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Chapter Seven: Mr. Wickham’s Tale

Posted on Tuesday, 11 September 2007

The morning was chilly, an autumn mist spreading across the ground. Elizabeth often walked in the forest surrounding Longbourn when few others had yet arisen, and the light barely showed through the trees. She did not expect to encounter anyone—she hoped to be left to herself. But that morning proved different than most, for soon into her walk, on the outer skirts of the property, Elizabeth was startled by a movement in the trees not ten feet in front of her.

"Who's there?" she called out, slightly alarmed.

"Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself,*" came the reply.

Elizabeth was greatly surprised. "Mr. Darcy?"

"That is not the proper answer," he said, stepping into the open. He wore a long dark coat, his customarily pristine appearance slightly ruffled. He brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"I do not understand you," Elizabeth sniffed. "And I do not understand what you are doing here."

Mr. Darcy looked bemused. "You do not?"

"No."

"Then perhaps it is best I keep it to myself. It is unnecessary for you to understand everything."

"I should have thought you would not stray so far into the woods, after your previous encounter here," Elizabeth arched a brow, regaining some of her composure. She was not afraid of Mr. Darcy.

"I should have thought you would know such a trick could not work on a Wizard twice.” He paused. “The proper answer is 'Long live the King.'*"

"The proper answer to what?"

"To my earlier demand."

"That I unfold myself, like a sheet of paper?"

"I prefer to think of it as a banner of allegiance. In any case, you would say 'Long live the King,' and I would reply by saying your name. And you would reply by—"

"Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth shook her head impatiently, "I do not see where this turns."

"You have not seen the play?"

"It is a play?"

Mr. Darcy brought himself up stiffly. "I see. Your father might know, perhaps you should ask him."

"Most people are not so presumptuous as to dictate the manner of my addresses. I was walking alone in the forest by my home, having every right to ask who trespassed."

"You scold me for walking alone in the wood when you yourself make it a common enough practice. Do you think that because you are impervious to spells, nothing could befall you?" Mr. Darcy's voice was colder, even as the sun began to turn the frost into drops of dew on the grass around them.

"Not in these woods, Mr. Darcy." Elizabeth said, glancing about her with great warmth of feeling. "It is quite safe for me here, when I am alone."

"These woods are joined to the ones in Netherfield Park. I do beg your pardon for having strayed into Longbourn's. I had not realized."

"A Wizard is never lost; or do you think me such a simpleton as to not know?" Elizabeth's eyes flashed.

"I do not think so."

"Then you will admit you have some purpose to have strayed thus far."

"Whatever my purposes, if I have not yet revealed them, do not hope for me to begin revealing them presently," Mr. Darcy bristled.

"I see," Elizabeth nodded.

"I suspect that you do not.”

Elizabeth chose not to reply. With a curtsy, she took her leave of the gentleman, and turned towards the direction of home.

Upon her arrival at Longbourn, Elizabeth discovered the house to be in an uproar. Two guests were now sitting alone in the parlor—one expected, and one unexpected—both having arrived much earlier than is proper to ever consider calling.

Of the household, only Mary was ready enough to descend to greet them.

"It is our cousin, Mr. Collins, and Mr. Bingley, Lizzy," she said quickly. "Will you come with me? I do not want to sit with them alone."

Elizabeth replied that of course she would, and both sisters entered the parlor, followed closely by Mr. Bennet, who was still removing his nightcap.

"Well, Mr. Collins," he said with laugh as both men rose, "I know why you are here, but cannot fathom the reason for Mr. Bingley's coming at such an unearthly hour."

"Mr. Bennet," Bingley bowed quickly, "I have come to ask your permission to add protective charms around your property, in light of the recent attack at York."

Mr. Bennet looked surprised, and bid everyone sit. "Of course, I will not stop you, Mr. Bingley. But what causes Longbourn to be the benefactor of such attention?"

Mr. Bingley blushed, stammering quickly, "I beg your pardon for the early hour—it is a service I wish to offer to all the houses in the neighborhood. Having already administered the spells for Netherfield's tenants yesterday—why, yours was the first house in my mind. If I might begin as soon as possible, the day is short, and there are—other houses in the neighborhood."

"I am flattered, Mr. Bingley, that you should choose to honor us as the first house after your own estate to receive such attention. Although I suspect," he said with a twinkle in his eye as Jane appeared at the doorway, "that this decision was not done without some sort of motive."

"None at all, I assure you," Mr. Bingley stammered all the more.

It was at this moment that the rest of the household appeared in the parlor. Mrs. Bennet was profoundly sorry that she had not been present to greet Mr. Bingley herself, and hoped he would stay for breakfast tea. To her great consternation, Bingley would not be persuaded. After a few wistful glances in Jane’s direction, and several apologies for the early hour, he took leave in order to be about his business.

“Well!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, sitting into her chair with a sigh, “I was so certain that he had come to propose!”

“Mama!” Jane protested.

“Don’t be so modest, my dear, Mr. Bingley will surely—“

“Mama!” Elizabeth cried, “Have you been introduced to our cousin?”

Mrs. Bennet looked startled, and then turned to see Mr. Collins standing by the window. “Oh, Mr. Collins! I did not see you there!”

The gentleman, who had been looking slightly uncomfortable, smiled readily. Whatever misgivings he had entertained during the neglect of his first thirty minutes in Longbourn were quickly put to rest. He monopolized the family’s attention in its entirety for the next five hours. They all breakfasted; afterwards Mr. Collins was shown the house, the garden, and all the surrounding land, save the forest (which he was told specifically to avoid at all costs). Even still, this amount of time was not nearly enough for Mr. Collins to expound upon the suitableness of the estate, the munificence of his patroness Lady Catherine, and the amiability of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s five daughters, in full. At long last, Mrs. Bennet was required to interrupt him, in order to ready herself for dinner. The rest of the family took this as a hint that they might do as they liked, and Mr. Collins was left to his own devices.

Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, or talented in any particular respect. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. He also came to Longbourn with the intention of taking a wife from among one of its daughters—a prospect which Mrs. Bennet was anxious to secure.

It was evident to her that Jane was the obvious first choice of Mr. Collins; she was, after all, the first in beauty and talent. But it did not take long for Mrs. Bennet to mention that she thought her eldest might soon became engaged. Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth, in spite of the fact that she was not magically talented—that was not of utmost importance to him in a wife, and Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mr. Collins had not been long in the house (no more than three days), before Mr. Bennet began to grow exceedingly tired of him. So, when all of his daughters made the resolution to walk out to Meryton, Mr. Bennet was quick to request that Mr. Collins accompany them. This suited the gentlemen far better than it suited the ladies; they had not been out long before another gentleman caught their attention.

The man in question was young, of a most gentleman-like appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way. Everyone was struck with his air, and wondered who it was. It was fortunate for all that by chance, he should prove to be a friend of Mr. Denny’s—who introduced them there on the street—and had just accepted a commission with the corps. Even Elizabeth, who often looked upon others with a critical eye, was stuck with his handsome features and pleasing, engaging manners. It was with astonishment that she noticed he—a Mr. Wickham—was not adorned with the frivolous spells and enchantments worn by so many of his rank in order to improve appearance, or give an air of goodness. His manners and looks were his own, and they pleased her. The company was engaged for some minutes in conversation, when round the corner appeared Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.

On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed color, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it?—It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

To her great surprise, Elizabeth’s curiosity with regards to Mr. Wickham was satisfied sooner than anticipated, for upon their next meeting, he approached the subject himself.

He began by inquiring about Netherfield, and Mr. Bingley—and then, asked in a hesitant manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there? He wondered if she had noticed the cold manner of their greeting, and if Elizabeth was much acquainted with the gentleman. Elizabeth quickly assured Mr. Wickham that she was as well acquainted with Mr. Darcy as she ever wished to be. She, along with the rest of Hertfordshire, found him to be proud, and very disagreeable.

Mr. Wickham sat thoughtfully for a moment. “I cannot say that I am sorry, although perhaps for his father’s sake I might be. But I am surprised at his reception. Mr. Darcy’s reputation as a phenomenal Wizard most often precedes him.”

“Mr. Darcy is renowned for his abilities—although I must say, I have seen scant to justify the rumors.”

“Mr. Darcy has been able to keep up that pretense—and his father did, in fact, deserve all of the credit that is due him.”

“Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said earnestly, leaning forward, “Do not think me impertinent, but what is the nature of your connection to that family?”

“My connection is now no longer existent,” he replied, “But I was once a great favorite of the late Mr. Darcy—his pupil, in fact, although but the son of his steward.”

“A pupil of his father’s! But then you must have great talent of your own! It is strange that—“

“No,” he sighed, “What powers I possessed as a child seemed to seep away as I grew older. I have my suspicions as to the reason—but none that I would dare voice aloud. Even still, what I did retain was remarkably useful, and I should have had a career. But that was taken from me, prevented by—“ he paused. “Miss Elizabeth, I fear I speak too much.”

