composure.
“Mrs Darcy,” he began, then cleared his throat, his voice losing some of its usual imperious sting, “Before we begin,” and again, he paused, his uncharacteristic stumbling immediately putting Elizabeth on her guard, “I feel I must enquire…is there anything further I should be made aware of? Regarding your…anything that might illuminate upon your — ”
He was referring to her outburst, of course, probing at the wound he had, however unintentionally, inflicted. She felt her spine stiffen, her chin lift, bracing herself.
“Your…current difficulties?” he concluded, awkwardly. All through this, he did not look directly at her, but rather set his gaze on an uninteresting section of the rug.
His unwieldy enquiry took her by surprise. She had expected an interrogation, or perhaps a reprimand, not this. But whatever his method, the destination was the same: a place she would not go. Her own resolve hardened.
She said firmly, “I would like to consider the subject closed.”
He plainly did not like her response, but after only a brief hesitation, acknowledged her request with a nod of his head. “Very well. I had thought to make a return to the fundamentals today. We will again focus on basic energy manipulation of fire.”
They sat in the winged chairs, a new candle between them.
Darcy’s voice was a low murmur as he guided her through the process.
She could feel the restless energy stirring within her, yet when she tried to grasp it, to direct it, or even perceive it in the way he described, it eluded her completely.
It was as if the magic slipped through her fingers like water, leaving her feeling drained and inadequate.
Those were the better efforts. Other times her magic surged with alarming force that had Darcy wincing and instinctively raising a shimmering shield as flames erupted around them.
The day dragged on, with no success.
And for a week thereafter.
Through this, Darcy maintained a tight grip on his temper and words.
But beneath his flawless manners, she felt the sting of his dislike.
To him, she knew, she was not a partner but an incompetent burden from the Arcane Office.
Her every failure, from the smallest misstep to the most chaotic surge of magic, simply confirmed it, deepening the lines of frustration in his face.
After one particularly trying and unproductive afternoon:
“I cannot fathom how to articulate the fundamental concept of directed magical intent with any greater clarity,” said Darcy, a sharp edge beginning to cut through the patience in his voice.
Clearly the fault could not be with him and his teaching, but with her and her comprehension.
The unfairness of his words formed a tight knot in her throat.
Yet she did not allow her vexation to show.
Instead, a light gleamed in her eyes as she gave a slight tilt of her head, and countered with a smile:
“Perhaps we have reached the limits of what words can articulate. How is a man to explain the feeling of a sonnet, sir, when his library is filled with nothing but treatises on magical theory?”
He merely raised an eyebrow at her words, offering no defence, no argument, merely a silent judgement that spoke volumes of his contempt for her intellect, her temperament, and her utter lack of discipline, magical or otherwise.
They tried other exercises. He attempted to teach her to levitate a small, smooth stone, which she managed only to send skittering across the floor, narrowly missing a rather valuable looking vase.
He instructed her in the creation of a simple shield, which, in her hands, manifested as a brief and entirely ineffective distortion in the air, collapsing with a little sigh the moment he directed a testing pulse of his own magic towards it.
And so it went. For another full week, they engaged in this increasingly desperate, but ultimately futile dance.
One afternoon, as Elizabeth was returning from a walk, she heard voices raised in what sounded like a heated discussion coming from the direction of Darcy’s private study, a room she had never entered.
Curiosity, and a desperate desire for any distraction from her thoughts, compelled her to draw nearer, her footsteps silent.
The door to the study was slightly ajar.
She recognised Darcy’s voice instantly, of course.
It was tightly controlled, yet vibrating with that familiar suppressed annoyance.
“…unnecessary, Richard. And frankly, insulting. I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs without the interventions of the Arcane Office. Or indeed, of certain well-intentioned but meddlesome relations.”
And then another voice, lighter, more charming, though Elizabeth could not quite place it. “Now I know you cannot mean me in that category, dear cousin. But to your point, you know the Office is merely concerned. Anxious, even, and for good reason.”
“I have heard their concerns incessantly.”
“You have heard then, that the wards have failed at Brighton? Three men were killed by the magical surge.”
Darcy was silent.
“This true union that the Arcane — ”
“Hang the Office,” interrupted Darcy coldly, “I will not ever force myself upon a woman. There must be another way.”
“Good God, man, I was hardly about to suggest so,” the man replied, and he sounded genuinely offended.
“I only meant to say…perhaps instead of treating her like a wayward pupil, you might try wooing her? Charming her? Come now, Darcy, you are not entirely without ability when you choose to exert yourself and stop scowling at the world.”
More silence.
“She is keeping something from me,” Darcy said eventually.
“Should that surprise you?” the man retorted. “You were married under duress and from what I gather, have spent the entire time instructing her on her failings. Perhaps if you offered a kind word instead of a correction, she might feel inclined to confide in you.”
“And how am I to do that? Am I to compliment her technique when she nearly brings the ceiling down upon us?”
“You were not always this severe, Darcy. I remember a time when you knew how to nurture a gift. With Georgiana — ”
“Do not mention Georgiana.” Darcy’s voice was harsh.
Elizabeth recoiled from the door, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm against her ribs. The savage intensity in his voice, the sheer agony it conveyed, was shocking. Georgiana. Whatever that name signified to him, the wound, clearly, was still raw.
A past attachment, then? A lost love, perhaps, to explain such a depth of pain? The thought was a surprisingly bitter one to contemplate.
For a moment, there was only the sound of a few ragged breaths. Darcy’s. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. “I apologise, cousin. But I beg of you, that is an entirely different matter. And it is closed. Utterly.”
The man’s reply was contrite. “Forgive me, I overstepped. I only meant to suggest that a little warmth, a little kindness, might go further than…” and here he trailed off.
Elizabeth had heard enough. More than enough. The shame of her deliberate eavesdropping was a sharp, almost clammy feeling as she pulled away from the door.
And now all she was left with was a tangle of complex new questions and the unsettling intimacy of a secret she was never meant to be privy to.
Sarah, upon greeting Elizabeth with her morning cup of tea – a ritual that had become one of the sole comforting constants in her new life at Pemberley – announced, with a flustered air that immediately roused Elizabeth’s curiosity, “The master presents his compliments, ma’am, and would like to know if you would consent to break your fast with him this morning. ”
Elizabeth blinked, her teacup halfway to her lips.
Darcy? Wishing to share a meal? For all the weeks she had been immured within the gloomy grandeur of Pemberley, they had dined with solitude.
Every meal, without exception, had been consumed via trays delivered to their respective rooms, a daily testament to their mutual antipathy.