Elizabeth felt a well-worn weariness settle over her as her mother prattled on about Mr Bingley and his two sisters. The endless parade of eligible bachelors, the constant assessment of magical strengths, financial prospects, and ancestral pedigrees…it was a suffocating game, and one she had no desire to play tonight.
“And there is another man in the party, I believe,” Mrs Bennet added, “Imagine if he were to be unattached as well! And with a fortune of his own! Oh, what a blessing that would be for us all.”
The feeling lingered even as she dressed for the Meryton assembly later that evening. As she selected a gown of simple white muslin, she couldn’t shake the image of the dying Longbourn oak. Deep within her, her magic stirred and prickled, sensing the approach of a storm far greater than any mere meteorological disturbance.
She tried to dismiss the feeling as she tied her ribbons, reflecting with a smile of dry amusement that perhaps this premonition of great change was not about dying magic, but something far more mundane. Perhaps it simply meant that this very evening might present an eligible gentleman perfectly formed to turn her world on its head.
The journey to Meryton in the rattling Longbourn carriage was filled, as usual, with Mrs Bennet’s excited, increasingly detailed chatter about Mr Bingley, his reputed fortune, and the dazzling potential for at least one, if not more, of her daughters to be ‘comfortably settled’ before the winter.
Jane listened with her customary sweetness and a smile, occasionally offering a placating remark. Lydia and Kitty giggled over imagined flirtations, while Mary silently reviewed her book, her lips moving soundlessly.
Elizabeth, however, found her gaze drawn to the passing countryside. The hedgerows, which had always shimmered with a magical vitality in her childhood, now looked dull, their inner light almost extinguished. Patches of grass by the roadside, even in sheltered spots, were unnaturally brown and brittle.
The Blight was no longer a distant whisper. It was a visible, tangible presence.
And as they approached the brightly lit assembly rooms, the cheerful, slightly off-key sounds of music and the babble of excited laughter spilling out into the cool night air, Elizabeth felt the strangest sense of dissonance. How could they dance and flirt and gossip while the very foundations of their world,the magical bedrock of their existence, were visibly crumbling beneath their feet?
The answer, she supposed with a sigh that tasted of dust and resignation, was that most of them simply didn’tfeelit with the same acute, painful sensitivity that she did. Or, perhaps, they chose not to. Magic, for many, was a convenience, a status symbol, a useful tool for social advancement or personal advantage. Deeper connections, such as the primal link to the land and the intuitive understanding of the delicate balance that sustained their magical existence, were largely forgotten, dismissed as antiquated, or simply ignored in the pursuit of more immediate, more tangible pleasures.
But Elizabeth thought of a land vibrant with magic, of rivers that sang and stones that spoke. She felt the change, the sickness, in her very bones.
It was only a matter of time until it consumed them.
The Meryton assembly rooms buzzed with a heightened energy that went far beyond the usual social anticipation of a country gathering. Tonight, the much-heralded arrival of the Netherfield party, particularly the eligible and reportedly very wealthy Mr Bingley, had filled the atmosphere with a frantic sense of speculation and competitive hope. Even the music was brighter, and more desperate.
Elizabeth observed her mother already in animated conversation with Lady Lucas, their heads close together, caps practically touching, no doubt exchanging the latest, most detailed intelligence on Mr Bingley and his fortune.
“He is here!” Lydia suddenly hissed, her voice a stage whisper that carried further than normal volume. “Mr Bingley! And his entire party! La, they look terribly grand!”
A ripple of heightened excitement, almost a physical wave, passed through the crowded room. Necks craned. Conversations faltered, then resumed in more hushed, speculative tones as the Netherfield party made their entrance.
Even Elizabeth, determinedly unimpressed, had to admit that Mr Charles Bingley cut a most pleasing figure. He was undeniably handsome, with a cheerful countenance, bright eyes, and an easy smile. The magical feel about him, as her mother had gleefully reported, was warm and inviting, an uplifting energy that seemed to radiate goodwill.
His sisters, however, possessed noticeably scornful demeanours. Miss Caroline Bingley was undeniably elegant, a vision in a gown of silk that shimmered with an inner light, as if woven with frost. She left a distinct chill in her wake.
Mrs Hurst, her married sister, possessed a more subdued magical capacity, best described as wholeheartedly unremarkable, much like her husband, Mr Hurst, whose own magical signature was so indistinct it was barely detectable. He seemed more interested in the refreshment table than in the social dynamics of the assembly.
And then there was the other gentleman. The friend. The almost afterthought in her mother’s earlier effusions of the Netherfield party.
He was no afterthought.
He entered slightly behind Mr Bingley, and his arrival was not so much an entrance as a distinct and complete shift in the atmosphere of the room. If Bingley’s aura felt like gentle, warming sunshine, this man’s presence was like the arrival of a storm — immense, controlled, and overwhelmingly powerful.
Elizabeth felt it like a sharp pressure change in her ears, a prickling on her skin as if the air itself had become charged. Her own magic, usually a restless hum beneath her awareness, recoiled violently for an instant, then, peculiarly, seemed to strain towards this new force. The air around him seemed denser, heavier, subtly darker, the candlelight in his immediate vicinity appearing to dim slightly, as if drawn into the vortex of his concentrated energy. The sheer force of his power spoke of generations upon generations of accumulated magical strength and of years of rigorous, disciplined study.
He was tall, strikingly handsome in a severe way, with dark eyes that surveyed the room with an air of cool assessment, as if cataloguing and dismissing its occupants in a single, sweeping glance.
“Lord, he is divine!” Lydia breathed in that horribly overloud whisper, her eyes wide and star-struck, her earlier interest in Mr Johnson entirely forgotten.
Kitty giggled in agreement, already adjusting her ribbons. “That is Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley,” she said, in tones of great importance, “He hasten thousanda year and he owns half of Derbyshire!”
“Hush,” Elizabeth whispered, mortified.
“But they areallsaying it,” Kitty pouted at her.
Even Jane, usually so composed, seemed a little awed. “His magical presence is remarkable, Lizzy,” she murmured. “One feels it quite distinctly, like a great weight.”
“Oh, do not be alarmed, Jane,” Elizabeth said under her breath, a smile touching her lips. “It is merely the weight of ten thousand a year. I am told it is a considerable burden to bear.”