“No, Mr. Wickham, have no fear of me. You may not speak if you do not wish to,” she replied earnestly.

He looked over his shoulder into the crowded room, and then, assured that no one was listening, began to speak in a voice just above a whisper. “George Darcy was the founder of a group known as the ‘Wizarding Court.’ The society has been kept a secret for some years, although recently, word of its existence has spread. Perhaps even you—“

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her eyes wide, “I had heard mention of it, in connection to the recent attacks.”

“Of course, for the purpose of the society is the protection of the country against evils. I was to be given a position in this society—it was the greatest desire of my heart—but George Darcy died before it could come to fruition, and his son has barred me from entry to the Court, in spite of the explicitly expressed wishes of his father.”

Elizabeth sat in stunned silence for some moments. “I can hardly speak,” she began, “I had suspected Mr. Darcy of—I know not what, but not capable of this. How can you choose to live under such circumstances? Why not expose him?”

“You forget that the ‘Wizarding Court’ does not exist officially, and its members have complete control over its government. They are independent, and now that Darcy has persuaded them to be set against me, (no doubt because of my inferior rank and magical abilities), there is not a chance in the world that I might pursue such a career. I think—I know—that Mr. Darcy’s dislike of me must have been founded upon jealousy. And yet, my respect for his father is such that—” At the sight of her face, Mr. Wickham quickly smiled, “You must not look so downcast on my account. Can you not see that the work I will do here with the militia in some way fits with my ultimate wishes? That I can serve and protect my country well?”

“I could not bear it as you do, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth cried warmly, “It is a testimony to your character!”

Soon, their conversation was interrupted. Elizabeth was not the only girl present who admired Mr. Wickham, and Lydia came over to persuade him to dance.

Elizabeth, whose mind was full of the evening’s revelations, related them to Jane as soon as possible the next day.

Jane, in her goodness, would not allow either party to be in the wrong. “There must be some misunderstanding,” she said, “No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no.”

“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.—If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”

“You say there was truth, but could it be possible…?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Jane! For you to even suggest that I am under some kind of bewitchment! No, and therein lies the truth: Mr. Wickham did not use enchantments to persuade me, for there was no need of them.”

Jane was silent in contemplation. “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing.—One does not know what to think.”

“I beg your pardon;—one knows exactly what to think.”

*Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 1, lines 1-4

Shakespeare, William. "Hamlet." The Arden Shakespeaere, Third Seried. Editors Ann Thompson, Neil Taylor. London: Thompson Learning. 2006.

Austen, Jane. "Pride and Prejudice." A Norton Critical Edition, 3rd edition. Editor Donald Gray. New York: W. W. Norton and Company. 2001.

Chapter Eight: Fire, Water, Wind and Earth

Posted on Tuesday, 18 September 2007

AS OCTOBER came to a close, and the months became chilly, the gossip surrounding the ball to be hosted at Netherfield grew increasingly steady. Indeed, it overtook almost every other subject. There were those who were convinced Mr. Bingley would be inviting his illustrious friends from higher Wizarding circles to attend, (although this was, of course, preposterous). Others were concerned over the idea that he might welcome non-human guests, and whether or not they would be obligated to dance with them (whoever they were). To Mrs. Bennet, however, magical subjects were nothing to the compliment the ball meant to her Jane, and the hope that soon after they might be preparing for another kind of celebration at Netherfield.

Jane bore all of this with equanimity, some might even say indifference. But Elizabeth, who knew her well, saw in her eyes a joy that had not been there before, a certain softness whenever his name was mentioned. She did not like the talk, or the prodding of her mother, but now she did not protest when Elizabeth teased her. For her part, Elizabeth loved the company and liveliness that came along with a ball, but this one would hold particular pleasure for her; the first being the prospect of seeing Jane even more happy, and the second, dancing with Mr. Wickham. Her enjoyment would have been guaranteed, were it not for two things: the irksome and now pointed attentions of Mr. Collins, her father’s poor spirits, and the presence of Mr. Darcy.

There was nothing to be done about Mr. Collins. Her mother was determined he should be thrown in Elizabeth's company, and she could do nothing but bear his presence for as long as possible. As to her father, his company had been elusive. On three occasions, Elizabeth had broached the subject of the attacks, only to be laughed away by Mr. Bennet. The attacks, he said, had nothing to do with them, or anyone of such inconsequential status in the magical realm. Elizabeth was not satisfied but could do nothing more. She attempted to put the subject out of her mind until her Aunt and Uncle came during the winter and could provide her with more information. It was fortunate for everyone that nothing had occurred since the end of September, and so a sense of security had returned to the neighborhood.

The problem of Mr. Darcy, however, grew with each passing week. They had not spoken since their confrontation in the forest, but Elizabeth saw him often on her walks. He was there least three times a week, pacing the length of a field on the outskirts of Netherfield, close to where they had met before. He never again strayed onto Longbourn's estate, and she did not think he saw her walking through the trees. She wondered what he did, and why he was so often there. At times, she could sense a tingling about the wood, a magical rippling through the air. She could not place its direction, nor its purpose, and could not help thinking it had something to do with his presence in the field.

If it were not for the frequent presence of the officers at Longbourn, Elizabeth would have felt herself to be too downcast. As it was, the young men provided lively conversation, and a distraction from their daily concerns. Elizabeth could almost forget weightier issues, and think that their only cause for worry was what they should wear to the Netherfield ball, and how to contain the overly flirtatious nature of her two youngest sisters.

As is often the case, these weightier concerns refused to be ignored for long. The issue of Mr. Darcy was brought forth again one afternoon when the officers were taking tea at Longbourn. Mr. Wickham was in attendance, and by an unfortunate stroke of luck, forced to spend nearly a half an hour in Mr. Collins’s company. It was also unfortunate for Mr. Collins, for neither gentleman were fond of the other (something to do with each feeling the other spent too much time in a certain lady’s company); but being Mr. Collins, he could not prevent himself from explaining to Mr. Wickham, with intimate detail, the magnificence of his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Mr. Wickham came away from the conversation greatly amused. While his opinion of Mr. Collins had not been improved, he had actually taken time to listen and ask a few questions of his own. Elizabeth noted their conversation with curiosity, and made a point to speak of it at the first opportunity afforded.

“You have taken a great interest and Mr. Collins’s patroness and her fireplace at Rosings, Mr. Wickham?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Mr. Wickham turned his head to the side thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed. I have been connected with that family before. Well, not actually connected, only through the Darcy’s. Hearing news of Lady Catherine is almost like hearing news of that family.”

Elizabeth had not expected such an answer. “I do not understand you, Mr. Wickham! In what way could Mr. Darcy be connected with Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

Mr. Wickham looked at her very seriously, “She is his aunt, Miss Elizabeth; it has been speculated that he shall marry her daughter, Anne de Bourgh, thereby joining their two great estates.”

“’Tis an interesting coincidence,” Elizabeth laughed, “One that I think Mr. Collins to be unaware of, or he would have been much more anxious to become acquainted with Mr. Darcy!”

“You laugh, Miss Elizabeth, but perhaps you should not. Mr. Darcy’s connection to that family is a significant one on several levels. I suppose you have heard of the Necromancer?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and her laughed ceased at once. “But he is dead, Mr. Wickham, defeated long ago. The recent attacks—”

“—Have been strangely reminiscent of his tactics, although not nearly so destructive at present. Yes, the connection of the two names is deliberate on the part of the newspapers; there has been speculation that this Thieving Necromancer may in fact be…”

“It could not be possible,” Elizabeth shook her head.

“Many things are possible, many things have been attempted in the past,” Mr. Wickham took a deep breath, “What is not commonly known, is that the Necromancer’s true identity was discovered, but kept secret in order to protect the family—his family. The Necromancer was none other than Lady Catherine’s husband, Louis de Bourgh.”

“Mr. Darcy’s uncle!” Elizabeth cried.

Mr. Wickham placed a hand on her arm. “I beg you would not be so alarmed! I had no intention of causing such distress.”

Elizabeth’s face was flushed. “Oh, no, indeed. The Necromancer was only the most powerful dark wizard of his generation!”

“And defeated by a member of the Wizarding Court known as the Jester, a fact that is also not commonly known. You see the delicate position in which this places Darcy, and his aunt, and the entire Court. It is understandable that his identity should be hushed up, for the sake of those connected.”

“I can see that Mr. Darcy would not desire such a connection to be well-known!”

“He is very careful how he lives since that incident, which happened when we were very young, and more recently the suspicious nature of his father’s death—Mr. Darcy is very guarded, especially with regards to his sister.”

“Miss Darcy! I have heard mention of her, perhaps, from Miss Bingley, who,” Elizabeth added, in an attempt to lighten their conversation, “will be sorely disappointed to discover his betrothal to Lady Catherine’s daughter. Is she very like him?”

