CHAPTER TWELVE
The exertion from fighting the Blight had left them both in a state of depletion. The expenditure of such immense magical resources, the channeling of their life-forces into the wounded earth, exacted a heavy toll upon their bodies.
Thus, for much of their journey back towards Pemberley, Elizabeth found a restorative peace in simply observing the passing landscape through the carriage window.
There, she could discern the promising signs of the change they had wrought.
The landscape itself seemed brighter, and the air now carried a cleaner note.
Darcy, perhaps unsurprisingly, was also content to spend much of the journey in silence. She supposed that he was already composing his letter to the Arcane Office. His usual demeanour, however, was undeniably softened, overlaid by an uncharacteristic ease.
“One might almost suspect, Mr Darcy,” she ventured, with a teasing note in her voice, “that beneath your formidable composure, there lies a penchant for the dramatic.”
His eyebrows shot upward. “Oh?”
“I thought I heard the sound of trumpets sounding when you reawakened those stones. It put me in mind of the old tales where the hero mage vanquishes the encroaching darkness with a blinding flash of righteous power. And trumpets, of course, to herald the glorious event.”
“I would scarcely know,” he replied, then with a meaningful look at her, added, “I have been informed that my literary range only extends so far as dry and tedious books on arcane theory. If you perceived the sound of trumpets, it was only a coincidence, I assure you.”
She laughed, despite herself.
Then, with a little smile of his own, Darcy added, “I do, on occasion, peruse other books, you know.”
Elizabeth feigned a look of astonishment. “Indeed, sir? I am all amazement. Pray, do not keep me in suspense. What manner of frivolous fiction has captured your attention?”
“My library is not entirely devoted to magical treatises, though I see how you might have formed that impression.” A flicker of amusement lit his eyes. ”It does contain a shelf or two of poetry.”
“Have you read Cowper?” she asked, her curiosity now genuine.
“I have. His verse possesses a certain quiet dignity. A contemplative melancholy that resonates, at times, with the more sombre aspects of the human condition.”
“I can see the appeal such melancholy might hold for you,” she ventured, a playful challenge in her tone.
He looked at her then, his eyes glinting with a mock severity that was entirely devoid of its former sting. “And what, pray tell, draws you to Cowper’s work? I cannot imagine it is the melancholy.”
“I find his depictions of nature, his appreciation for the simple, domestic virtues, rather soothing.”
“Hmm.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I confess it does. Given your remarkable flair for the volatile, I would have imagined that your interests lay more in spontaneous combustion of some sort.”
“An unfortunate omission on Mr Cowper’s part, I agree. Perhaps he felt such subjects lacked the requisite pastoral tranquility.”
A low chuckle rumbled in Darcy’s chest. “When we return to Pemberley, I have in mind a few selections you may find interesting. Have you read Thomson’s The Seasons? I believe you would find his appreciation for the wilder aspects of the landscape most agreeable.”
Continued discussion on literature carried them through the remainder of the short journey. The final miles to Pemberley passed almost too quickly, the carriage wheels a steady rhythm to their conversation.
As they finally pulled into the courtyard, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows, Elizabeth caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam, emerging from the stables, a cheerful whistle on his lips.
“Darcy! Elizabeth!” he called out, “Back already? And looking, dare I say, rather triumphant?”
“Our endeavours at the ley line were successful,” said Darcy.
The colonel’s face lit up with pleasure at his cousin’s words.
He turned then to Elizabeth and said, “Excellent news! Darcy’s usual pronouncements on such significant matters can be so understated that one is often left to decipher the true scale of success from other indicators.
But I must say, Elizabeth,” he added, his gaze warm and appreciative, “the radiance on your countenance speaks volumes more than my cousin’s terse syllables. ”
“I was unaware I was so transparent,” she said, returning his grin.
“Entirely and delightfully so!” he affirmed. “Tell me, were there any particularly memorable, shall we say, effusions of power this time? Or did you manage to confine any explosive displays strictly to the offending node?”
Elizabeth laughed, a clear, bright sound that echoed pleasantly in the courtyard.
“I protest! I do not know why I have been granted this rather alarming reputation for combustive tendencies,” she exclaimed, though her tone was entirely good-humoured.
