He, at least, appeared determined to maintain a semblance of his customary joviality. He rose as she entered, his smile practiced but perhaps a shade less ebullient than usual, his greeting filled with a warmth that she could not feel.
“Elizabeth! Good morning,” he said, his voice carefully modulated to a genial pitch. “You were much missed last night. Darcy was far more inclined to commune with the shadows in the fireplace than with me.”
Elizabeth summoned a smile, an unconvincing thing. “Indeed, the shadows seem to be rather popular company at Pemberley of late,” she attempted, the words emerging with less of her usual spirit and more of a dark irony.
The atmosphere of the household seemed altered. Brooks,when he had brought her her letters, had moved with a pronounced solemnity. Sarah had been almost preternaturally quiet, her movements overly solicitous, her eyes wide with a fearful awareness. It was as if the entire estate held its breath, acutely conscious of the sword now hanging so precariously over its master, and by extension, over them all.
The door opened then, and Darcy entered. If the household felt the strain, its master was its living embodiment. The deep lines of sleeplessness and anxiety etched around his eyes seemed to have carved themselves even deeper overnight. Though his valet had clearly attended him, dressing him with the usual diligence, Darcy’s appearance was one of deep distraction. The starched white of his cravat stood in sharp contrast to the dark bruising beneath his eyes, and his dark coat, though perfectly tailored, seemed to hang upon a frame that had somehow diminished.
After seating himself, Darcy, with clear lack of appetite, moved a piece of dry toast aimlessly about his plate. He ate little, his thoughts clearly a thousand miles, and a thousand anxieties, away.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, after a few valiant attempts to engage his cousin in light conversation finally addressed the matter that clearly weighed upon them all, his tone losing its forced cheerfulness, replaced by one of earnest concern.
“Darcy,” he began, his gaze resting on his cousin with a mixture of sympathy and practicality, “regarding this…that is, my father…I know he would wish to be of assistance. Matlock’s resources are considerable.”
Darcy gave a slight jerk of his head. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,” he said, his voice low, “And it is irrelevant, in any case. Pemberley’s obligations are Pemberley’s to bear. And mine.”
Elizabeth listened, her stomach twisting with guilt. Sixty thousand pounds. The figure now took on a stark, terrifying reality. She watched Darcy, saw the hardening of his jaw, the bleakness in his eyes, and a fresh wave of guilt pierced through her. He would not, she knew, shirk this responsibility, however ruinous. He would find the funds, even if it meant crippling the estate for generations, selling off lands, assets, precious parts of the Darcy legacy. He would pay, and he would suffer the humiliations required in order to do so.
And she had brought nothing to this marriage. No dowry of consequence, no estates to mitigate such a blow. She had brought only her deadly magic, her sharp tongue, and now, it seemed, a share in a catastrophe that threatened to undo generations of Darcy stewardship.
“Blake, at the Home Office; he’s an old chum…I can, perhaps, just add a discreet footnote in my next letter…”
“That will do, Richard,” Darcy said, his voice carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of warning.
The mention of money, of influence, only served to underscore her own perceived inadequacy, her inability to contribute anything of material worth to this crisis. All she had was…
She said quietly, “When the settlements were drawn, you were exceedingly generous. You settled thirty thousand pounds upon me. If that sum, or a portion of it, might now be of service, if we were to consider it part of Pemberley’s resources — ”
“I will not consider it,” came Darcy’s sharp reply.
Once, what now felt like a lifetime ago, she would have bristled at such a tone, at such an imperious dismissal of her offer. She would have seen it as yet another example of his refusal to acknowledge her as an equal, his determination to control every aspect of their shared existence.
But now…now, she understood him more. It was not high-handedness that drove his sharp retort. It was something else entirely.
He met her gaze for only an instant, then looked away as if he could not bear the contact. But when he spoke, it was in a more measured tone. “That settlement is all that secures your future and your independence should I pass before you. It is yours, unequivocally. I will not jeopardise it for anything. Not while I still possess the means to meet Pemberley’s obligations myself.” He paused then, and then with a deep sigh said, “Now I beg of you both, let us please discuss something besides my purse.”
Following breakfast, the day remained gloomy. A bruised sky hung over Pemberley, mirroring the unease that had settled within the house. Darcy had retreated to his study after breakfast, and the colonel on a morning ride. She was left alone with her thoughts, and they were poor company.
The memory of Buxton was almost a physical presence, a phantom scent of smoke in her nostrils, the echo of screams in the corridors. And woven through it all was the hot shame.
She could not remain within those walls. Pulling on a heavy cloak, Elizabeth began a long walk, setting a pace that might, with any luck, outdistance the thoughts that troubled her so.
The air was cold, and the ground crunched beneath her feet. Pemberley was still fighting the Blight; she could feel it. She closed her eyes and reached out not with her hands, but with her senses, with her special magical resonance.
The heart of Pemberley was still there, a golden thread of warmth running through the soil, a resilient hum that was theecho of their success in the High Peaks. It was a stubborn current of life, pushing back against the lingering chill. But the chill was there, too. A cold evil deep in the earth, the Blight’s lingering presence, a sickness not yet entirely banished.
The intuitive connection was easy, almost thoughtless. It was the other part, the conscious, deliberate act of will, that made her heart begin to pound with a residual terror.
The fear was a living thing, but to surrender to it again felt like a deeper kind of failure. She thought of all the wasted years, the power she had deliberately left untutored out of the fear, grief, and shame she had refused to confront. She could have honed her power, mastered it, and been the crucial asset England, and indeed, Darcy, deserved. Instead, he had been saddled with the constant, dangerous liability of her power.
A liability.
There was a thick lump in her throat now. She had taken such offence at his words, but what were they but a truth she hadn’t wanted to hear? The word, once an insult, now felt more like a judgement she had earned.
She took a bracing breath before bending down to pick up an oak leaf, its edges curled and brittle. It was so small and so fragile.
And with that came the memory of his voice as he had tried to explain the nature of the wind. She had not truly heeded his words then, her mind too clouded with her own ill opinion. Perhaps it was time she did.