“The sister?”

“Yes.”

“Very like. It is a shame, for she was not always so, a pleasing child. But she has grown very proud—accomplished, of course—but too much like her brother. The secrets surrounding that family, and the pride with which they keep them—I could not even begin, Miss Bennet. I have frightened you enough for one evening.”

Try as she might, Elizabeth could pry no further information from Mr. Wickham. He was determined not remain so solemn, and was concerned for Elizabeth’s nerves. Unfortunately, her spirits had already been entirely shattered for the evening. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, she found she could not bear to remain in the company for much longer.

“HOW long have you known the connection between Mr. Collins’s patroness, and the Necromancer?” Elizabeth stood with her back against the library’s door, her father looking up from his desk in alarm.

“Sit,” he said with a motion of his hand, “and please rephrase the question.”

It was late in the evening, the rest of the house preparing for bed. Elizabeth moved quickly to a chair directly across from him, leaning her elbows against piles of paper and books to look firmly into his eyes, “You did know of it. And yet you are not concerned for our safety? How could you not tell me!”

“I did not think it to be of any importance. The Necromancer has been dead these three-and-twenty years! His widow was cleared of any blame for his actions, indeed, believed to be totally ignorant of them—as was the entire family, immediate and extended.”

“But the rumors of the recent—“

“The Necromancer is dead, Elizabeth. There is not a chance of his having returned. That is merely the sort of rubbish used to sell the papers.”

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. “And what of Mr. Darcy’s connection to it? He is Lady Catherine’s nephew.”

Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows. “You think so meanly of the man as to suspect him of involvement with a dark wizard at the age of six or seven!”

“I have reason for concerns—“

“Whatever Mr. Darcy’s sins, involvement in that case was not one of them. Might I inquire as to the source of your information?”

Elizabeth quickly related much of Mr. Wickham had told her. Mr. Bennet listened in silence, thoughtfully lighting up his pipe.

“Mr. Wickham’s tale does not suggest to me an evil tendency in Mr. Darcy’s character, but rather a conceited one. Do not stretch his misdeeds to such lengths, child.”

Elizabeth sighed, “You are far more concerned than you will admit, Papa. I had attempted to speak with you before. You have not seemed yourself. Will you not confide in me?”

He took a few puffs of his pipe, watching as the smoke floated hazily above his head. “I confide what is necessary, Elizabeth. No more, no less.”

“I am not a child,” she flared suddenly, “You expect to keep me here and to do nothing, when you know that soon—“

“Soon you will go to London to be with your Aunt and Uncle, joining in their ideas of saving the world—as if there are not enough people attempting to do so. Why do you think the militia have been quartered at Meryton? Men are being positioned across the country to protect our citizens and our homes.”

Elizabeth laughed. “The militia have certainly proven to be quite effective against attacks in the North!”

“Well,” Mr. Bennet countered, “there have not been any attacks since the last in York. Elizabeth.” In a more serious tone, he continued speaking, “If there is ever a time when I fear you, or any of your sisters, or your mother, to be in true danger, I will not hesitate to confide in you. Do you doubt me so much?”

She took his hand to reassure him, although they both knew she was disappointed. “I understand, Father.”

“You will try to understand, in any case,” he chuckled. “I am sorry for the smoke.”

She answered with a kiss on his cheek, and leaving him alone, climbed the stairs to prepare for bed.

THAT NIGHT, Elizabeth slept fitfully. It was in the dark hours after midnight when she finally rose to stand by the window, her shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She stood silently for some time, tracing pictures in the frost that collected on the cold glass, and staring resolutely out into the darkness of the forest.

The flash startled her. She thought it to be lightning as first, until it repeated itself three more times, changing colors from white, to yellow, to red. With horror, she realized the flashes were growing brighter, and she flew to her father’s bedchamber, flinging open the door. Mr. Bennet was not to be found, and so she hastened to his study.

She found him there, staring out of the window, overlooking the forest. “Papa,” she cried breathlessly, “What can it mean?”

He turned when she moved to stand at the window next to him. He did not seem surprised to see her, and not alarmed in the least by the spectacular show of lights coming from the forest. “The flashes?” he asked abruptly, “Do they frighten you?”

Elizabeth threw him a withering look, “Is it an attack?”

“No, indeed. An attack would not be in that sort of color array.”

“They are coming from the direction of the forest, but I have a suspicion,” she said, realization dawning across her face, “That they actually come from the fields just beyond—on Netherfield’s estate.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, “You walk there often, I think.”

“Not in the fields—but Mr. Darcy does.”

“It is Mr. Darcy. He has been practicing there for some nights. Would you like to walk with me to observe him?”

Elizabeth looked started. “Practicing?”

“You did not think Mr. Darcy so capable a Wizard that he would not need to practice?”

“I did not think him a capable Wizard at all.”

Mr. Bennet did not respond to his, and moved towards the door. “You will need a warmer coat, Elizabeth, and shoes,” he said, donning his nightcap. “We will not take a light, so as to remain undetected. Under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Darcy might be aware of our presence—but since you will be with me, we might observe him undetected.”

Elizabeth softly crept up to her room, wrapping herself in a long cloak and pulling her shawl over her head. Her father waited for her in the garden, and then they set off into the darkness towards the flashes of light. As they drew nearer, Mr. Bennet moved more slowly, at last halting some twenty yards from where Mr. Darcy stood. They remained concealed in the thickness of the forest, but Elizabeth could almost see the concentration of Mr. Darcy’s face as he held something bright in his hands. The light converged and moved as if he held a rebellious ball of blue fire.

Suddenly the fire burst forth in streams of hot blue light, illuminating the entire forest and reaching some one hundred feet in the air before Mr. Darcy pulled it back into his hand and the light disappeared altogether. In the darkness, it took several minutes before Elizabeth’s eyes could trace his shape, pacing in a circle about the field, as she so often saw him do in the mornings. Mr. Bennet shivered next to her, as if from the cold, and as she saw something white beneath Mr. Darcy’s feet spreading over the entire field. Elizabeth was mystified at first, until a cloud formed above Mr. Darcy’s head and white snowflakes rained down upon him. He worked with the snow and ice for nearly an hour, before it too seemed to melt back into his person, the field remaining as it had been before. This enchantment gave way to another, with rocks and stones and the bending of trees, and then yet another, involving the swirling and howling of the wind.

Elizabeth was amazed, and afraid. She had been taught the principles and theories of Magic by her father since infancy—the mastery of the four elements, fire, water, wind and earth were the greatest accomplishment a Wizard could ever hope for. Most became masters of one, perhaps two. But to master all four—it was necessary for the enchanter to wield a great deal of power.

Mr. Bennet startled her out of her thoughts when he quickly moved to stand behind her. Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the field, now dark and silent as if nothing had ever happened. Mr. Darcy’s lone figure stood motionless, barely distinguishable from the black of the night.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice reverberating through the trees. It was not a question; Elizabeth knew that if it had been anyone else, and her father had not been standing so close, they would have been compelled to reveal themselves.

As it was, Mr. Darcy received no answer. He stood watching the forest for another ten minutes, and then he was gone.

Mr. Bennet let out an audible sigh. “We should return, Elizabeth,” he said. The sky was slowly beginning to transform from inky purple to gray.

They walked back to Longbourn in silence, where the household all remained asleep. Neither father nor daughter returned to their beds, but instead sat across from each other in the library. It was some time before either spoke. Mr. Bennet lit a fire, and Elizabeth busied herself with making some tea.

At last, Mr. Bennet began softly, “He has been there almost every night for some three weeks.”

“You knew of this!” Elizabeth cried in shock, nearly spilling her tea.

Mr. Bennet nodded, waving his hand dismissively, “Of course I knew. I knew Mr. Darcy walked the fields and made pretty pictures with lights. I did not know the extent of his experimentation—or skill—until tonight. I could not approach so close without the protection you provided.”

“Protection? Because I am not magical?”

“And because you are impervious to it, yes.”

“Papa—the elements.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bennet sighed again. “Do not take it too far Lizzy—but I do confess I do fear it. His father was a marvelous Wizard, excellent in Offence, a master with fire and water. Not so good in Defense, but we all have our downfalls. Oddly enough his Defense papers were the only ones ever published—“

“Papa,” Elizabeth interrupted impatiently. “We are concerned with the son, not the father. You fear him? Then you suspect him, as I—”

“—I do not suspect him of anything, other than his powerful capabilities. Remember, his performance under ideal circumstance—under no duress, near a magical forest, without any hindrances—is by no means the same way he might perform under stress,” Mr. Bennet sipped his tea thoughtfully. “I fear him, because of the power he possesses, and because of what he might be. Time will only tell, Lizzy. You must not assume too much.”

