“Good night, Elizabeth.”
He had pulled away, yet she had never felt him closer. For now, it was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The decision to journey to Newcastle threw Pemberley into a flurry of purposeful activity. The following two days were consumed by preparations. Darcy, with his characteristic efficiency, immersed himself in the logistical complexities: arranging for inns and planned horse changes, dispatching urgent missives to his bankers in London to ensure funds would be available for whatever might be required, and conferring at length with Colonel Fitzwilliam regarding the potential dangers on the road and the necessary precautions they would need to take.
Elizabeth, for her part, found herself working closely with Mrs Reynolds as they made arrangements for Georgiana’s continued care. She also saw to the provisioning and packing for their journey. Attire was kept simple; they had decided that neither Darcy’s valet nor her own maid, Sarah, would accompany them. They could not, in good conscience, ask their household to share in the perils of a city overcome by despair and sickness.
The preparations had kept Elizabeth and Darcy largely apart,their waking hours consumed by their respective duties. Yet, this was punctuated by brief, stolen moments: a quick word in a corridor, a hand squeezed in passing, a swift, reassuring kiss before separating after breakfast. These small intimacies were a necessary respite from the current of apprehension that still simmered beneath the surface. The memory of Buxton was a constant, sobering presence.
On the eve of their departure, after Sarah had meticulously plaited Elizabeth’s hair for the night and helped her into her dressing gown, a soft knock sounded at her bedchamber door. Elizabeth’s heart gave a leap. It was late; it could only be Darcy.
She opened the door to find him standing there, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering candlelight of their sitting room. He was not in his formal evening attire, but instead wore a simple dressing gown over his half-buttoned night shirt, and his dark hair was carelessly tousled.
Elizabeth found herself quite unable to look away, a strange fascination taking hold.
“Forgive the late hour, but there is something I wished to discuss. Perhaps in the sitting room?” He gestured towards the sitting room that lay between their two bedchambers.
“Of course.”
He led her into the sitting room. It was almost entirely dark, save for a single beeswax candle resting on the small table before the sofa. The embers in the hearth had long since died, and the moon, hidden behind the clouds, offered hardly any illumination.
“I am aware that you are still anxious about our magic and about what we might face in Newcastle. And you are right to be so. The power we wield together is considerable.” He paused, then, with a hesitant smile, he said, “Thus, before we embark upon this venture to the north, I thought we might attempt asmall trial. One that, should we succeed, might lend a measure of assurance for the challenges ahead.”
“The candle,” she said, realising.
“The candle. The very task at which we failed so spectacularly, so miserably, so many times before.”
Elizabeth looked at the candle, then back at Darcy. To conquer this small, symbolic challenge, to prove to themselves, and perhaps, even more importantly, to each other, that Buxton was truly behind them, that their newfound understanding was real, potent, and enduring…it felt right. Necessary.
“Yes, I believe we should try.”
He met her eyes, an unspoken promise of reassurance in their depths. Then, summoning a gentle puff of air, he extinguished the candle. The flame vanished, and the room was instantly plunged into near-total darkness.
“I am here, Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice a calming presence beside her in the enveloping dark, “Let us focus on our shared intent.”
This time, as she reached for her magic, she did so with confidence. She felt his magic, his will, reaching out to her, not as a constraint, not as a demand, but as an invitation. A support. And as one, with a synchronicity that was entirely effortless, they willed the candle back to life.
A tiny spark, then a steady golden flame, blossomed in the darkness, casting a warm glow upon their faces. They looked at each other, their eyes meeting over the flickering light, and shared an intimate smile.
It was such a small thing, this single, conjured flame. Yet, as a symbol, its weight was immeasurable.
As the candle flame held steady between them, Darcy let out a drawn-out breath. His intense gaze never left hers as he said, “The next stage demands a far greater expenditure. That single flame was a carefully measured offering; I now request anunreserved flow. I ask that you trust me, and release your power without restraint.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched in her throat. The instinct to recoil, to clamp down, was overwhelming, and for a moment, she wavered. But his gaze steadied her. It was a silent assurance of control that was stronger than her fear.
On her next exhale, she let her power surge, far beyond what was needed for a single flame.
This time, she did not just offer her magic; she poured it forth, a flood of pure vibrant energy, holding nothing back, trusting him with an absoluteness that was both terrifying and liberating.
She felt his magic meet hers in a warm embrace. And then, all around them, in the shadowy corners of the sitting room, on the ornate mantelpiece, along the surfaces of the heavy furniture, other candles began to bloom. Dozens of them. Small, bright, golden beacons of light, strategically, almost artfully, placed, their combined radiance chasing away the darkness and filling the room with an almost ethereal glow.
Elizabeth gasped softly. It was beautiful.Magical. A radiant, incandescent tribute to the unimaginable beauty of their combined powers.
Darcy was staring at her, his handsome face illuminated by the candles, his eyes shining with an emotion so tender, it made her own heart tighten with a staggering sense of wonder.
Then he was kissing her, or perhaps she was kissing him – the distinction blurred in the breathtaking rush of emotion. Elizabeth was conscious only of the feeling, the overwhelming sensation of his lips on hers, the world condensing to this single, perfect point.
