CHAPTER TWENTY
Wickham had departed Pemberley the previous day, escorted to the edge of the estate by a grimly satisfied Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth had not enquired as to what, if any, parting words had been exchanged. Wickham now carried whatever desperate hope he could glean back towards the blighted north.
Georgiana, however, remained, an almost spectral presence at Pemberley.
A healer, summoned post-haste, had pronounced her condition grave but expected that with careful nursing and much rest, she would recover.
The Blight’s insidious touch, he had murmured, had weakened her constitution, but the relative cleanness of Pemberley offered a chance for recovery.
Hired nurses attended her day and night.
Mrs Reynolds and their cook outdid themselves providing sustenance, tempting her weak appetite with all her favourite foods.
Darcy, Elizabeth knew, avoided his sister entirely. He had made no effort to see Georgiana, had offered no word of comfort or enquiry after her health. His sense of betrayal was too deep.
It was Elizabeth who visited Georgiana daily, her heart aching for her newest sister.
Their conversations were carefully curated, lighthearted excursions into the realm of fashion plates and silly novels – anything to distract Georgiana from the shadows of her past and the disapproval of her brother.
Elizabeth also knew that Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it a point to sit with his young cousin daily, his cheerful presence a welcome reminder that she still had family who supported her.
Day by day, Georgiana began to improve. The harrowing cough lessened, a delicate colour returned to her cheeks. She gained enough energy for short walks, usually escorted by the colonel, and coordinated to avoid any interaction with Darcy.
This avoidance cast a strange tension over the otherwise recovering household. Elizabeth found herself restless under the weight of so much unspoken.
So when she heard a clack of ivory striking ivory echoing in the corridor, Elizabeth saw an opportunity to approach.
The door was ajar. The servants must have only recently opened the room again; the air still held the pleasant scent of the wax used to polish the wood. She paused in the doorway, enjoying the unexpected sight of Darcy at leisure.
He was alone, leaning slightly over the green expanse of the table.
Upon it rested three balls: two white and one red.
There was no cue in his hands. He had discarded his coat and was dressed in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with his cravat slightly loosened.
She did not immediately announce herself, intrigued as she was by the study in contrasts before her: the relaxed informality of his dress against the intensity of his focus.
So lost in this unexpected sight, she took a step further into the room. He straightened almost immediately.
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth stepped fully into the room, her gaze sweeping from his hands to the three balls on the table. “I have not seen billiards played without a cue before.”
“I use a cue when I play with others,” he replied.
He turned back to the table, and with a gesture that was both elegant and understated, he directed a whisper of will from his fingertips.
The plain ball clipped the spotted ball with just enough force to send it disappearing neatly into the side pocket.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “You use air magic to play.”
“You seem surprised.”
“You must own, sir, that you have not previously displayed any partiality for idle amusement.”
Darcy raised an appraising eyebrow at that, but offered no reply. He simply took his next shot.
As she watched the balls settle, a dozen serious topics vied for attention, but her curiosity, a far more welcome companion, won out.
She determined that their graver duties could be set aside for a time.
It would be a pleasing respite to, for once, engage in a contest that carried no stakes beyond the game itself.
“May I try?” she asked.
He gestured for her to come to his side, indicating the spotted white ball as hers. “Certainly. The principle is the same as our other lessons. It is not about force, but intention. A whisper, not a shout.”
She assessed the position of the balls before focusing, imagining the feeling of a gentle breeze as she released her magic.
Her cue ball veered erratically, missing the red entirely.
The errant puff of air, however, was strong enough to catch both the red and Darcy’s plain white ball, sending them flying in opposite directions until they came to rest against the far cushions.
The air behind her seemed to warm with his quiet approbation. “I must confess I had expected far worse.”
“Pray tell, what catastrophe did you envision? The table spontaneously combusting? The balls levitating to shatter the windows?” she enquired playfully.
The corner of his mouth twitched, the only answer he offered. Smiling at this small concession, Elizabeth turned to the table, pouring her will into a single point. A controlled puff of air left her hand, and her cue ball cut a straight path towards the red ball, just barely tapping it.