Elizabeth bit back her tongue and stared into the fire silently. She did not agree, but she would not argue at this point. Finishing her tea, she slipped back to her room for a few hours of restless sleep. That morning, she rose only a little later than usual, and immediately set out for the forest.

She waited in the field for an hour, but Mr. Darcy did not come. Every morning for the next week she waited—and still he did not come.

Chapter Nine: In which there is Dancing

Posted on Wednesday, 26 September 2007

Two men stood on a hill overlooking dark, misty fields. The night was still, the air cold. Both figures were of about the name height, one leaning heavily on his left leg and the other holding his arm against his chest.

“I am sorry, I should have been more help,” the latter began, with a glance at his companion’s leg.

“Do not think on it,” was the curt reply.

“I am older, and should take responsibility.”

“As you often do, when you remember not to loose your head, Fortinbras.*”

He laughed, “Do you persist in keeping to that name?”

The other raised his eyebrows, “Have you forgotten so quickly who was here not long ago?—and that nothing has been achieved, except now both of us will be useless for some time.”

“If you must insist on calling me by that name, I shall call you by yours,” the one called Fortinbras replied, laughing again.

“I beg you would not.”

“The policy remains that members must always be named—not name themselves. But alas, since it is my fault we are in this predicament, I will refrain from tormenting you. Pendragon* it is, although officially you remain the—“

The rest of Fortinbras’ speech was prevented by a sharp thrust to the diaphragm. “It is fortunate that whoever invented that policy remained anonymous,” Pendragon growled. He tested the weight on his right foot with a gasp. “That will not do.”

“Useless indeed,” Fortinbras scoffed, rubbing his side with his good arm. “Why haven’t we found a healer to add to our midst, eh?”

“Difficult to find,” Pendragon replied with some strain, as he carefully lowered himself to the ground. “There is not much time remaining, and much more to discuss.”

“To discuss? Our next meeting should clarify how we might go forward from this point—“

“Do you think I never wish to speak of anything else with you?”

Fortinbras chuckled as he sat down next to him. “Are you seeking advice?”

“No,” he replied at first, and then a paused, “Yes. Tree* is giving a ball.”

“And this alarms you because… you cannot tolerate dancing? At least now you may have an excuse not to.”

“It is not the ball. Rather, the ball is the exact sort of nonsense that I had hoped to avoid. I am beginning to think it was a mistake.”

“What was a mistake?”

“Being where we are.”

“Since I do not know where you are, I cannot very well give you sound advice,” Fortinbras laughed again.

“Tree is much too besotted with the locals,” Pendragon said with a grimace; he quickly constructed a log through enchantment and propped his leg up against it.

“Clever, my Pendragon, I should have thought of that sooner,” Fortinbras said. In an instant, his arm was secured firmly in a sling. “To return to the task at hand, when have you ever known Tree not to be besotted?”

“Never, but he had been improving. He understands the risks. Attachments cannot be risked, at any cost. It is difficult enough with—“ Here, he paused. For a moment, both were lost in their own recollections. “Imagine how it would be with a wife.”

“There are those among our number married.”

“Precisely my point.”

Fortinbras sighed. “I take it that Tree is in love with one of the locals, not several.”

“At least the ball is good for something—I will be able to assess his true feelings.”

“Of course, you are above such things as merely enchanting him to extract the answer.”

Pendragon straightened his back stiffly. “You should not even suggest such things, Fortinbras,” he said with some annoyance, but they understood each other well and neither took offense, remaining in amicable silence for some time.

“Dawn is nearing. Time is wasted, and yet you make no move to return. There is something else gnawing on your mind,” Fortinbras said seriously, breaking the silence.

“Wickham is there.”

Fortinbras looked startled. “And you have not moved to a new location?”

“There is no danger from him, other than perhaps poisoning the opinions of the townspeople—and I care little of what they think. In truth, that is not what I was thinking of.”

Fortinbras looked expectantly.

“No, no—“ Pendragon shook his head. “It is of no consequence. That is—I will think more on it; discover more—discover her trustworthiness, and then I will tell you.”

“Her?”

“I did not mention anyone!” Pendragon exclaimed.

“You mentioned someone!” Fortinbras protested. “So concerned over Tree, when you yourself—“

“Do not be ridiculous!” Pendragon stood shakily, “It is nothing of that sort. It could not be. I was seen practicing—by someone.”

“You are alarming me,” Fortinbras exclaimed.

Pendragon walked slowly into the mist, toward the bright streaks of sunrise. He turned awkwardly, his hand on the injured leg, “We will speak of it at the next appointed time.”

“I am sorry, again, for your injury. It was stupid of me,” Fortinbras cried, just before they both were enveloped by the mist, and vanished.

IN SPITE of great hopes for the reverse, the morning of Mr. Bingley's ball was cast in gloom. There had been another attack, this time near London. Many people felt it had been done purposefully to ruin their good cheer for the evening.

Mrs. Bennet felt the loss of her spirits acutely. "There will be no dancing or singing this evening," she fretted, "Who would want to dance after such a fright!"

"I shall dance in any case, Mama!" Lydia declared bravely, "I do not care how frightened anyone else is."

"And so shall I," Kitty echoed, although with a slight waver in her voice.

"The officers will all be there, I am certain they would protect us in any case," Lydia laughed, "I should think it would be marvelous to see them do battle!"

"I should imagine not," Elizabeth said sternly. "But I agree that Netherfield is perhaps a safer place than many. You need not fear, Mama, the last thing the thief wants is to enter a place where he might be easily caught."

Mrs. Bennet propped herself up slightly from her reclined position on the couch. "Perhaps you are right," she sighed, "I had so wished tonight to be a compliment to my Jane!"

"Everything is a compliment to Jane," Elizabeth said with a smile, her face softening, and no one would accept Jane's humble protests to the contrary.

By evening, the gloom of the morning was almost forgotten with all of the pinching and pulling and tying that goes into dressing for a Ball. Kitty and Lydia adorned themselves will a large number of creative enchantments—all of which Elizabeth dismantled amidst much protesting. If any depressed spirits remained as they finally rode in the carriage, they were banished instantly at the sight of Netherfield lit up with a thousand lights, with Mr. Bingley’s smiling face to greet them.

Netherfield seemed to shimmer in the glow of laughter and music. Mrs. Bennet could not have been more gratified when their host could hardly keep his eyes away from Jane’s vision of loveliness. Here everything was as it should be, and troubles vanished as if by magic. Miss Bingley greeted Elizabeth most cordially, with almost no condescension, and Mr. Collins was preoccupied with complimenting Mr. and Mrs. Hurst on the delightful display for the evening. Elizabeth at first wondered whether Mr. Bingley had wrapped the place in some sort of happiness-spell—but she could detect none.

She looked for Mr. Darcy first, with apprehension, and breathed a sigh of relief when she did not find him. She wondered at his absence, but knowing him to feel so much above his company, did not allow it to surprise her. Mr. Wickham’s presence, however, she had counted on—and was very disappointed when she could not locate him. She had dressed with great care that evening, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. Suspiciously, she wondered if his absence had been caused purposefully by Mr. Darcy. While this theory proved not completely true, Mr. Wickham’s absence from the evening’s festivities was confirmed by his friend, Mr. Denny.

“Mr. Wickham has been called away to town on business,” Denny said with a knowing look, “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman.”

Such intelligence distressed Elizabeth for a time; but she was not a creature formed for ill-humor, and after relating all of her trouble to Charlotte Lucas (whom she had not seen for a week), felt herself able to laugh again.

“There is my cousin, Mr. Collins,” she said mischeviously, “I have been so unfortunate as to be claimed by him for the first two dances.”

Charlotte turned to see him speaking again with Mr. Bingley. “He interrupts Jane’s conversation,” she observed with a slight smile, and Elizabeth laughed.

“I am sure he is unconscious of it!”

“To return to the other matter—“ Charlotte began.

“You would return me to my ill-humor, Charlotte!” Elizabeth protested. “You must understand my grievances—it is a comfort at least, that Mr. Darcy is not here to triumph over them.”

“Have you spoken to him of Mr. Wickham?”

“No, indeed, why should I?”

Charlotte looked reprovingly, and would have continued speaking, but Elizabeth was called away to dance the first set with her cousin. These twos dance brought a renewal of her distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins was not a good dancer; he was awkward, more often apologizing than attending to the music and moving in the wrong direction. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy. Elizabeth danced with another officer, and was gratified to be able to talk of Mr. Wickham, discovering that he was universally liked.

“You spoke too soon, Lizzy,” Charlotte whispered to her when Elizabeth returned.

“Of what?”

“Of Mr. Darcy. He is not absent, he is just over there,” Charlotte said with a sly smile.

Elizabeth turned in dismay to discover that Mr. Darcy was indeed standing by the wall close to them. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Elizabeth turned back to Charlotte in the hopes of resuming their conversation, but it was not to be. Mr. Darcy closed the distance between them and bowed gravely in greeting.

“Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me, Miss Bennet?” he spoke suddenly.

Elizabeth was so astonished that she could think of nothing to do but accept. He walked away immediately, leaving her to fret over her own want of presence of mind. Charlotte tried to console her.

“I daresay you will find him very agreeable.”

“Heaven forbid!—That would be the greatest misfortune of all!—To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!—Do not wish me such an evil.”

The musicians struck up again and the two women saw Mr. Darcy approaching slowly to claim his dance. Charlotte warned Elizabeth not to throw away her chances with a man of such consequence for one such as Mr. Wickham.

Elizabeth pretended not to hear. She had no intention of striking up any sort of conversation, she could not think of where to begin. They danced in oppressive silence for some minutes, until she noticed something peculiar.

“Mr. Darcy, are you quite well?”

He looked over at her, his eyes bright, and nearly stumbled at the turn. “I am well, Miss Bennet.”

She looked at him crossly. “You limp, Mr. Darcy.”

“It is nothing.”

Elizabeth frowned in concentration, turning her mind towards the ever present magic about him in an attempt to make its various aspects distinguishable, while keeping in step with the movements. “Truly Mr. Darcy, have you been injured? Are you under some sort of enchantment? There is a magic about you that is unfamiliar to me.”

He nearly stumbled again, although with more grace than her first partner had. “I can assure you that it is nothing.”

“I can assure you, that it is not!” Elizabeth said when the opportunity afforded itself.

“I have been practicing. I have made a— blunder, and injured my leg.” They stepped forward, joining hands briefly.

“You consider what you have been doing in the fields to be practicing?” she said in a voice that others could not hear.

“What else could it be? I am a determined scholar,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

“You practice to further your study?” she said skeptically.

“Naturally.”

“Mr. Darcy, I do not believe you.”

“You accuse me of not telling the truth?” he countered, his eyes flashing.

“I know that you are not telling the truth. There are enchantments about you associated with concealment—whether performed by yourself, or someone else (and I would hope you would not allow yourself to be held under another’s enchantment), it is of no consequence.”

Mr. Darcy actually did smile at this. “I am not at liberty to speak of the circumstances surrounding my injury.”

Elizabeth seethed in silence until Mr. Darcy addressed her again. “Are there other enchantments that you detect?”

Elizabeth’s curiosity was pricked at this. “All the sorts you usually employ for wear. I have noticed you do not use the one for your hair—but the one for your balance seems to be triple-fold.”

He quickly brushed a hand through his hair. “I have not been myself today.”

“There is something,” she said softly, deep in concentration as they moved closer together. “I do not recognize what it is for—although—is it for paralyzation? And something else, entirely unpleasant—”

“Pain?” Darcy said abruptly as they moved away.

“Yes,” she looked into his eyes, startled. They seemed bright not from enjoyment, but almost as if from fever.

His faced remained impassive. He seemed desirous of changing the subject, and asked whether or not she and her sisters often walked towards Meryton. Elizabeth looked archly, and mentioned that when he had encountered them last in Meryton, they had just been forming a new acquaintance.

Mr. Darcy’s face darkened at this. “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—although whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”

“He has been unfortunate enough to have lost your friendship, Mr. Darcy,” she replied curtly, her cheeks flushed. “Is there no hope of his regaining it?”

“None.”

“Your resentment, once created, is then insurmountable. It must follow that you are very careful of allowing your resentment to be created?”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not,” a pause, “It is imperative that I do not.”

Elizabeth, feeling herself more frustrated by the minute, was anxious for the dance to be finished. “I do not understand you,” she said in exasperation, “And can make no sense of your actions.”

Mr. Darcy’s normal impassivity was replaced with a look of genuine surprise. “What actions do you speak of?” he said seriously.

“I hear such different accounts of you,” she said, “as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“And do you believe everything you hear, Miss Bennet?”

She bristled at this, holding his hand stiffly as the musicians rang out their last chords. “I am not so foolish as to believe anything without sufficient proof—and you must understand that I am not fooled by silly enchantments and tricks, which give the image of truth, but are in fact the opposite. It astonishing that you would suggest such a thing, when I know you are attempting to conceal something from me by means of enchantment.”

Mr. Darcy did not release her hand, and looked down at her coldly. “The most talented of liars have no need of enchantments—they lie without the aid of any magic, and are therefore the most dangerous.”

They stood awkwardly, both stiff with anger. Mr. Darcy at last offered her his arm, and they walked slowly away from the newly forming dancing line.

“Have you spoken to your father—did you remember?” Mr. Darcy asked suddenly, in almost a whisper.

Elizabeth was startled and confused, saying for the second time that evening, “I do not understand you.”

“You did not remember,” he stated.

Elizabeth searched her mind quickly, trying to bring forth remembrance of one of their earlier encounters. “I cannot recall anything of importance, Mr. Darcy,” she said at length.

“I see,” Mr. Darcy said stiffly, and with a bow, left her feeling unaccountably disappointed.

*The two names used at the beginning, Fortinbras and Pendragon are both names from British literature.

The first, Fortinbras, is a character from the play “Hamlet;” I could go into a lengthy discussion about the description of his character, but for now I will only point out what is significant: Fortinbras means “strong in arm” in French, and in the play he is a man of action, in contrast to Hamlet, who is not. (Whether this is a good thing or not I will not go into…;). Again you can refer to: Shakespeare, William. "Hamlet." The Arden Shakespeaere, Third Seried. Editors Ann Thompson, Neil Taylor. London: Thompson Learning. 2006.

As to Pendragon, this is the name associated with mythical King Arthur’s father, who was traditionally or according to legend Uther of Pendragon. I will leave you to speculate (for the moment) what you will.

The name Tree does not have any historical/literary significance. The person who uses it and the reason behind it is also left to your own imaginations for the time being.

Chapter Ten: The Other Court

Posted on Tuesday, 2 October 2007

“THAT was disastrous,” Caroline sighed, lowering herself onto a chair with as much elegance as she could muster.

“Caroline,” Bingley said groggily, lifting his head up from where it rested on the desk, “Must we talk of this now?”

“Can you think of a better opportunity?”

“I had a marvelous time this evening,” he said with some clarity, ignoring the inelegant snort issued in reply.

“Mr. Darcy will agree with me, will you not,” she nodded in his direction, “when I say that perhaps the only other person who enjoyed the ball as much as you did, was Mrs. Bennet. The behavior of their family this evening—I cannot even begin!”

“The pretentiousness of their cousin!” Louisa exclaimed.

“—The behavior of the younger sisters! That unfortunate officer—what a stroke of luck that you should catch the charm, Mr. Darcy, before it wrought serious damage!”

Mr. Darcy, who sat in a corner by the fire, did not reply.

“Such charms are common enough in the drawing rooms of London,” Bingley sputtered, “It was ridiculous that an officer, who has received ample training, should find himself in such a position in the first place.”

“I almost pitied poor Mary Bennet,” Louis said with a sniff, “She sang so very ill. But to have been interrupted by her father—!”

Caroline laughed, “I am sorry for Jane—but Charles, I am afraid—“

“That is enough, Caroline. Enough for one evening,” Bingley said, rising from his seat.

Caroline sighed again as he stalked out of the room. “You do see our position, Mr. Darcy,” she said.

Darcy sat motionless for some time, before leaning forward slowly. “I will follow him shortly after his departure," he sighed, and then continued gravely, "I will speak to him upon this subject; have no doubt of that.”

Caroline and Louisa smiled at each other in relief. “We will go with you,” Caroline said, “And put this dreadful place behind us—no matter how sweet Miss Bennet’s smiles, they are no great consolation!”

THE days following the Netherfield Ball did not improve for Elizabeth—if anything, they only worsened. Mr. Collins presented his proposal, and was rejected. This was a great disappointment not only to him, but also to Mrs. Bennet. She had set her hopes upon Elizabeth’s joyful acceptance of Mr. Collins’s hand—thereby ensuring the security of herself, her sisters and her mother for the rest of their lives. Her agitation was expressed most pointedly towards Elizabeth, who had never been a favorite to begin with.

Elizabeth was given an opportunity to improve her tried spirits when reunited with Mr. Wickham for a short time. They laughed together, and he was given the opportunity to apologize for his absence from the Netherfield Ball.

“You understand, Miss Bennet,” he said with a concerned smile, “I found as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy. To be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”

“I do admire your forbearance,” Elizabeth said, “But you must understand that your absence only added to my list of grievances.”

“You refer to the shadows cast by the attack on the day before?”

“That, and other events, yes,” Elizabeth smiled ruefully when she thought of the humiliation caused by her family.

“As to my forbearance,” Mr. Wickham sighed, “I can only credit it to love for the father, rather than any concern for his son.”

Their conversation continued, but Elizabeth, for reasons she could not explain to herself, did not tell him of her encounters with Mr. Darcy in the forest, or of their dance. She could not bring herself to speak of it.

