Elizabeth’s heart ached. This was the reality of the Blight – the threatened livelihood of a family, the quiet fear in a mother’s eyes, the hunger of a small, imaginative boy.
“I will speak to Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth found herself saying, the words emerging before she had fully weighed their implications.
The weight of their plight pressed upon Elizabeth as she returned to the house. To approach Darcy now, when he was already so burdened, when he clearly did not wish for her company, felt like an imposition of the highest order. Yet, the image of the Cotters’ anxious faces, of young Tom’s innocent play shadowed by a very real threat, would not leave her.
She hesitated at his study door, her hand raised to knock, as uncertainty overtook her. What if he refused? What if he sawit as a minor, localised concern, too insignificant to warrant his attention amidst the greater crises that besieged them?
Taking a deep breath, she knocked.
“Enter.” His voice, when it came, was weary and distracted, exactly as she had feared.
She found him as she had expected, all but buried beneath a mountain of correspondence and documents. He looked up as she entered, surprise — and perhaps, she thought with a sinking heart, annoyance — in his tired eyes.
“I must apologise for this intrusion; I am aware you are exceptionally busy. But I have just come from the Cotter farm. The Blight is encroaching upon their winter crops.” She recounted what she had seen, the quiet desperation in the Cotters’ voices, her own words tumbling out in her earnestness to convey the urgency of their situation.
But then, to her astonishment, he immediately pushed aside his letters. “The Cotters? John and Martha?” He rose, his movement decisive. “I know the way. The curricle will be fastest.”
Moments later, they were speeding along the drive, Darcy handling the reins with his usual consummate, effortless skill. Elizabeth, seated beside him, found herself covertly studying his profile – the firm, determined set of his jaw, the deep lines of strain around his eyes.
Once they arrived at the farm, Darcy’s inspection of the blighted land was thorough, his questions to Mr Cotter pointed and practical. He knelt, crumbling the affected soil between his fingers, analysing the decay.
Elizabeth stood a few paces back, an observer, assuming his silence was one of deep contemplation, a puzzle he would shortly solve on his own. It was with a start, then, that she heard him speak to her. He addressed her without looking up, his voice as studiously detached from her as his gaze.
“My own magic reads the structure of the corruption, but not the depth of its hold. Perhaps your talents would be better suited to the task.”
For a moment, Elizabeth did not reply, so great was her surprise. He was not just asking for her help; he was asking for her magic, the same power he had once dismissed. It was an astonishing concession from a man she had accused of such unyielding pride.
This behaviour was so altered from the man who had faced her in the carriage that she could not help but marvel at it, not merely at the change, but at the sheer strength of character it must have taken. She had delivered to him such cruel words. Yet, he had somehow endured the blow, found the substance of her critique within the venom, and humbled himself enough to take it to heart.
What a fine irony that her worst behaviour should be rewarded with this glimpse of his best.
She might have remained absorbed in this disconcerting new view of his character, had not his sudden movement broken her reverie. He had glanced up, though his gaze settled on somewhere just past her, a slight arch to his eyebrow the only sign he had marked her distraction.
“Your intuitive resonance, Mrs Darcy?” he prompted.
“Of course,” she said, shaking her shock and gathering her focus. Although she had sensed it earlier, she let her senses sink into the earth one more time, to be certain. The Blight felt like a cold, greasy film, but it was thin. Underneath, she could feel the slow, steady pulse of Pemberley’s magic. “The corruption has not taken a deep root. It is on the surface only, no deeper than the onions in the field.”
“That is a considerable relief,” Darcy said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. A tacit reprieve was felt between them; they would not have to risk another such trial ofthe Concordance today. “And can you discern its western boundary?”
“Its influence does not extend beyond some two hundred feet to the west.”
Darcy turned back to Mr Cotter. “This will require a direct application of my own magic. It will be a temporary measure, Mr Cotter, a protective shield. But it should afford your crops the necessary defence to reach maturity.”
An awe stole over Elizabeth as she watched him perform his magic. For her, every magical act was a fierce internal battle, a wrestling of will against the chaos of her magic. For him, it seemed a simple extension of his being. His magic flowed from him in a perfectly controlled and precise application of intent, weaving a shimmering barrier around the threatened crops. In that display, she saw a depth of mastery she had not truly appreciated before, and a recognition of the vast knowledge he had to offer, if only she had been willing to receive it.
Then, before they departed, Darcy retrieved from the curricle a basket, its contents covered by a clean linen cloth. He handed it to an overwhelmed Martha Cotter. “A few trifles from Pemberley’s kitchens, Mrs Cotter, if I may.” Inside, Elizabeth glimpsed a joint of cold meat, three freshly baked loaves, a wheel of cheese, a jar of golden honey, and a brightly painted wooden toy soldier.
He then turned to young Tom and offered him the soldier. “Great Mage Merlin, may I present a soldier to aid in your valiant battles?”
Tom’s gasp of delight, Martha Cotter’s tearful, “Oh, Mr Darcy, sir, you are too kind,” John Cotter’s gruff, heartfelt, “Thank you, sir. We are most grateful,” – these things touched her deeply.
She looked at Darcy, who merely gave a slight nod in response to their thanks. This was no performance. It was asimple, thoughtful act of a landlord who knew not just the names of his tenants, but their struggles, their children, and even their games.
A stirring she had not anticipated, and did not quite know what to do with, began to unfurl in her breast. It was an inconvenient, and rather troubling, feeling. She had found it far easier to dislike the image of the proud, disdainful man of her own making; the real man, she was beginning to realise, was undeniably more complex, and undeniably more compelling.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Her days, driven by a resolve to correct her past oversight, had become unexpectedly full.