“I have not, I assure you, actually caused anything at Pemberley to explode, not once.”
“Not yet, you mean,” the colonel retorted, with a conspiratorial grin, “But the winter is long, and I confess I find the prospect of a few well-placed magical detonations rather more exciting than the customary quiet at Pemberley.”
“You are a dreadful influence, Richard,” she said.
As she spoke, sharing a look of easy amusement with Colonel Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth happened to glance towards Darcy.
Yet, as her eyes chanced upon him, she read a shift in his expression.
The line of his jaw seemed to tighten, just for an instant, before settling back into its customary reserve.
It was a fleeting change, yet Elizabeth, increasingly attuned to the minute variations in his countenance, sensed a sudden, unexpected coolness emanate from him, a subtle withdrawal that was at odds with the triumphant news they had just shared and their easy rapport in the carriage.
Vexing, vexing man.
Darcy addressed his cousin, though his eyes briefly met Elizabeth’s with that unreadable coolness. “The success at the line, Richard, is what signifies. The methods achieved the desired outcome.”
“You speak true, cousin,” said the colonel cheerfully, either oblivious to Darcy’s change in mood or electing to ignore it, “Now as it happens, I was just about to indulge in a ride to the far side of the estate. Perhaps either of you would care to join me?”
Darcy demurred, citing a need to apprise the Arcane Office of their latest developments.
Elizabeth said, with regret, “I fear I must decline. I do not ride well.”
“Ah, a pity. Perhaps, then a walk?”
This presented a perfect opportunity to question the colonel further about Georgiana! She strongly wished to piece together the fragmented, painful narrative that so clearly haunted Darcy. “A walk would be most agreeable,” she said happily.
The colonel offered his arm, and she took it with a smile.
As they turned to depart, Elizabeth noticed that Darcy had not moved. He remained by the entrance to the house, a solitary figure watching them go without a word or sign of farewell.
The feeling of his weighty gaze followed her across the courtyard, a prickle on the back of her neck, until they finally rounded a copse of trees, and she felt herself finally released from his scrutiny.
They strolled through the walled garden, its faded beauty now tinged with the fragile promise of returning life Elizabeth had sensed earlier.
The air was cool, crisp, and blessedly free of the oppressive gloom that pervaded so much of the house.
For a while, they walked in easy silence, then, emboldened by the colonel’s relaxed manner and her own lingering curiosity, Elizabeth found herself voicing the question that had been hovering on the edge of her thoughts.
“Richard,” she began, her voice a little hesitant, “if I may be so bold, the last time we conversed, you were about to tell me about Georgiana.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cheerful expression clouded over. They had reached a secluded stone bench beneath a gnarled tree, and he gestured for her to sit.
“There is more to the story. It is one that I fear still casts a long dark shadow, and especially upon Darcy.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, or perhaps, his courage to speak of such painful matters.
Elizabeth waited, filled with a mixture of apprehension and a compassionate curiosity.
“Georgiana is alive, Elizabeth,” he said at last. “A year ago, when she was barely fifteen, she fell disastrously under the influence of a man. A charming, handsome, and utterly unscrupulous scoundrel by the name of George Wickham.”
Wickham. The name was unknown to Elizabeth, yet it seemed to carry a malevolent resonance in the colonel’s voice, a name spat out with contempt.
“George Wickham is the son of Pemberley’s former steward.
He grew up at Pemberley and, as the late Mr Darcy’s cherished godson, was educated at his expense, treated almost as a member of the family.
A foster brother, one might say. He possessed a superficial charm that could beguile a siren, a glib tongue that could twist truth into any shape he desired, and an uncanny talent for running up debts he never meant to honour.
That scoundrel used those talents to to prey upon Georgiana’s innocence.
She was sheltered, you see, and terribly lonely here at Pemberley.
Wickham filled her head with tales of adventure, of romance, of escape.
But all he wanted was her dowry of thirty thousand.
“He persuaded her that he was in love with her, but that Darcy would never allow them to be together. And so they eloped. She left a brief note and disappeared with him in the dead of night.”
Elizabeth gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Elopement. With a scoundrel. For a young woman of Georgiana’s station, it was an unthinkable act of folly, a stain upon her reputation.