CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They agreed, over breakfast and with the greatest of civility, on the necessity of another training session.
Back in the confines of the lesser library, the single beeswax candle stood sentinel upon the polished table between their accustomed chairs, an unlit beacon in the tension that filled the room.
“We will once more attempt the direct merging of our energies. The task before us is one upon which our earlier efforts were inadequate. My hope is that we will find success with our new methods,” said Darcy.
“Let us proceed then,” she said simply. She seated herself, her posture wooden, with hands resting lightly in her lap. Yet beneath the surface of her composure, a quiet unease simmered.
Trying to push the emotion aside, she reached inward and called upon her magic. It rose, a potent surge, yet today it felt reluctant, almost as if tainted by the acrid tang of her disillusionment.
At Darcy’s order, “Now, if you please,” she released it, pushing the torrent of energy outwards, towards the waiting candle, towards the invisible, receptive channels of his will.
She felt his magic meet hers, that almost physical quiver of contact. But where before there had been an almost effortless merging, an almost intuitive harmony, today there was resistance.
The candle flame flickered, once, twice, a pathetic, abortive spark, then died, leaving only a wisp of smoke to curl mockingly in the air. A second attempt yielded the same dispiriting result. And a third.
A heavy silence descended, thick with failure and unspoken recrimination.
“It would appear,” Darcy said at last, “that the elemental power you are projecting this morning lacks its usual balance. The principles of arcane theory apply here. They require focused intent and a receptive, stable conduit. My directive efforts are met with an energy that is actively unsettled.”
“Unsettled?” she said, not appreciating the aim of his critique. “Or perhaps the directive efforts lack focus.”
The line of his mouth remained implacable. “My own focus, I assure you, is entirely towards the critical task at hand.”
“So the failure is mine alone, then?” she murmured.
“I apologise if it appears I seek to apportion blame. This situation demands objective analysis. We have failed at what should be a simple magical exercise. I, for one, find this deeply concerning.”
“You are searching for a single cause, sir, when I suspect there are several.”
Darcy said, after a terse silence, “If you have identified specific impediments hindering our efforts, then pray, do not withhold them.”
“Perhaps it is this room, Mr Darcy. Perhaps it is this candle.” Her voice was deceptively light, but her gaze met his without flinching, a clear challenge in its depths.
“I do not believe that the fault lies with the decor.”
Elizabeth drew in a steadying breath, the effort to maintain her composure becoming almost physically painful. “Then my suggestion is simply that we attempt the exercise again.”
They did. Six times more they attempted it, to no success.
Sarah entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver. “Letters for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” she said, her heart lightening when she recognised the seal.
A surge of longing for home, for her sister’s loving presence, came over Elizabeth as she took the letter. Jane’s graceful script filled the pages, a welcome, if poignant, reminder of a life that seemed increasingly distant.
She read, at first, with a smile, Jane’s descriptions of the everyday happenings at Longbourn – their mother’s continued pronouncements on the brilliance of Lizzy’s match; Kitty and Lydia’s latest, invariably foolish, flirtations with the remaining officers of the ----shire Militia, Mary’s request for a piece of sheet music.
But then, as Elizabeth turned the page, the tone of Jane’s letter shifted, a deviation in the rhythm of her words, a tremor in the usually serene flow of her prose, that immediately alerted Elizabeth’s senses.
“I have some news from Netherfield which will, I am sure, prove to be for the best in the long run,” Jane wrote, her words attempting a casualness that felt transparently false, “It seems Mr Bingley and his entire party have departed quite suddenly for London. They left Netherfield this morning, their departure apparently necessitated by urgent matters that could no longer be delayed.”
The air left her lungs in a rush, the words on the page blurring before her eyes. Mr Bingley gone? Departed Netherfield? Without…?
Jane’s letter continued, her attempts at nonchalance becoming increasingly strained. “Miss Bingley shares that her brother sends his kindest regards to our family, and expressed his sincere hope that we might meet again in London, at some future, unspecified date.”
A future, unspecified date. The words were a death knell to any hopes of a continued courtship or of an impending engagement.
Mr Bingley was gone.
