CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The weak sunlight did little to dispel the chill in the courtyard, but Elizabeth felt a warmth radiating from within that had nothing to do with the sun or the heavy wool of her travelling cloak.
The memory of the previous night – the shared vulnerability, the unexpected magic of the candles – still hummed beneath her skin.
She stood beside Darcy as he gave quiet instructions to a groom regarding the harnessing of the horses for their journey north.
The air between them, once so often charged with antagonism, now held a different kind of tension – a delicate, entirely wonderful uncertainty of a path newly entered.
Just as Darcy was concluding his discussion, seemingly satisfied with the arrangements, a hesitant footstep made them both look up. Georgiana stood at the entrance to the courtyard, a travelling cloak wrapped snugly around her, and a small valise in hand.
The change in her appearance since her arrival at Pemberley was remarkable. Though still slender, the fragility was gone, replaced by a healthier, if still delicate, bloom in her cheeks. Her blue eyes, though holding a hint of nervous apprehension, now shone with resolve.
Darcy, however, seemed to see none of the improvement, only the audacity of her presence.
“Georgiana?” he said, his voice sharp, almost harsh, the gentleness of the previous night seemingly forgotten in this new and unwelcome confrontation. “What is the meaning of this?”
Georgiana visibly flinched at his tone, but she held her ground, her chin lifting with a courage Elizabeth had not previously witnessed in her. “I am going to Newcastle, Fitzwilliam.”
“You most certainly are not,” he replied, in a clipped tone. “The arrangements have already been made. You are not included in them. It is neither possible, nor is it advisable, given your current state of health.”
But before Georgiana could offer a protest, or Elizabeth could find the words to intervene, another, considerably more self-assured voice, broke the tense silence.
“Darcy! Well met, on such a fine morning!” Colonel Fitzwilliam sauntered into the courtyard, dressed for travel himself, his heavy coat slung casually over one arm.
He surveyed the scene – Darcy’s rigid posture, Georgiana’s determined, if nervous, stance – with an air of cheerful innocence.
“I was just about to enquire if our carriage was ready. Georgiana and I are hoping for an early start on our journey back to Newcastle. The roads, I hear, are rather lamentable, and one wishes to make good time before the light fails.”
Darcy stared at his cousin, who met his glower with an unruffled smile. “You appear to be under some misapprehension. This is my carriage, being prepared for my journey to Newcastle. With Mrs Darcy.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smile did not falter; if anything, it widened, a picture of guileless affability. “Ah, is it indeed? My apologies, cousin. Yet it is a most fortunate coincidence, then, that our destinations align so perfectly. We would, of course, be pleased to join you in yours.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a matter for levity, Richard,” he said, his voice soft, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of steel. “Georgiana is not undertaking this journey. And you most certainly are not making use of my carriages, this one or any other, for any such ill-considered purpose.”
It was Georgiana then, who surprised them all. Her earlier timidity seemed to recede, replaced by a spark of the Darcy spirit Elizabeth was beginning to recognise.
“Fitzwilliam, I must return to Newcastle,” she stated, her voice now holding a glint of defiance. “My place is there.”
Colour rose high and fast on Darcy’s face. “Back to him, Georgiana? Your duty lies with him? After the circumstances under which you arrived at Pemberley’s door? You would willingly return to that…to that life?”
“I will return to my life,” she said, her face also flushing with emotion, “With my husband, and my friends, in Newcastle. My place is there, and I am recovered enough now to offer what healing I can.”
“You will remain at Pemberley,” Darcy said, his voice quiet but unyielding, “where you can recover fully and be safe. I cannot permit you to undertake such a perilous journey, especially to rejoin him.”
Georgiana drew herself up, a trace of her brother’s own proud obstinacy in her gaze. “If you will not permit me passage in your carriage, then I shall make my own arrangements. I will travel post, if necessary. But I will return to Newcastle. You cannot — ”
Her impassioned declaration was cut short by a boy, running across to them with haste. “Mr Darcy, sir,” he said, skittering to a stop, “Mr Brooks sent me, sir, says there’s an urgent summons from the Arcane Office for you.”
