And when Darcy’s gaze returned to Wickham, she was certain that he no longer saw simply the man he loathed, but instead, the faint outline of a boy he had once known and loved as a brother.
“I did not comprehend that then,” he said at last, his tone heavy with a regret that was startling in its sincerity. “I saw only the chaos and the lack of discipline.”
A silence fell between the two men, filled with the echoes of years of bitterness and unspoken grievances. Wickham let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at his now empty wine glass. But as he looked down, Elizabeth saw the resentment in his expression fade, replaced by a shadow of genuine regret.
He did not offer any admission of wrongdoing of his own; his character, she suspected, lacked the magnanimity for such a gesture. Wickham’s gaze remained fixed on his empty glass.
“Good God, Darcy,” he said eventually, with a weak chuckle that seemed to break the tension, “To think it required nothing less than all of England turning to dust to finally coax this from you.”
Darcy met her eye. “It was a little more than that, I assure you.”
And then Georgiana burst into tears. “No,” she said, waving off Wickham and Darcy as they turned towards her in shock, “I am simply happy to see this.”
Elizabeth was not a part of these memories, a stranger to the shared history that now unfolded before her. And yet, to witness this unexpected harmony brought a feeling of contentment. It had been a brief, unguarded glimpse into a past where bitterness had not yet taken root.
As her gaze moved from the unexpected ease in Darcy’s posture, to the genuine humour in Wickham’s smile, and finally to the joy in Georgiana’s tears, all the disparate pieces seemed to click into place. An idea, one so brazen it bordered on the preposterous, began to unfurl within her. Her gaze swept the room again, but this time she was not just seeing people; she was seeing elements, components of a whole she had not previously comprehended.
This was the answer. It had to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After they had retired to their bedchamber for the night, Darcy stood staring pensively into the dying embers of the fire, his handsome profile softened by the flickering light. He had already shed his coat and cravat, a rare informality that Elizabeth found strangely compelling.
“That was an entirely unexpected evening,” he said at last, coming to sit beside her, “I had not anticipated finding any cause for mirth this evening.”
Elizabeth smiled in return. “Nor did I. To think you have kept such a mischievous past hidden beneath that imposing facade.”
“You may have the advantage for now. But I shall have my turn when we meet with your family, on that you may depend,” he said.
Darcy reached out then, taking one of her hands from her lap and holding it within his own. His thumb began to gently caress the soft skin on the back of her hand.
The simple touch sent a shiver through her. She found her carefully rehearsed train of thought scattering like leaves in the wind, lost in the intimacy of the gesture and the warmth thatnow shone in his gaze.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, trying to marshal her thoughts while she was still capable of doing so.
“Mr Darcy now, is it?” he murmured distractedly.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, more firmly, “There is an idea I have been contemplating. It is perhaps…audacious, even a little fanciful.”
“An idea?” he prompted, straightening to attention with what appeared to be some reluctance, “Knowing you, I suspect it is indeed all of those things. Pray do not keep me in suspense. I find myself entirely disposed to listen.” His lips curved into another of those devastating smiles.
Elizabeth regretfully removed her hand, knowing she would never be able to concentrate if they continued in this manner. She took a moment, looking away from him to gather her thoughts, before saying, “I have been contemplating our Concordance. As a magical principle, it is a force of incredible magnitude, but it feels incomplete.”
He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.
“And that, I believe, is the key,” she pressed on. Now came the more difficult part. “We are not the only mages here. Georgiana has healing magic. It is a restorative element our present combined power lacks.”
Darcy’s expression tightened instantly, driven by his fiercely protective instinct. “I am aware of my sister’s gifts, Elizabeth, but the risk is one I cannot entertain. Her spirit is still mending; her constitution is fragile. I cannot permit exposing her to a direct confrontation with the Blight. It would destroy her.”
“I disagree. You see her as a fragile memory to be shielded, a duty you feel you failed. But that is a perception born of your own sorrow, not of her true character. You have not truly looked at her.”
“And you believe you have?” he asked, with strained civility, “Do not be swayed by a fleeting return of spirits. You must give me more than that.”
“I have seen her strength,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Look at what she has done. Look at the life Georgiana has forged from the ruin. She was bound to a man you believed to be the embodiment of vice, a man who tried to use her for her dowry. She could have withered. She could have been consumed by bitterness and despair. Many would have been.”
She leaned forward, her gaze intense, compelling him to see the truth she was unveiling. “But she found the courage to remain with him, to face the consequences of her choice. She did not merely endure her marriage to Mr Wickham. By force of will and compassion, she has turned it into a true partnership. Through her own character, she has made him a better man than he ever thought to be. That is not fragility. That is strength. Your sister is not a liability to be protected. She is a weapon we have failed to recognise.”
She saw his certainty waver, a flicker of pained reconsideration in his eyes. She knew she must press on, though the name she was about to utter would be a far greater test of his newfound open-mindedness.