Elizabeth knew her sister too well. Beneath the bravely optimistic facade of Jane’s letter, beneath the carefully constructed attempts to make light of the situation, to attribute Mr Bingley’s departure to necessity, lay a deep sense of loss.
The letter concluded with an attempt at cheerfulness, a reassurance that all was well at Longbourn, that Jane herself was perfectly content with this unexpected turn of events. But Elizabeth was not fooled.
Her dearest sister was heartbroken.
Helpless anger choked her throat, anger at Mr Bingley, for his weakness, his lack of resolve, his willingness to raise expectations for weeks (weeks!) and then flee like a coward in the night.
The letter crumpled in her hand.
Pleading the indisputable excuse of a throbbing headache – a condition her current vexation did little to alleviate – she took her dinner, and indeed, the following morning’s repast, as trays delivered to her chambers.
The thought of enduring another meal under Darcy’s assessing gaze, or worse, engaging in further stilted, emotionally charged discourse, was simply more than her frayed nerves could presently withstand.
Dear God, she was turning into her mother.
By mid-morning, the walls of her room felt like they were closing in around her.
Determined to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the house, and the even more suffocating presence of its master, Elizabeth resolved upon a walk.
A long, solitary ramble, as far from Pemberley as her feet could carry her.
It would be a brief reprieve, she knew. Darcy would undoubtedly seek her out, driven by his conviction that the Concordance’s failure was a solvable puzzle, a knot that a sheer application of his will could certainly untangle.
The prospect of that inevitable, and undoubtedly exasperating, trial hung over her like a gathering storm cloud, hastening her steps as she sought the temporary solace of the outdoors.
It was snowing.
As she rounded a bend in the overgrown path that led towards the shimmering lake, she was surprised to see a familiar figure approaching, his military greatcoat a splash of colour against the muted landscape.
“Elizabeth!” he called out, his voice cheerful, his smile as warm and engaging as ever, though Elizabeth thought she detected an almost anxious note in his demeanour. “Fancy meeting you here! Taking a constitutional, are we?”
“Colonel,” she said.
His smile faltered, his expression one of wounded confusion.
“Am I demoted back to ‘Colonel’ with you again, Mrs Darcy? I confess I am quite at a loss as to why. I can assure you that I despise Wickham more than you do, and my affection for Georgiana is considerably more deeply rooted, and certainly more enduring.”
“It must have been a great difficulty to you,” she said, “to have felt an affection so enduring, and yet to have been unable to act when she was most in need.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam froze. The easy charm vanished from his face, replaced by a look of profound discomfort. He opened his mouth, a protest forming on his lips. “But Darcy — ” he began, then cut himself off abruptly, his brow furrowing as if the name itself were a misstep.
He turned away from her, staring off into the distance, his posture snapping into a military bearing as he clasped his hands behind his back.
For a long moment, he was silent, so lost in thought that Elizabeth began to wonder if he would answer at all.
When he finally turned back to face her, his expression had transformed into one of abject, self-reproachful guilt.
“You are entirely right. Perhaps I should have done more,” he said, his voice low and heavy, not meeting her eyes.
“If you are assigning fault between Darcy and myself, then the greater share must fall to me. He was immediately consumed by his duties to the Office upon his return. Any failure to act further was my grievous error.”
A feeling of unease prickled at her. His words were a complete acceptance of blame and a clear attempt to redirect her anger.
He offered no excuses, no justifications.
And yet…something about his manner felt wrong.
His guilt felt real enough, but its source, she suspected, was not the one he was claiming.
Before she could form a question, the colonel looked at her, his own expression now one of plaintive appeal. “I have been a poor guardian, and I can only beg your pardon for my past inaction.”
Elizabeth drew in a breath, her mind racing. An apology should not be tendered to her, she thought, nor did she possess the right to demand one on Georgiana’s behalf.
“The past cannot be undone,” she conceded, her tone softening, “But what of the present? Is there anything that can be done for Georgiana now to ease her situation?”
The question seemed to catch him entirely off guard. A look of discomfort flashed across his face, and he shifted his weight.
“Yes, of course. I should certainly look into the matter. There may be avenues to explore. One must be delicate in these situations.”