Shortly thereafter, news came that Miss Bingley, along with the entire party at Netherfield, had followed their brother to town. They intended to remain there for the winter, with no intention of returning to Hertfordshire. The loss of both Mr. Collins and Mr. Bingley was almost too much for Mrs. Bennet to bear; but most insulting of all was the astonishingly swift engagement of Mr. Collins to none other than Charlotte Lucas.

The engagement brought great distress to Elizabeth, for very different reasons than her mother. She could not comprehend that Charlotte, one she had believed to think like her in most respects, would give herself to a man whom it was impossible to respect. Charlotte, for her part, required from Lizzy an understanding that she was unwilling to give. Elizabeth congratulated her, but their friendship could not longer exist as it had before. Jane and Elizabeth spoke of it at length, the loss of one friendship drawing the two sisters closer together; but try as she might, Jane could not convince Elizabeth to believe that Charlotte would be happy in her choice.

For her part, Elizabeth urged Jane not to despair over Mr. Bingley’s departure—his regard had been clear, and Elizabeth was certain that it was only a matter of time before the young Wizard would return. Jane was not so optimistic, inclined to believe herself mistaken in her belief of his affection. As the time went by, and he did not come, even Elizabeth’s optimism was depressed. She remained in no doubt that Mr. Bingley had loved her sister—but now felt that his character was too easily persuaded by the opinions of his sister, and that of his friend.

As much as possible, Elizabeth avoided thinking of Mr. Darcy. For some days after the Ball, she had struggled to remember what it was he had asked her about—to no avail. Since remembrance of him now only brought anger on behalf of Jane, she resolved to no longer think of him at all.

Her spirits, and those of the entire family, were lifted greatly by the Christmas visit of Mrs. Bennet’s brother and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister as well by nature as education. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favorite with all her Longbourn nieces.

The majority of the family’s troubles had already been related by letter to Mrs. Gardiner through her two oldest nieces (and with whom she was particularly close). It was with great interest that they listened in person to the strange goings on in Hertfordshire, in particular Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet’s revelation of Mr. Darcy’s frequent practicing—and Mr. Wickham’s information in relation to him.

“Mr. Darcy is well respected amongst the highest circles, as you well know,” Mr. Gardiner began, “But I had not heard of this black mark on his character, nor the heights to which he has been able to carry his abilities.” He sat by the fire in Mr. Bennet’s study, along with his wife, brother-in-law, Elizabeth and Jane, while the rest of the household slept soundly. “It is a disappointment to me,” he continued, “I have been working towards a connection between—ourselves—and the Wizarding Court for some time. It has been difficult—difficult to even discover whom to contact. I had known that the Court was comprised of only the gentry, but I had not thought its members selection to be controlled so arbitrarily.”

“Mr. Darcy is, after all, his father’s son. Mr. Wickham mentioned that George Darcy was the founder of said Court,” Elizabeth put in.

“It is careless of Mr. Wickham to bandy about the names of its members,” Mr. Bennet said from the corner, where he said smoking his pipe, “No matter how justified his grievances.”

Elizabeth was silenced by this, but Jane spoke up, “I am certain Mr. Wickham intends no harm.”

“No, no one suspects him of that,” Mrs. Gardiner hastened to add, “He has been done an injustice—one that we would willingly remedy, where he now free to work where he pleases. But the Wizarding Court is no laughing matter. Who do you think these recent attacks have been directed towards? Ordinary Wizards are no match for this new Necromancer—and indeed, such a Thief is not searching for the ordinary talent, but the extraordinary.”

“Or so they say,” Mr. Bennet mumbled, continuing in a clearer voice, “Am I to understand that by ‘ourselves,’ Edward, you mean the society you have been forming?”

Elizabeth and Jane turned their faces to their uncle in eager interest. He smiled widely, “Yes. In fact, the group has been established with moderate success in London already. We call ourselves the Merchant’s Court—inferior, perhaps, to the legacy of greater Wizards, but a Court nonetheless.”

“Inferior!” Elizabeth scoffed.

“Your Uncle speaks only in jest, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner smiled, “We may not be of such noble birth, but the talents of our members are considerable. But we had hoped to work in conjunction with the Wizarding Court, as well as the government.”

“As if there are not already enough people risking their lives for nothing!” Mr. Bennet said in some anger.

Mr. Gardiner did not seem surprised. “As we have discussed, Thomas, we do not presume to interfere with what has already been established, but only to help where there is a need. None of our work involves high danger at present. We are not capable of capturing a Wizard such as the Thief—but we are capable of aiding those who can. Although now that we hear of such rumors...” he shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

The five of them continued to talk late into the night. Reluctantly, Mr. Bennet agreed to allow Jane to remove with the Gardiners to London for a time—the purpose of her visit was twofold: under the Gardiner’s tutelage, she would improve her skills (not under any circumstances involving herself in work that might place her in danger); the other purpose was of a more personal nature: she hoped to discover, once and for all, whether Mr. Bingley still cared for her.

Elizabeth was impatient to join her sister in the support of the Merchant’s Court, but her father was against it. Her skill was not an ordinary kind of magic, if it could be called that at all; both he and the Gardiners were in agreement that for the time being, Lizzy must bide her time, and remain home.

The Gardiners remained at Longbourn only a week. Before their return to London, Mrs. Gardiner was afforded the opportunity to observe Elizabeth with Mr. Wickham (rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation of him). Without supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.

Elizabeth laughed, but assured her Aunt that she was not in love with Mr. Wickham, and would prevent his being in love with her. She found him to be the most agreeable man she had ever met—but she would remember to be wise. It was perhaps fortunate that Mrs. Gardiner gave the hint, for it was not long afterwards that Mr. Wickham’s apparent partiality subsided, and he instead attached himself seriously to a Miss Mary King—a young woman of reasonable magical talent who had recently come into possession of ten thousand pounds. Elizabeth was disappointed, but not crushed. She discovered that, while partial to him, she had never been in love. Her acceptance of his desire for independence was perhaps kinder than she had felt towards her friend, Charlotte Lucas.

The days at Longbourn grew long and dreary as winter awaited the spring. Affairs settled to be as they were before Mr. Bingley had come into Hertfordshire, and no new rumors of attacks or battles were whispered about the countryside. Charlotte, before her marriage, had extended an invitation for Elizabeth to join her in March at her new home in Kent. Elizabeth at first had no intention of accepting it—but found that as time went on, and in part because of Jane's absence, she missed Charlotte's company more acutely. She was curious to meet Lady Catherine de Bourgh—the wife of the Necromancer, and aunt of Mr. Darcy.

To Kent it was decided she would go, along with Sir William and Maria. Mr. Bennet did not seem overly fond of the scheme, but Elizabeth attributed this to his reluctance to part with her company, rather than any danger that might await her at Rosings.

“Only remember, Lizzy,” he said in parting, “While Mr. Darcy knows of your secret, I would beg you not to reveal it to any other person. And if someone should ask whether or not your father performs magic—tell him that he does not.”

AFTER his departure from Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy threw himself into work. What was most difficult was giving off the appearance of the frivolous, leisurely life of a gentleman, when almost every other day he was off to some new location for one project or another, formalizing a method, or traveling across country and back again.

He did not often think of her. Elizabeth Bennet had been nothing more than an infatuation—less with her actual person, than with her exceptional gift. He and Bingley rarely spoke of the incident now. Their conversation had been brief and to the point; a vocalization of what Bingley had feared in the first place. It was fortunate that the Bennet's did not frequent town.

Therefore it had come as a surprise when Miss Bingley informed Darcy of Jane Bennet's visit in January. Caroline had concealed it from Charles, and hoped Mr. Darcy would agree that she had taken the right course. Darcy could do nothing but agree. Bingley was almost out of danger—the sight of Miss Bennet's lovely smiles would only make him wish for what might have been, and lose sight of the path set before him.

Yet, there were moments, most often while he practiced, when Darcy could not seem to forget the way she had looked at him, and the manner of their parting. Might it have been different, if she had shown more interest in him than in believing whatever Mr. Wickham had told her? Had he been too hasty in his dismissal of her—had she even indicated that she had believed Wickham? Was there a possibility of her being in any danger—a possibility of someone acquiring her gift? These were the questions which Darcy returned to most often when he was alone, as he wielded the bright blue fire about in his hands.

He would remind himself of the position and circumstance of her family, and the impossibility of any connection between them. It was better to never have begun, than to begin something that could never be... was it not? Such thoughts began to effect his concentration. Those who knew him attributed it to his injury, but in truth, his injury was nearly healed.

He would forget her; even as the days and weeks slipped by, he thought of her less and less often. She had been nothing to him, nothing at all.

