A gentle touch, she told herself, her mind a chorus of desperate pleas. Not a torrent. A whisper.
She held the leaf on her open palm and focused, trying to recall the feeling of a soft summer breeze, the barest current of air. She let the memory of his voice settle over her, the calm, steady cadence, the quiet conviction of his words. This time, there was no contrary pride to question his methods, no innerturmoil to muddy the instruction. She simply opened her mind to his guidance, trusting in the counsel he had offered. She pictured it now, a gentle, precise exhalation of will, meant only to lift the leaf and let it drift to the ground.
For a moment, nothing happened. The leaf lay completely still. Then, a sudden, petulant gust of wind erupted from her right, whipping her cloak around her and sending a shower of dead leaves from a nearby branch scattering to the ground.
But the leaf in her hand had not moved.
Not precisely the delicate touch I had envisioned.
Again. She focused, pouring all her concentration into the simple task. This time, the response was a violent, angry swirl of air that rose at her feet, spinning dust and twigs into a miniature whirlwind that died as quickly as it had formed. The leaf was torn from her grasp, not by a gentle push, but by the edge of the vortex, and sent spiralling away into the undergrowth, lost.
She tried one last time, her hands now trembling. She aimed her will at a cluster of fallen leaves a few feet away. The result was a pathetic puff of air, a magical sigh that stirred nothing at all.
So much for convenient triumphs. Reality is rather more humbling than a novel.
The magic was there, an undeniably powerful force roiling within her, but it was not hers to command.
Not yet, she corrected firmly,but it will be. It must be.
The thought was a stubborn resolve. She had failed today, but she would try again tomorrow.
The days following Buxton had settled upon Pemberley with an anxious pall. Each morning, she went to a secluded glade where she wrestled with the unruly power within her. The results were maddeningly inconsistent; a flicker of success would be followed by a surge of chaos, and true control remained a frustratingly elusive prize.
She was lost in this disheartening loop, her gaze fixed on the path before her, when a flash of movement and a surprisingly valiant cry caught her attention. A small boy, of no more than eight years, was engaged in a ferocious battle, brandishing a sturdy fallen branch with determination, his cheeks flushed with the exertion of his imaginary fray.
“Get away, blackguards!” he cried, with remarkable dramatic flair. “Your wicked days are done! The Great Mage Merlin stands against you!” With a mighty grunt, he thrust his stick towards an unseen enemy lurking behind a bush.
Elizabeth paused, unable to resist a smile. The child, absorbed in his heroic defence, had not noticed her approach. She watched for a moment as he parried invisible blows, his face a mask of concentration.
“A most valiant defence, Great Mage Merlin,” Elizabeth said softly, stepping into his line of sight.
The boy whirled around, his makeshift sword held defensively, his eyes wide with surprise. Seeing a lady, and one in a fine pelisse, his youthful bravado faltered. “Oh! Begging your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”
“No harm is done,” Elizabeth assured him, her smile widening. “It appeared a most desperate battle. Were the highwaymen particularly villainous this morning?”
The boy, reassured, puffed out his chest a little. “Yes, ma’am, they were after the King’s own gold. But I sent them running with a great big bolt of power!”
Elizabeth suppressed a chuckle at his earnestness. “A most effective method, I have no doubt. And what name do they call you by, brave mage, when you are not occupied in the laudable defence of the King’s highways?”
“Tom, ma’am. Tom Cotter.” He gestured with his stick towards a neat, if modest, cottage nestled at the edge of a patchwork of fields. “I live there, with Ma and Pa.”
“Well met, Tom Cotter,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you might be persuaded to escort a weary traveller to your home? These Pemberley woods are more extensive than I realised when I first set out this morning.”
It was, she knew, a somewhat flimsy pretext. A sharp realisation pricked at her conscience as it dawned on her that since her arrival at Pemberley, consumed as she had been by the Concordance, by Darcy, by the Blight, she had not once made an effort to visit any of the tenants. At Longbourn, such visits had been a regular part of her and her sisters’ duties.
She had told herself that she was too preoccupied with magical training here, that Darcy’s vast estate was different. But was it truly? Or had a part of her, still rebelling against this forced marriage, recoiled from fully embracing the responsibilities of her role?
The thought brought a flush of unease, a sense that some deep-seated resentment had soured more than just her sense of duty. She had been wrong to let her personal grievances overshadow her responsibilities. But it was a mistake she could, and would, begin to set right this very day.
Tom, visibly delighted at the prospect of such an important mission, led her with a skipping gait towards the cottage. The dwelling itself was tidy, the small garden showing signs of diligent tending. Yet, as they drew closer, Elizabeth’s smile faded. The neat rows of winter vegetables in the adjacent field –carrots, onions, and hardy greens – were undeniably edged with the tell-tale greyish-brown of the Blight.
Martha Cotter, a woman whose kind eyes held the shadow of constant worry, greeted Elizabeth at the door with a mixture of surprise and deference when Tom announced, with considerable importance, “Ma, look! This is the lady from the big house.”
John Cotter, Tom’s father, a sturdy, weathered man, soon joined them, offering a respectful nod. After the necessary introductions were made, the Cotters’ tale of concern tumbled out.
“It’s the Blight, ma’am, and no mistaking,” Mr Cotter said, his voice heavy, “It’s been creeping back, these past few days. Just this morning, it came up on the carrots, the onions…if it takes them, ma’am, we’ll have precious little to see us through the hard months, let alone anything for the market.”
Mrs Cotter wrung her hands, her gaze drifting towards the afflicted fields. “The land seem to be losing its strength. ’Tis like the good earth itself is weary, ma’am, and cannot fight as it once did.”
