CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After they had retired to their bedchamber for the night, Darcy stood staring pensively into the dying embers of the fire, his handsome profile softened by the flickering light. He had already shed his coat and cravat, a rare informality that Elizabeth found strangely compelling.
“That was an entirely unexpected evening,” he said at last, coming to sit beside her, “I had not anticipated finding any cause for mirth this evening.”
Elizabeth smiled in return. “Nor did I. To think you have kept such a mischievous past hidden beneath that imposing facade.”
“You may have the advantage for now. But I shall have my turn when we meet with your family, on that you may depend,” he said.
Darcy reached out then, taking one of her hands from her lap and holding it within his own. His thumb began to gently caress the soft skin on the back of her hand.
The simple touch sent a shiver through her. She found her carefully rehearsed train of thought scattering like leaves in the wind, lost in the intimacy of the gesture and the warmth that now shone in his gaze.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, trying to marshal her thoughts while she was still capable of doing so.
“Mr Darcy now, is it?” he murmured distractedly.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, more firmly, “There is an idea I have been contemplating. It is perhaps…audacious, even a little fanciful.”
“An idea?” he prompted, straightening to attention with what appeared to be some reluctance, “Knowing you, I suspect it is indeed all of those things. Pray do not keep me in suspense. I find myself entirely disposed to listen.” His lips curved into another of those devastating smiles.
Elizabeth regretfully removed her hand, knowing she would never be able to concentrate if they continued in this manner.
She took a moment, looking away from him to gather her thoughts, before saying, “I have been contemplating our Concordance. As a magical principle, it is a force of incredible magnitude, but it feels incomplete.”
He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.
“And that, I believe, is the key,” she pressed on. Now came the more difficult part. “We are not the only mages here. Georgiana has healing magic. It is a restorative element our present combined power lacks.”
Darcy’s expression tightened instantly, driven by his fiercely protective instinct.
“I am aware of my sister’s gifts, Elizabeth, but the risk is one I cannot entertain.
Her spirit is still mending; her constitution is fragile.
I cannot permit exposing her to a direct confrontation with the Blight. It would destroy her.”
“I disagree. You see her as a fragile memory to be shielded, a duty you feel you failed. But that is a perception born of your own sorrow, not of her true character. You have not truly looked at her.”
“And you believe you have?” he asked, with strained civility, “Do not be swayed by a fleeting return of spirits. You must give me more than that.”
“I have seen her strength,” Elizabeth said firmly.
“Look at what she has done. Look at the life Georgiana has forged from the ruin. She was bound to a man you believed to be the embodiment of vice, a man who tried to use her for her dowry. She could have withered. She could have been consumed by bitterness and despair. Many would have been.”
She leaned forward, her gaze intense, compelling him to see the truth she was unveiling.
“But she found the courage to remain with him, to face the consequences of her choice. She did not merely endure her marriage to Mr Wickham. By force of will and compassion, she has turned it into a true partnership. Through her own character, she has made him a better man than he ever thought to be. That is not fragility. That is strength. Your sister is not a liability to be protected. She is a weapon we have failed to recognise.”
She saw his certainty waver, a flicker of pained reconsideration in his eyes. She knew she must press on, though the name she was about to utter would be a far greater test of his newfound open-mindedness.
“And Captain Wickham,” she began.
Darcy began to shake his head before the name had fully left her lips, an instinctual rejection hardening his features. “Elizabeth, no.”
“…his magic is largely untrained, like mine. But he possesses — ”
“Surely not,” he cut in, his voice tight with the history of animosity. “To entrust him with even a fraction of this responsibility would be an act of lunacy.”
“I beg you will grant me a moment longer, William.” The request was quiet, yet it halted him. He stopped, his nostrils flared. The silence in the room was charged as he waited for her to conclude her thought.
“Captain Wickham possesses an intrinsic connection with the land, and a meaningful knowledge of the Blight’s corruptions. He could be a valuable asset.”
Darcy expelled an incredulous breath. “You speak of his knowledge of darkness as if it were a virtue. His character is fundamentally unsuited to such a cause. He acts only from self-interest and cannot be trusted.”