“That was a marked improvement,” Darcy allowed generously.
A competitive light entered her eyes. “Since your expectations are so admirably low, you will not be too disappointed when I defeat you. I suggest a proper game.” She gestured to the table invitingly. “Your magic against mine.”
“You seem to be extrapolating a great deal from one lucky shot.”
“I see. You are afraid of the competition.”
“You are welcome to that notion, if it pleases you. But I must insist upon playing with a handicap. My control is a matter of long practice. It would hardly be a fair contest otherwise.”
“What manner of handicap did you have in mind? Perhaps you could play blindfolded?”
Elizabeth had meant it as a jest, a bit of light raillery at his confidence.
She expected him to shrug it off. Instead, with a glimpse of playfulness she would never have expected from him, he seemed to take her challenge in earnest. He tilted his head slightly, as if he were calculating the mechanics of playing without sight.
“On second thought,” she said quickly, before he could agree to such an fanciful term, “perhaps a more conventional handicap is in order.”
“And what more conventional advantage do you propose?”
“How about a simple advantage in points. Let us say...I shall begin with ten, and we play to eighteen.”
“Such a commanding lead before the game has even begun. You are quite certain you require such an advantage?”
She offered him a wry glance, a silent admission that her need for such a handicap would soon be made abundantly clear.
Focusing intently, she sent a pulse of will towards her cue ball.
It shot forward, taking an errant course that curved away from his plain white ball and came to a stop well off from its target.
“I suppose you do,” Darcy said, a trace of amusement in his otherwise serious tone. “A successful shot requires a mind for the angles, and I believe you neglected them entirely.”
“I believe an over-reliance on Euclid stifles one’s artistic creativity.”
He let out a soft chuckle. “Naturally.”
In that brief moment of levity, Elizabeth savoured the absurdity of how meticulously Darcy, too, was avoiding the heavy subjects that lay between them: Georgiana’s presence, Wickham’s trustworthiness, the looming threat of Newcastle, the volatile nature of their magic, and the ever-present scrutiny of the Arcane Office.
For just one game, they seemed united in their effort to pretend that nothing in the world was more important than the geometry of three balls on a field of green.
Darcy took his turn. His white ball glided forward, striking the red with a definitive click. The red ball rolled on before dropping smoothly into the corner pocket.
“In billiards, a predictable outcome is usually the most desirable one,” he said.
“What a tedious way to live, Mr Darcy,” she retorted with a bantering smile as she circled the table and considered her next shot.
Trying to mimic his control but infused with her own energy, she sent her spotted ball flying.
It was too fast. The ball ricocheted off the red with a crack, careened off two cushions, and by sheer luck, clipped his white ball and scored her two points.
Elizabeth gasped, then a peal of delighted laughter rang out as she looked at him. “It is an unconventional approach, I grant you, but one cannot argue with the results.”
“It is a result achieved through sheer luck,” Darcy observed, unimpressed, “The ball very nearly left the table.”
“I find a little unpredictability makes life more interesting and enjoyable. Do you not?” she teased.
“I cannot agree with that sentiment. In my experience, ‘interesting’ is often a precursor to requiring extensive repairs.”
The game continued in this manner. His shots were models of perfection, each angle flawlessly determined; hers, by contrast, were speculative ventures that occasionally proved remarkably effective.
Darcy was lining up a particularly difficult manoeuvre, one requiring him to send his ball off three cushions before striking its target, when Elizabeth, observing him, could not resist and said, “Should I send for tea? You look as though you might be there for some time.”
His focus broke as he glanced at her, the line of his mouth twitching into a genuine smile. That small lapse was all it took; when he released his magic, his aim was off, and the ball missed its final target by a hair’s breadth.
“It would appear I failed to account for the variable of distraction in my calculations,” he said drily.
“Then you must amend your calculations,” Elizabeth countered as she stepped to the table, “for I shall endeavour to be no less a hindrance to your efforts.”