Chapter Eleven: Travelling at High Speeds

Posted on Tuesday, 9 October 2007

ALL OF Elizabeth’s earlier misgivings were laid to rest immediately by the warm welcome she received from Charlotte upon their arrival at the Hunsford Parsonage. Marriage had not improved upon the manners of her husband, but Elizabeth had not expected as much. Indeed, Mr. Collins was more than civil, taking several minutes at least to inquire after her family. After this, he eagerly took them into the house where he impressed upon his guests the modest loveliness of the furniture and sturdy superiority of the Parsonage walls.

Mr. Collins did seem to direct his commentary towards Elizabeth purposefully, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him with any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. Charlotte, while at times unable to hide a blush at some remark or another made by her husband, for the most part remained wisely deaf to Mr. Collins’s absurdities.

Their tour included a walk about the garden (where Mr. Collins was often encouraged to work by his wife), and a view through an opening in the trees of Rosings itself. Mr. Collins would have taken them round to see his two meadows, but as Elizabeth and Maria’s shoes were not fit for the remains of a white frost they turned back to the house. Alone with Charlotte, when Mr. Collins could be forgot, there was really a great air of comfort throughout; and by Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten.

“I would offer you the tea, Elizabeth,” Charlotte said with a rosy smile, “But as you could not appreciate it, I must make some in the ordinary way.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said with a smile as she surveyed the room.

“Oh, it is no trouble; I must make up some for my husband in any case.”

“Mr. Collins will not drink your enchanted tea?” Elizabeth raised a brow.

“No indeed, and Maria, you must listen carefully now too—for Mr. Collins will have nothing of magic performed in his presence.” Charlotte said as she busied herself with the kettle.

“He was not so in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth said in puzzlement as she moved to sit across from Charlotte.

“He is not when in company, and not always at home, but it is a principal he has adopted for the sake of his Patroness.”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” Elizabeth laughed. “You are joking!”

"It is quite true," Charlotte said, "Lady Catherine is insistent that magic is never used in her home. I do not know the particulars, but I understand her husband died in an accident several years ago involving magic. His death has left her adverse to enchantment of any kind."

"Rosings is not kept up by use of magical aid?" Elizabeth said with some surprise.

"None. I think there are few great houses in all of England like it," Charlotte replied, handing her a cup of ordinary tea.

“It will not be as tasty as mine,” Maria giggled.

“No enchantments,” Elizabeth mused, hardly minding her cup. “That is rather extraordinary. With a nephew so deeply involved—and her husband!” Here Elizabeth paused to sip her tea and collect her thoughts.

“Lady Catherine considers herself anything but ordinary, Lizzy,” Charlotte said with a smile, “and is a most attentive neighbor.”

Shortly thereafter Mr. Collins and Sir William returned to the house to take tea with the ladies. The remainder of the afternoon and evening was spent in leisurely conversation and the retelling of all Hertfordshire’s news. Briefly, the subject touched upon the absence of attacks since the day before Mr. Bingley’s ball—but here Mr. Collins quickly turned the conversation, reminding everyone in the most serious of tones that Lady Catherine was not to be distressed by any talk of such sort. They might discuss it moderately while in his house, but under no circumstances were they to allude to magic of any kind to his patroness, unless she brought it up particularly herself.

That evening, Elizabeth was grateful for the solitude of her room. Noticing that the blue curtains were pulled across a small window, she moved to draw them away. Elizabeth stood for some moments, at first looking over the gardens, then surveying her small room. Rosings was barely visibly through the trees, darkened by the long shadows. Elizabeth wondered what she would find within the Park and miles of green forest. She had grown accustomed to the magics alive within the woods at Longbourn—but she was now uncertain whether magic had been permitted to thrive in Rosings Park at all.

Her room was neat and comfortable, as was everything in the house. In spite of the fact that Mr. Collins had reiterated his patroness’s involvement in almost every detail of the Parsonage, Elizabeth gave the credit for the pleasantness of the room to her friend—who else would have placed the freshly cut flowers on the night stand, or the two small books so conveniently within reach? Elizabeth let out a sigh, drawing the curtains closed, and felt that she had been right in coming.

The following afternoon, Elizabeth ventured out for a walk in the meadows, circling round to the fences that surrounded Rosings’ grounds. However tempted, she did not venture beyond the paling, and so was disappointed that she could not detect anything—magical or otherwise—about the place. She was just returning to the Parsonage lane when a Phaeton came round the bend at an exhilarating speed. She jumped to avoid collision, but the vehicle stopped abruptly with purposeful magic in front of the Hunsford Parsonage. Two women sat in the Phaeton, straightening their bonnets. The younger of the two looked up, and was alarmed to see Elizabeth standing against the hedgerows with her mouth agape. She motioned to her companion, who looked up immediately.

“Are you quite all right?” the older woman called out.

Elizabeth closed her mouth and stepped forward shakily. “Fine, thank you, if a bit terrified. I do not recall ever having seen a Phaeton move so fast.”

The older woman, her dress denoting a lower station then that of the younger one, shifted uncomfortably. “You saw us driving so quickly?”

“I—“ here, Elizabeth paused. She realized that the Phaeton had been under enchantment from the beginning, perhaps to conceal its actual speed, but she had no way of conveying her understanding of this without revealing too much.

The younger woman, who was slight and pale, turned to her companion and whispered something unintelligible. Turned back to Elizabeth, she attempted a smile, and addressed her directly. “You will be so kind as to not mention this incident to Mr. Collins, or any other person.”

Elizabeth was slightly taken back by her haughty manner of address, and turned her head to the side questioningly.

“You are his cousin, or his sister-in-law, are you not?” the young woman continued, “You must be his cousin, for you do not look at all like Mrs. Collins. Will you not oblige me then, in this one request? Mrs. Jenkinson must have—miscalculated. Under ordinary circumstances, you would never have seen us moving at such a pace. We have not much time,” she added, with some urgency, glancing at the Parsonage windows.

“I am not obliged to grant any requests when they are demanded in such a manner,” Elizabeth replied with some laughter, attempting to conceal her vexation and curiosity. The young woman pinched her lips together tightly, while the other clucked disapprovingly. They sat in silence, listening to the sound of Mr. Collins’s footstep’s approaching hurriedly. With a sly smile, Elizabeth spoke again just before he reached the gate, “I will oblige you on this instance since I am, at least this time, unharmed.”

The young woman’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and she turned her full attention towards the parson. Breathless and flustered, Mr. Collins was profoundly confused as to how Elizabeth had come to meet Miss de Bourgh (the young woman to whom the Phaeton apparently belonged). Although she wished to return to the house, Elizabeth could not now avoid remaining to receive proper introductions. When Charlotte came out to join them, Elizabeth was certain they would remove indoors to get out of the wind, but Miss de Bourgh was no so courteous. They stood longer while Mr. Collins gave his many respects to Miss de Bourgh and to her mother; his gratefulness could hardly be described in words when he learned that Miss de Bourgh had come to extend an invitation for the whole party to dine with them the next day.

Her message having been relayed, Miss de Bourgh uttered a short, clipped farewell and the Phaeton lurched off with enormous speed. Elizabeth noted with amusement that Mr. Collins continued to wave long after the vehicle was out of sight, realizing that there had been nothing wrong with Mrs. Jenkinson’s spell at all, only that it could have no effect on her.

Mr. Collins’s triumph in consequence of this invitation was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for, and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.

“What thought you of Miss Anne de Bourgh,” Charlotte whispered to her as they walked into the house, Mr. Collins now in deep conversation with Sir William.

“Yes, Elizabeth!” Maria exclaimed, “Oh that I had gone out with you!”

“I liked her appearance—“ Elizabeth said with a sudden thought, “She looked sickly and cross.—Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a proper wife.”

“Lizzy!” Charlotte exclaimed, catching her breath so as not to laugh, “Whom do you speak of?”

“Why, Mr. Darcy, of course!” Elizabeth cried, at which all there women could not prevent themselves from laughing. “Although I did think her abominably rude to keep you out of doors in such wind, Charlotte.”

With a knowing glance, Charlotte hushed the women as her husband approached, but Elizabeth had a question to ask of Mr. Collins.

“Does Miss de Bourgh ride out often?” she said cheerfully.

“I have known them to ride out as often as twice a week, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins replied.

“It was a very fine Phaeton—“

“Very fine, indeed!” echoed both Mr. Collins and Sir William.

“—but with such a vehicle, do they not often ride at speeds which might be detrimental to Miss de Bourgh’s health?” Elizabeth finished with a raise of her brow.

“Dearest cousin,” cried Mr. Collins, “Your concern is admirable, quite in its proper place! But I have never known them to travel at anything but the most respectable—indeed, very slow!—pace. Lady Catherine has said that the fresh air is beneficial to her daughter’s lungs.”

Elizabeth smiled and said no more, not noticing the puzzled look which Charlotte threw in her direction.

