Then, almost as if sensing her gaze, or perhaps merely an engrained reflex to her presence, he stood and reached for his jacket. As he did so, Elizabeth saw a swift, almost fractional stilling of his features, a flicker of something guarded passing across his countenance before settling into an expression of polite enquiry.
Yet, subtle as it was, she recognised it: the almost instinctual tightening of a man accustomed to scrutiny, perhaps even to censure, particularly from her. A fresh feeling of guilt pierced Elizabeth. He was, she suspected, steeling himself for what further accusation she might have come to lay at his door.
He drew on the jacket, and the action seemed to restore a measure of his customary reserve. Elizabeth felt a magical shift in the room as the fire rekindled itself under Darcy’s direction. The faint scent of brandy seemed to cling to the exhaustion she could now see clearly in his face.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, his voice low, a little huskier than usual.
Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly before her, her courage wavering briefly under the intensity of his gaze.
But then she looked past him, to the fire crackling in the stone hearth, and focused with deliberate intent. The flames, which had been dancing merrily, faltered, and then, with a soft whoosh, vanished completely.
In the next breath, she reached for her magic again. A single spark danced on the logs, then blossomed into a golden flame, which grew into a blaze, bathing the room once more in light.
Darcy stared at her, his earlier weariness completely forgotten, replaced by a look of absolute disbelief. Surprise, followed by stunned comprehension, wrote itself slowly across his face.
“How?” he finally managed, the word a jagged, amazed whisper.
Elizabeth’s gaze did not waver. “I have been practising,” she said simply. She saw a flicker of something — was it hurt? — cross his features at her admission of secrecy, and her own voice softened. “I am sorry I did not inform you earlier. Though you must not think my control is anything but fragile. This small success is the extent of my mastery for now — ”
“Do not call it so,” Darcy interjected softly, “I see it for the accomplishment it is.”
“ — but I assure you that your previous instruction gave me the tools to accomplish this. The fault was never in your teaching.”
He shook his head. “You are far too generous. I can claim no merit for a success that is entirely your own. I understand why you sought to keep this from me. I confess, I have long held my own want of patience to account for our failure.”
A smile, one that held more sadness than amusement, touched her lips. He was already preparing to take the burden of her struggles, to add them to his own ledger of failings, and he was so completely, honourably wrong about the cause. “Mr Darcy, I know it is your first instinct to claim every failure as your own, but I must insist you relinquish this one. The source of our difficulties was never your instruction, but my own resistance to it. I had to practise alone to break that destructive pattern.”
She paused, gathering the courage to explain the rest. “It was a vicious cycle of my own making. Your instruction would stir an old terror in me, and my magic would lash out in response. I was resisting you to avoid facing myself. And in that stubborn state, I believe a part of me would rather have failed on my own terms than succeed on yours.”
The words, once spoken, seemed to solidify in the quiet room. Her confession laid bare in its simplest terms: her own petty pride, set against the survival of a nation. To admit such a failing of character before a man who was the very embodiment of duty was a mortification beyond words.
She took a final, steadying breath and said, “And that is why I have come tonight. To offer you a long overdue apology.”
Darcy drew a breath as if to form a word, and a wave of panic seized her. If he spoke now, if he offered some justification, or worse, some noble objection, she knew her resolve would shatter. She had to speak first.
“I must apologise for many things, but chiefly, I believe, for the consistent injustice of my own judgement against you. From our very first acquaintance, I allowed my vanity, my hastyconclusions, to erect a wall of prejudice so high I could not see beyond it.”
The words tumbled out now, raw and unadorned. “I never afforded you a chance. I was so quick to find fault, so determined to believe the worst, that I remained wilfully blind to your good qualities. I either dismissed them or twisted them to fit my own biased narrative. My words to you, particularly in the carriage, were harsh, cruel, and fuelled by that same deeply engrained, unfair perception.”
She took a shaky breath, the confession costing her a great deal, yet also feeling like a necessary, if painful, unburdening. “For my persistent refusal to see the true character of the man before me, and for allowing my pride to become the greatest hindrance to our mission when it mattered most, I am more sorry and more deeply ashamed than these words can convey.”
The silence in the vast, shadowed study, when her voice finally trailed off was absolute.
Darcy remained motionless, his gaze still fixed on her face. Elizabeth’s heart pounded in her chest, a desperate mixture of fear, embarrassment, and a terrifying vulnerability churning within her. He had once shown her this same vulnerability; now, she could only hold her breath and pray his heart held more grace than hers had.
Then, gradually, the defensiveness in his eyes gave way to a raw emotion that stole her breath. He took a hesitant step towards her, then another.
“I do not know what to say,” he murmured, his gaze searching hers. There was a slight sluggishness in his actions, a deliberation that spoke of the brandy still making its presence known, or perhaps, of a mind struggling to process the enormity of her words.
“Elizabeth,” he began again, his voice low, almost a whisper, the use of her Christian name sending that strange shiverthrough her, “I thank you for your words and accept them in the spirit that they were offered. But if apologies are to be tendered, then I fear mine must be more deeply owed than yours.” He raked a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of weariness and unsettling introspection. “You spoke truly in the carriage. My pride, my arrogance…they have been my constant, and I now see, my most damaging companions. I have spoken to you, and of you, in ways that were unpardonable.”
He paused, considering, then said, “I regret my interference in matters concerning your sister. It was an act of unconscionable presumption to believe I understood her heart on the basis of observing them together on no more than one or two occasions.”
He looked down for a moment, as if considering the root of that failing. “And that presumption,” he continued, his voice softer, “was born of a greater fault. You accused me of a pride that placed you entirely beneath my notice, and I realise now the undeniable truth in that charge. I stood in judgement of you from the first. In my arrogance, I found you wanting, never once considering that it was my standards, and not your character, that were so fundamentally flawed. I did not grant you the consideration and the respect that you were due. For my poor behaviour, I can offer no excuse.”
She should not have been surprised, she thought, that when Darcy apologised, he would do so with the same absolute and unflinching thoroughness that he applied to all things. His words, so unexpected, so utterly sincere, dismantled the last of her defences.
“You must stop your habit of gathering every fault for yourself,” she said, unable to stop a small smile, “Not when the greater share is so clearly mine. My prejudice was a poison I nurtured long before your interference with my sister.”