She met his argument without flinching. “Then explain to me why he is still in Newcastle. If he were the man you believe him to be, the man who acts only for himself, would he not have fled this blighted city weeks ago? Would he not have abandoned his regiment, abandoned Georgiana, and sought his own safety and comfort elsewhere? Instead, he remained. And when he saw there was no hope left, he went to Pemberley and threw himself upon your mercy — a thing I know must have been immensely galling to him — all to plead for aid for this city.”
“Every action you have described serves his own purpose. You are well aware of my suspicions.”
“I have not forgotten your warning, nor the reasons for it,” she said earnestly, “But that is not what I saw tonight. You see artifice in his actions, but I believe we have both also seen a man changed by circumstance. Tonight, I saw a man who spoke of his past with regret.”
“A practiced performance, Elizabeth. Nothing more.”
“Then you must tell me how I am to distinguish his performance from your own,” she replied, “for I confess I heard the same note of regret in both your voices.”
Darcy set his jaw grimly and looked away.
“And there is another point. In our last confrontation with the Blight, when I drew upon the magic of the land…”
Elizabeth watched as a shadow passed through his eyes, the agony and terror of the Blight’s chokehold. When his eyes met hers again, the bitter disbelief was gone, replaced by the memory of shared peril.
“I recall it well,” he said, in a gentler tone.
“That power I touched was a primal, earthen thing,” she pressed, “And the Blight is a sickness of the land. You yourself have said Captain Wickham possesses a strong natural affinity for earth magic, a connection stronger and more instinctual than my own. Would that not be an invaluable asset?”
When he still hesitated, his expression fraught with years of old grievances and deeply held reservations, she made her final appeal.
“Your caution towards Captain Wickham is based on justified animosity and suspicion, and I cannot argue against it with rationality. Yet my senses tell me a different truth. Georgiana’s heart tells her the same.
I am asking you to set aside what you know, and trust what we feel. He is essential to this fight.”
“You ask me to set aside my misgivings and place my trust in Wickham,” he said at last, the argument in his voice finally giving way to weariness, “That is no small thing to ask.”
“I know it is a great deal to ask, William, but every part of my being tells me this is the way. To defeat the Blight, we need more than just our sheer power. We need healing. And we need the land on our side. Our magic presently lacks these key elements.”
There was a long silence as he considered her words.
“Am I to understand,” he said finally, “that you propose not merely that they fight alongside us, but that we might somehow integrate their power with our own? While the strategic merit of such a force is undeniable, the concept itself is impossible. It stands in direct opposition to all we know of arcane law. One cannot wield another’s power.
The only reason I can...that we can...is the Concordance.
The binding ritual created a conduit between us that defies all known principles.
What is it you propose we do? Hold another such ceremony?
” A bitter humour touched his lips. “I must confess, I have little appetite for the notion of being magically wed to Wickham. Or, indeed, to my own sister. I believe the Arcane Office would have apoplexy.”
Elizabeth huffed, a small sound of exasperation that was both fond and impatient.
“Do not be so preposterous. I am not suggesting we wed everyone.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But you have apprehended my meaning correctly; it is my belief that our success depends upon our ability to truly unite our strengths.”
“And by what mechanism do you propose such a unification? The Concordance is the instrument that allows me to perceive your power and wield it as an extension of my own. That connection does not extend to my sister, nor, I assure you, to Wickham.”
“You insist you cannot wield their power, and perhaps that is so. But are you certain you have never influenced it, however unconsciously?” she said.
He looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Think back to your childhood. When Captain Wickham was building his... his ‘fungal growths’ of mud. You told us your frost stabilised them. Was that a conscious act of magical assistance, a deliberate choice to use ice to engage with his efforts?”
“It was,” said Darcy, and then he frowned, thinking.
“Or was it an unconscious reaction? Perhaps your own innate sense of disciplined magic instinctively reaching to contain his, even then?”
“I suppose I never examined the impulse carefully,” he said quietly, “I cannot be certain of the particulars.”