When Mrs Reynolds returned briefly before dinner, ostensibly to see if Elizabeth required anything further, she had a plate of freshly baked lemon tarts in her hand. “A little something to keep your spirits up,” she said. “And Mr Darcy asked me to inform you, ma’am,” she added, her tone becoming a little more formal, though still kind, “that certain areas of the house are best avoided for the present. The old west wing, for instance, where the Blight’s influence seems to have concentrated most strongly, and the older sections of the cellars.”
Forbidden rooms. A gathering darkness. The mysteries of Pemberley deepened, tinged now with a more tragic understanding of the shadows that had shaped it and its stern master.
Dinner was a solitary affair for Elizabeth, served on a tray by Sarah in the private sitting room. Darcy, presumably, was still communing with his failing wardstones or immersing himself in whatever duties his estate required.
She ate little, the stillness of the great house pressing in on her from all sides, and thought of Longbourn with a heavy ache in her heart.
CHAPTER SIX
She awoke on her first morning at Pemberley to a world leached of colour. A shrouding mist clung to the garden outside her window, blurring the edges of the distant trees and soaking the air with a penetrating damp. This all offered little immediate encouragement.
After a simple breakfast consumed in the empty grandeur of her private sitting room – a room clearly designed for a lady of immense consequence, not a reluctant, magically conscripted bride from Hertfordshire – Elizabeth was resigning herself for an entire day of lonely confinement when a rap on the door announced the presence of Darcy’s valet.
Sarah and him spoke briefly, then Sarah returned and timidly ventured, “The master would be obliged if you would join him in the lesser library, ma’am. At your earliest convenience, he bid me say.”
As it turned out, the lesser library, in contrast to the grand, cold spaces she had glimpsed, felt immediately welcoming. It was a room that was clearly well-loved and frequently used. It was a library of use, not show; hundreds of books lined theshelves, their gilt lettering dulled by frequent handling.
An imposing desk, its surface scarred and stained with ink spots, dominated one end of the room. Before the blazing hearth, two winged chairs had been placed, facing each other with an almost confrontational air.
Darcy sat behind the desk, already deeply engrossed in a book. He snapped the book shut with a decisive thud as she entered, and came to his feet with a bow. “Good morning, Mrs Darcy,” he said stiltedly, as she curtsied in kind, wondering how long they would maintain this charade of polite civility towards one another, in this place that was presumably their home.
“Good morning, Mr Darcy.”
“I would like to begin by gaining some understanding of your prior magical education.” He gestured towards the armchairs.
She took a seat, though she said, “We need not seat ourselves. It is a short enough explanation. I have never been formally trained. Nor, indeed, informally, beyond what scraps of knowledge a curious mind might glean from unsupervised access to my father’s library.”
He stared at her, his usually unreadable countenance now openly displaying his astonishment. “Never?” he repeated, the word imbued with a note of incredulity that she found irksome.
“None,” she confirmed. “I have, as I mentioned, perused some volumes on magical theory from my father’s collection.” At his continued look of disbelief, she felt a need to defend not just herself, but the logic of the situation. “Perhaps that is the point. I was under the impression from the Lord Magister that my untrained nature was precisely what the Arcane Office found so appealing. Perhaps that is part of the polarity the Concordance requires.”
Darcy shook his head, a gesture of swift and absolute disagreement. “No. That is not it at all. The polarity they sought, the one the texts speak of, is the opposition between my masteryof elemental control and your intuitive resonance, your innate connection to the living world. That quality would exist with or without formal training…”
As he trailed off, Elizabeth watched his expression give way to a deeper, more troubled contemplation. His hands, which had been resting on the arms of the chair, came together in his lap. With his thumb, he began to slowly turn the heavy signet ring on his other hand, a silent, repetitive motion.
When he spoke again, his voice was composed but distracted, as if he were merely thinking aloud. “The Office likely assumed you had received at least the basic instruction afforded to any child of a mage. Your father, at the least. He is Academy trained. Even if he had not seen fit to engage a master, he could have taught you himself. Are you entirely certain?”
“You needn’t belabour the point, sir. My answer will not alter, regardless of the frequency, or indeed, the incredulity, of your questioning.”
“The Office could not have known,” he murmured, as if to himself, “They could not have conceived of the degree of your unpreparedness.”
A flush of defensive heat rose to her cheeks at the unconcealed insult, but she kept her expression composed. “We must hope it is not as insurmountable as you suggest,” she said.
He finally met her gaze, his own dark with a new, sober urgency. “This is a significant setback. There can be no hope of merging our energies if you cannot control your half. It is evident we must begin from the fundamentals. With time not on our side, I only pray you can grasp the concepts quickly.”
As she understood his meaning, sudden foreboding seized within her heart. Her own expression felt brittle, a thing she had to consciously arrange into a semblance of calm. “To begin from the fundamentals, sir? You intend to teach me magic?”
“You have an abundance of raw magical power, but it is useless against the Blight. Without control, it cannot be shaped into a weapon or a shield.”
“And you believe control is the only measure of magic’s worth? Perhaps some things are not meant to be brought to order. One does not command a river to flow in a straight line; one learns to navigate its currents.”
He regarded her with startlement, followed quickly by a dismissive sound, a quiet rejection of her philosophy. “You provide an eloquent metaphor. However, you forget that a river left to its own will often flood the valley, destroying the villages and crops that depend upon it. It is only when we build levees and canals that its power becomes truly useful and life-giving, rather than merely destructive.”
Despite herself, a smile played at the corners of her mouth, the kind of smile that accompanies an unspoken joke. His words had left an air of unassailable self-assurance behind them. Clearly the debate, for him, was concluded; all that remained was her inevitable agreement. She could not help but be entertained by the finality with which he had decided the point closed.
“Do you have an objection to my suggested mode of proceeding?” Darcy enquired, “A genuine one, beyond a desire to be contrary? I assure you I would not have suggested this unless it were absolutely necessary.”
Her smile faded immediately. Against her will, a memory rose, a black tide threatening to drown her. The smell of burning herbs, the searing flash of light, the echoing, empty silence that followed. The look on her father’s face.
