Tears, hot and unexpected, welled in Elizabeth’s eyes. Tears not of sorrow, or frustration, or despair, but of an overwhelming elation. Their combined power, their Concordance, had wrought a miracle, however small, however localised. She looked out at the vast land stretching to the horizon, and for the first time, she did not see an insurmountable wasteland. She saw hope.
She turned to Darcy, her face wet with tears, her whole being so alight with joy she felt she might dance. And she saw, with a jolt that went straight to her heart, that he was staring at her, his expression one of wonder, a man so swept up in the moment he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
And then he smiled. It was not his usual slight inclination of the lips. It was a true smile, an unreserved, boyish smile that transformed his stern features, and illuminated his eyes with a light she had never seen there before.
In that moment, he was not the critical, arrogant Master of Pemberley that she had despised.
It was as if she was seeing him for the first time. A man capable of joy, of hope, of a smile so radiant, so breathtakingly beautiful, it made her own heart ache with a new and entirely unfamiliar emotion.
And it left her breathless, bewildered, and more than a little afraid of what it might mean.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The exertion from fighting the Blight had left them both in a state of depletion. The expenditure of such immense magical resources, the channeling of their life-forces into the wounded earth, exacted a heavy toll upon their bodies.
Thus, for much of their journey back towards Pemberley, Elizabeth found a restorative peace in simply observing the passing landscape through the carriage window. There, she could discern the promising signs of the change they had wrought. The landscape itself seemed brighter, and the air now carried a cleaner note.
Darcy, perhaps unsurprisingly, was also content to spend much of the journey in silence. She supposed that he was already composing his letter to the Arcane Office. His usual demeanour, however, was undeniably softened, overlaid by an uncharacteristic ease.
“One might almost suspect, Mr Darcy,” she ventured, with a teasing note in her voice, “that beneath your formidable composure, there lies a penchant for the dramatic.”
His eyebrows shot upward. “Oh?”
“I thought I heard the sound of trumpets sounding when you reawakened those stones. It put me in mind of the old tales where the hero mage vanquishes the encroaching darkness with a blinding flash of righteous power. And trumpets, of course, to herald the glorious event.”
“I would scarcely know,” he replied, then with a meaningful look at her, added, “I have been informed that my literary range only extends so far as dry and tedious books on arcane theory. If you perceived the sound of trumpets, it was only a coincidence, I assure you.”
She laughed, despite herself.
Then, with a little smile of his own, Darcy added, “I do, on occasion, peruse other books, you know.”
Elizabeth feigned a look of astonishment. “Indeed, sir? I am all amazement. Pray, do not keep me in suspense. What manner of frivolous fiction has captured your attention?”
“My library is not entirely devoted to magical treatises, though I see how you might have formed that impression.” A flicker of amusement lit his eyes. ”It does contain a shelf or two of poetry.”
“Have you read Cowper?” she asked, her curiosity now genuine.
“I have. His verse possesses a certain quiet dignity. A contemplative melancholy that resonates, at times, with the more sombre aspects of the human condition.”
“I can see the appeal such melancholy might hold for you,” she ventured, a playful challenge in her tone.
He looked at her then, his eyes glinting with a mock severity that was entirely devoid of its former sting. “And what, pray tell, drawsyouto Cowper’s work? I cannot imagine it is the melancholy.”
“I find his depictions of nature, his appreciation for the simple, domestic virtues, rather soothing.”
“Hmm.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I confess it does. Given your remarkable flair for the volatile, I would have imagined that your interests lay more in spontaneous combustion of some sort.”
“An unfortunate omission on Mr Cowper’s part, I agree. Perhaps he felt such subjects lacked the requisite pastoral tranquility.”
A low chuckle rumbled in Darcy’s chest. “When we return to Pemberley, I have in mind a few selections you may find interesting. Have you read Thomson’sThe Seasons? I believe you would find his appreciation for the wilder aspects of the landscape most agreeable.”
Continued discussion on literature carried them through the remainder of the short journey. The final miles to Pemberley passed almost too quickly, the carriage wheels a steady rhythm to their conversation.
As they finally pulled into the courtyard, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows, Elizabeth caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam, emerging from the stables, a cheerful whistle on his lips.
