“She has a certain untamed energy, I grant you,” he conceded, “but such power is more often a liability than an asset. With diligent training, it might be made serviceable, but as it is, it presents a danger to oneself and to others.”
It seemed his ten thousand a year had afforded him a great many opinions but not an ounce of civility to go with them! Feeling rather put out, Elizabeth was left to wonder whether he was merely careless with the volume of his voice, or if he truly believed he was performing a service with his unsolicited wisdom.
As they rode home in the rattling Longbourn carriage, Mrs Bennet was in absolute raptures about Mr Bingley and Jane. “Such an agreeable, charming young man! And so clearly, so delightfully smitten! Oh, Jane, my dear, you will be mistress of Netherfield Park yet! And his fortune! Five thousand a year, they say, at the very least! It is a match made to be!”
Lydia and Kitty giggled incessantly about officers, while Mary, roused from her book, quoted a rather obscure passagefrom some dreadful tome or another. Jane smiled serenely, her cheeks flushed with happiness.
Elizabeth alone was silent, wrestling with her turbulent sentiments. Every recollection of Mr Darcy’s arrogance — his insulting words, the sheer oppressive weight of his power — forged her resentment into a conviction.
But even as she sharpened the edge of her dislike, the memory of that fleeting moment when their eyes had first met lingered, an unwelcome counterpoint to her righteous anger.
CHAPTER TWO
The days following the Meryton assembly settled into a deceptive rhythm at Longbourn. Deceptive, because beneath the surface of ordinary country life, the currents of change ran deeper and swifter.
Mrs Bennet’s considerable energies were now entirely consumed by scheming ever more elaborate ways to further Jane’s acquaintance with Mr Bingley. Her persuasive talents were deployed with maternal zeal, attempting to nudge fate, opportunity, and her eldest daughter in the desired Netherfield direction.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, found her thoughts frequently, and annoyingly, returning to the towering figure of Mr Darcy. His dismissive pronouncements – “tolerable,” “untamed power,” “a liability” – echoed in her mind with infuriating persistence.
Yet, despite her best efforts to dismiss him as merely a rude, haughty man, she couldn’t entirely dispel the memory of the sheer magnitude of his magical presence. All others now seemed almost childishly inconsequential.
The Blight, too, continued its relentless creep. The great oakat the edge of their property now looked truly sick. Its smaller branches crumbled to dust at the slightest touch, its magical hum replaced by a sickly whisper that was deeply disturbing to Elizabeth’s senses.
Even the usually vibrant energy woven into the market stalls in Meryton — the magic that made the fruit gleam with unnatural freshness and the ribbons shimmer with impossible colours – seemed faded and tired. A sense of foreboding was settling over Hertfordshire like a shroud, a feeling that even Mrs Bennet’s determined, almost aggressive optimism couldn’t entirely dispel.
Mr Bennet spent more and more time closeted in his library. It was not merely the leisurely engagement with familiar texts, or solely a desire to absent himself from domestic concerns, that now drew him. Instead, he applied himself with unwonted diligence to weighty tomes. The situation had become dire enough to, at the least, inspire Mr Bennet to read about action, albeit not yet enough to rousetoaction.
One crisp autumn afternoon, nearly five days after the assembly, the quiet of Longbourn was shattered by an arrival of undeniably ominous importance.
Two imposing coaches, devoid of any heraldic crest or ornamentation, drawn by four perfectly matched horses each, pulled up the gravel drive with an air of authority. The lead coachman, a tall figure swathed from head to toe in dark grey livery, drew the coach to a stop.
“Good heavens above!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet, rushing to the drawing room window, “Who can this be? Such an equipage! So grand! Perhaps Mr Bingley has come to make a late call! Oh, Jane, your hair! Is it tidy? Lizzy, do you think my cap is straight?”
But Elizabeth knew this was no mere social call, for the magic surrounding these arrivals was too potent. It was the unmistakable signature of the Arcane Office.
“Get Papa,” she told Kitty.
“You do it,” said Kitty, sprawled on the couch with her latest embroidery covering her head.
A footman, as stern and grey-clad as the coachman, disembarked from the lead coach and approached the front door. Mr Hill, their aging butler, opened the door with a visible tremor of his hand.
The footman offered no polite preamble. He simply stated, “A summons from the Lord Magister of the Arcane Office, for Mr Bennet of Longbourn, and for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
A collective gasp went through the assembled Bennet ladies. Mrs Bennet looked as though she might faint, her hand fluttering to her chest. “The Arcane Office? The Lord Magister himself?”
Elizabeth, who typically met every circumstance with ready wit or quick action, now experienced a tumult of bewilderment so complete that it effectively froze her to the spot. What could the Arcane Office possibly want withher? How could her name even be known to them?
It was Kitty, her earlier petulance forgotten, who ran off to fetch their father.
When he came moments later, Mr Bennet’s face was pale, but his voice, when he spoke, was composed. “It seems, Mrs Bennet,” he said, addressing his overwrought wife, “that we have finally attracted attention from circles far beyond Hertfordshire.” To the impassive footman, he said, “We will attend His Lordship at once.”
There was no choice. There was no possibility of polite demurral or a plea for a more convenient time. The summonswas absolute. The Arcane Office’s authority came from the Crown.
Elizabeth felt dread tighten in her stomach, a premonition of something significant, something life-altering, and almost certainly unpleasant. Her magic, which had been restless and agitated ever since the Meryton assembly, now thrummed within her with a nervous energy, making the teacups on a nearby side table rattle faintly. She exchanged a worried, silent glance with Jane.
They were not permitted to take their own carriage. Instead, Mr Bennet and Elizabeth were ushered, with a minimum of ceremony, into the first of the black coaches.
As the coach pulled away from Longbourn, Elizabeth caught a last, fleeting glimpse of her mother’s face at the window, Jane’s anxious one pressed close beside her.