A muscle twitched almost invisibly beside Darcy’s eye. He closed his eyes for a brief instant, his head tilting back ever so slightly, a silent, almost desperate appeal to some unseen, unhearing power for deliverance from this relentless cascade of complications.
When he opened his eyes, he said, in a very measured tone, “Before I attend to this interruption, I wish to be perfectly clear on the point. There is no conceivable circumstance under which my carriage will be employed by any but its intended occupants — myself and Mrs Darcy. I will give instructions as such to my driver. Now pray excuse me.” With a curt nod that included no one in particular, he spun on his heel and strode away.
Elizabeth hesitated for a few seconds. This summons from the Lord Magister, coming at such a moment, could not be ignored.
With a quick, almost apologetic glance towards Georgiana and a silent, imploring look at Colonel Fitzwilliam to not do anything foolish, she gathered her skirts and hurried after Darcy.
She caught up to him as he entered the great house, his steps long and purposeful. “Darcy,” she began.
He did not break his stride, his gaze fixed resolutely ahead. “Not now, Elizabeth. This is not the time.”
“Perhaps it is precisely the time,” she countered gently.
“Before you speak with Lord Magister Theron, before this situation with Georgiana escalates further. Whatever your justifiable feelings about Captain Wickham may be, Georgiana is a married woman. And she is, at present, a guest in this house, not a prisoner to be confined by your decree.”
He stopped then, so abruptly she almost collided with him, and turned to her, his lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation. “And you would have me condone this lunacy? Facilitate her return to that man, to that blighted city, to her almost certain doom?”
“I would have you consider the alternatives,” Elizabeth reasoned, “If she is truly determined to go, as she appears to be, and you forbid her the use of your carriage, will that stop her? Or will she merely find some other means – travel post, as she said, a journey far less safe, far less comfortable, and entirely outside your ability to protect her?”
He plainly did not like the logic of her words.
The weight of his sister’s choices, of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gleeful complicity in her plans, of the Arcane Office’s demands, and now, of Elizabeth’s persistent reason, seemed to press down on him from all sides.
The man who had, only the night before, in the candlelit intimacy of their shared sitting room, held her with tenderness and kissed her with passion, now seemed to be retreating once more behind the instinctive rampart of implacable resolve.
“Lord Magister Theron is expecting us,” he said, in a detached tone as his gaze shifted from Elizabeth to the corridor that led towards the communications room. His adamant posture made his intent abundantly clear: the discussion regarding Georgiana was, for him, closed.
But Elizabeth, her heart aching at this jarring return to a more distant Darcy, reached out, her fingers gently brushing his arm. “Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, her voice a low plea that held no demand, only the echo of the previous night’s tenderness.
He stopped, the slight, unexpected touch seeming to sway him more effectively than any argument.
When he finally did turn to look at her, the remoteness in his eyes had fractured, and she saw a hint of the man from the night before – the man whose defences had crumbled in her presence, whose kisses had spoken of a desire and a vulnerability she had never imagined, whose whispered use of her Christian name had resonated through her like a spell.
“I cannot allow this, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice no longer cold, but at last revealing his pain, “Her safety and happiness is all I have ever desired for her. Even when…” he trailed off.
“I know,” Elizabeth murmured, her hand still resting on his arm, a small, steadying pressure, “But I do not believe she will be deterred by the danger.” She looked up at him then, her gaze full of meaning. “It is a trait I find I am developing a surprising fondness for.”
He blew out a breath.
She did not press him further on the matter of the carriage, sensing that the seed of her reasoning might have taken root in the momentarily softened ground of his heart.
With a sigh of resignation, Darcy gave a nod towards the communications room. “It does not do to keep the Lord Magister waiting. Let us hear his decree.”
The communications room was hushed, the only light coming from the shimmering silver basin where Lord Magister Theron’s imposing face was already formed.
As they came to a halt before the pedestal, Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Darcy shift beside her.
It was a small thing, a barely discernible change in the alignment of his body, yet she understood its unspoken intent – a quiet, almost reflexive, positioning that placed him as a subtle bulwark between her and the Arcane Office’s stern arbiter. Warmth filled her at the gesture.
The Lord Magister’s gaze settled, with a heavy accusatory look, upon Darcy.