The next day proved bright and sunny—a more perfect day Mr. Collins could not have chosen himself to dine at Rosings Park.

“Do not make yourself uneasy, Cousin, about your appearance,” he solemnly as they readied to leave, “or your lack of magical talent.”

Elizabeth smiled in amusement, “Neither is ever a cause for unease, Mr. Collins.”

“I must remind you that Lady Catherine is an extremely magical person herself—but it is of the utmost importance that Magic or Enchantment never be mentioned in her presence.”

Elizabeth tried not to laugh, assuring him with as much seriousness as possible that it would be no obstacle for her.

“I have no small amount of knowledge in such areas myself,” Mr. Collins explained, “And Charlotte of course is also quite talented. Since you, Cousin Elizabeth, have not been blessed with such a gift, you have no cause for alarm. But Maria, do remove any extraneous spells which you might have adorned for beauty's sake—Lady Catherine cannot abide magic of any sort.”

Elizabeth's first full view of the house was what she had expected. It was a fine building, built in the modern style; Mr. Collins made sure to point out the many windows which adorned it. She thought it fit any relative of Mr. Darcy's perfectly—the sort of place she imagined him to feel most comfortable. Greatly intrigued by Mr. Collins's insistence that the estate was not run with magic, she directed her concentration to the detection of any sort of spell—and could discover none. While she had not doubted Charlotte's word, this remained something remarkable. Even Hertfordshire, in all its meager talent, was saturated with enchantments of every kind. Most often, Elizabeth found it exhausting to her sensibilities, and had trained herself rigorously to ignore the constant bombardment to her senses. Here, it would be unnecessary to construct the barrier she usually employed to create a breathing space between her and pulsing enchantments.

“I UNDERSTAND that you do not perform magic,” Lady Catherine said to Elizabeth, causing the others to turn towards her in shock. The question was a continuation of many such impertinent inquiries that Elizabeth had been asked throughout the evening, but one that she had not expected due to Mr. Collins’s warnings.

“No,” she replied shortly.

“That is very strange, but not at all unfortunate,” Lady Catherine nodded towards her daughter Anne, who was sitting close to the fire, with Mrs. Jenkinson hovering close by. “My daughter and I are not bereft of talent ourselves, but we voluntarily choose not to take advantage of it.”

Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before saying, “Miss de Bourgh never employs magic?”

Miss de Bourgh started, and looked to Elizabeth with a tight face. Lady Catherine noted her daughter’s expression and spoke on her behalf, “None of us employ magic, did I not tell you?” She paused to sigh before continuing, “Do any of the rest of your family perform?”

Elizabeth almost did not attend, for she was busy thinking of this new revelation, but managed to reply, “Three of my sisters; my mother makes attempts. We are not considered to be greatly talented.”

Sir William looked as though he wished to speak on behalf of what he considered to be the Bennet’s great talent, but was too much in awe of his hostess to do so. Lady Catherine nodded again as she continued, “Your parents rightly did not encourage such behaviors—they are quite dangerous.”

Elizabeth’s face twitched into a smile, “With the exception of my sister, whose particular talent falls along the lines of healing. I suspect there is little danger there.”

Lady Catherine seemed unaccustomed to being contradicted, but that did not deter her from furthering her questions, “Your father does not perform magic.”

“No.”

“Yours is a complete lack of talent?”

“Yes.”

“Of great interest, I am sure, to those who study such things,” Lady Catherine replied, “But do not take it as a misfortune, particularly in this house, where it is not mentioned.”

Elizabeth smiled again at this, but made no reply, and so the conversation turned in another direction.

FORTINBRAS and Pendragon sat in a darkened library, illuminated only by the flickering light of the fireplace.

“You are brooding,” Fortinbras said, flicking a yellow burst of light in Pendragon’s direction.

“Do not be so tiresome, Fortinbras,” Pendragon sighed, not even bothering to remove the ball of light from where it now hovered above his head.

“What could she have written that put you in such a fright? We must go; there is no getting out of it—two weeks from now, and not a long stay. You will be able to move back and forth easily enough. And I shall too, if circumstances call for it.”

Pendragon straightened slowly from his lounging position in the chair, rubbing his neck thoughtfully. He looked up at Fortinbras with some trepidation, “What if I were to say that we should go now—early? Could you bear it?”

Fortinbras leaned back in mock horror, “You cannot mean voluntarily extending our stay! What are you about?”

“That is my own affair.”

“Has it anything to do with—“

“No.”

“We never spoke of it again, and you had promised that you would reveal your 'true love’s' identity,” Fortinbras said with a laugh, ducking to avoid the ball of fire that Pendragon shot back at him.

“It came to an impasse.”

“This young lady is not the same you met over in—“

“I will discuss it with you,” Pendragon said sternly, leaning back into his chair. “after further investigation.”

Fortinbras sighed deeply. “Must you brood? I cannot abide your sulking about.”

Pendragon's reply was with another ball of fire, this time blue. Fortinbras did not duck in time, and his beard was singed.

“I UNDERSTOOD from Lady Catherine that you were not expected for another week,” Elizabeth smiled at the young man sitting before her, barely glancing at the other who stood in formidable silence on the other side of the room.

“Yes, indeed, but out of necessity there has been a change of plans. Our Aunt must be visited, and we had a need to escape the wiles of Town,” the young man laughed, answering her smile with a grin of his own. “And now it is my turn to ask you a question.”

“It is only fair, since you made an attempt to answer mine, however ambivalently. But I am accustomed to that, I am acquainted with your cousin, after all,” Elizabeth said with another glance at Mr. Darcy.

The young man, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, laughed again, turning to you cousin. “You must come sit with us, Darcy, rather than stand glaring like a fool.”

Mr. Darcy looked affronted, but moved to take a seat, still keeping a good distance between himself and the others.

“I understand from numerous sources that you do not perform magic, Miss Bennet,” Col. Fitzwilliam said, after a shake of the head. “Is this true?”

“Quite true,” Elizabeth said cheerfully.

“How unfortunate!”

“I suppose that depends upon your point of view. Having never practiced magic, I cannot give an opinion one way or the other,” Elizabeth said, now trying not to look again at Mr. Darcy.

“I do understand from my cousin that Hertfordshire is not acclaimed for its magics—perhaps your opinion would change were you to observe it in a different setting?” Col. Fitzwilliam continued.

“Such as in a more educated populace?” she said, causing the Colonel to blush. “Mr. Darcy underestimates Hertfordshire's capabilities. Your curiosity is well understood, Colonel, but do you mean to make me regret what I can never possess?” Elizabeth said dryly.

Colonel Fitzwilliam's hasty apology was cut short by Mr. Darcy, “Hertfordshire is of course filled with raw talents, the forest near your home also containing very deep magic that is not often found in other regions. But I must insist, as I have before, that your perception of magic might change when you are exposed to higher forms.”

“Higher forms?” Elizabeth smirked, “Such as your talents, Mr. Darcy?”

He did not reply, falling back into silence, the Colonel more than happy to pick up the conversation.

“Darcy is unquestionably always pursuing higher forms of magic!” he laughed, “But I fear that this topic of conversation is unpleasant to you, Miss Bennet, and one in which you cannot so easily participate.”

Elizabeth's secretive smile was not lost upon Mr. Darcy, as she replied, “Perhaps you are right, Colonel; my knowledge naturally cannot be as complete as I might wish it. We should speak of something entirely ordinary and dull. The weather, perhaps?”

THE ARRIVAL of Lady Catherine’s nephews one week early had been a cause for great astonishment amongst the neighborhood. That they should call upon the Parsonage so soon after their arrival—Charlotte could only account for it by thinking it was a compliment to Elizabeth. For her part, Elizabeth was pleased with the change in company, but laughed at her friend’s assertion that Mr. Darcy meant to pay a compliment to her. Their visit was brief, leaving Elizabeth with a favorable impression of Colonel Fitzwilliam, and confirming all of her former impressions of Mr. Darcy’s disagreeableness.

That same evening, Elizabeth was detained from her room by Charlotte and Maria, who kept her until late into the night with their confidences. The hour nearing midnight, Elizabeth at last stumbled to her room in fatigue, nearly spilling her candle onto a book that lay across the bed. She paused and lifted the book gingerly (after having carefully set the candle on the bedside table). She did not recall having left a book of any sort there, and this one seemed distinctly peculiar. Her hands tingled as they moved to open the pages, and with a shock Elizabeth realized that it had been placed in her room by magic—the residue of the Enchanter immediately recognizable to her.

At this, she nearly put the book away, but curiosity overcame her other feelings and Elizabeth turned to the first page. Reading no father than the first few lines, she closed the book with a snap, blew out the candle, and slipped under the covers. Sleep did not come easily that night; Elizabeth’s mind was filled with too many questions unanswered. Speaking with him was now of utmost importance—and she had a suspicion that early the next morning, she would know where to find him.

Continued in Next Section