Mr. Darcy’s eyes flicked to the side and Elizabeth felt a jolt of exhilaration as she realized that the gentleman was annoyed by Miss Bingley, who was clearly in admiration of him. She attempted to hide a smile, knowing that if Jane were here she would remind her younger sister that it was uncharitable to take joy in others’ discomfort. But Jane was not there, and Elizabeth struggled to care.
“Mr. Darcy, what is it about the pursuit of magical education that you find unsuitable for your sister? By Miss Bingley’s account, Miss Darcy is a truly accomplished young lady, though I do not know what her parameters for the title are. How does this information degrade such a description?”
Elizabeth thought that Mr. Darcy’s gaze would cut her in half if possible.
“My sister is still young, her morals and character not yet fixed. Knowledge of magic is one matter; but as we know, it undermines the fabric of Christian teachings.”
“Exactly,” Miss Bingley cut in. “It is well known that the practice of magic is immoral. All ladies of fashion are brought up understanding that believing in such practices is a sin against God.”
“But if magic does exist, does it not then stand to reason that it was created by God?” Elizabeth asked, engaged. “All of Creation was formed from his hands, and so would magic not also be an extension of him?”
“You have misled me, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone curious. “You have claimed to not believe in magic, yet echoe the most common argument in its defense. Do you also believe that practising is an extension of honoring God’s creation? Do you then not believe that those who practice will be barred from eternal salvation?”
Elizabeth stared cautiously at him for a long moment. His points were entirely accurate; she did believe that magic and Christianity could work in conjunction with each other, and had been raised to believe that magic was simply another form of worship. But she had strayed too far into this argument, and suddenly felt herself keenly in danger of giving herself and her secret away.
“I have not allowed myself to be a believer, Mr. Darcy. I assure you that I am quite Christian, and those morals are what I hold dearest to my heart. Alas, I must admit to not thinking of such matters very deeply, for I was raised to believe it is a sin against Providence to ponder our fates.”
Mr. Darcy did not appear satisfied with this answer, and so she ducked her head and smiled politely.
“Forgive me. I am argumentative by nature. I cannot doubt Mr. Darcy’s reasons for not wishing to subject his sister to opposing or confusing views,” she said. But Mr. Darcy still looked almost murderous in his dissatisfaction.
“I wish for my sister to grow not only as an accomplished woman, but as a pious one. Confusing her with the world of pagan practices will hardly foster this,” Mr. Darcy said at last, his words painfully drawn out. Elizabeth could only nod.
“You make a compelling argument, Mr. Darcy. A young woman’s faith in Providence is of utmost importance. Alas, I cannot laugh at your reasoning,” she said with a small smile. “Though it is a shame, for I dearly love to laugh.”
Looking around the room, Elizabeth cleared her throat and stood up.
“I must check on Jane and see how she is doing. Please, excuse me,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey and leaving the room.
IV
Though Elizabeth expected to find Jane still sleeping, she was eager for any excuse to leave the unsettling company below stairs. However, upon entering Jane’s guest chamber it was immediately clear that something was wrong. Her sister, who had been sleeping peacefully just hours ago, was now turning in her sleep and straining for breath, her face gleaming with sweat. Elizabeth called her name, but Jane did not seem to hear her through the fever.
Elizabeth called for the maid frantically, and paced the room until she arrived.
“I need cool cloths and water, please. And could you tell Mr. Bingley that my sister’s fever appears to have taken a turn for the worst?” Elizabeth asked. The maid curtseyed and began to leave when Elizabeth stopped her. “No, actually, please do not alarm Mr. Bingley. Just the water please.”
When the maid left, Elizabeth stalked back over to Jane and pulled her small book from her reticule.
“You should have let me heal you earlier,” she mumbled as she flipped quickly through the pages. “It should never have come to this.” Finding the spell she needed, Elizabeth quickly flagged the page and continued pacing the room. She met the maid at the door, grabbed the bowl of water from her eagerly, and returned to Jane’s side, closing the door behind her.
Placing the bowl by the bed, Elizabeth dipped her finger into the water and softly drew a series of symbols on Jane’s alarmingly hot forehead. Gently murmuring the incantation, Elizabeth moved her hand over the bowl in a counterclockwise direction. Dipping her hand into the water once more, she quickly doused the nearby candle, and then ran to open the window across from Jane’s bed to allow the smoke to leave.
“Please let this work. I’m not nearly as talented at healing as you are, my dear Jane,” Elizabeth whispered as she came back to Jane’s bed and picked up her sister’s hand. Jane’s eyes fluttered open briefly as she muttered something.
“You’re awake! I didn’t hear you, what did you say?” Elizabeth asked, leaning in closer to hear what Jane was mumbling under her breath. Jane’s words were mere breaths, impossible to make out.
Taking one of the cool cloths, Elizabeth wiped at Jane’s forehead, her agitation rising.
“What are you saying? I can’t understand you. What do you need?” Jane’s eyes fluttered again, and her mumbles continued, but they became no more clear.
At length, Elizabeth sat back in the chair near Jane’s bed. The spell should have sent her sister into a deep healing sleep, but the magic didn’t seem to have taken hold. At times it seemed like Jane was drifting off, but she never fell asleep completely. After two hours, Elizabeth could stand it no longer. Her spell had not worked.
She rang for the maid again and requested that the apothecary be sent for, and Mr. Bingley be informed of Jane’s worsening condition. Within moments of the maid leaving, there was a knock on the door.
“Miss Elizabeth? It’s me, Mr. Bingley. I heard that Miss Bennet has taken a turn for the worse?” Elizabeth could hear the anxiety in Mr. Bingley’s voice through the door, and she opened it quickly, stepping out into the hall and closing the door firmly behind her. Mr. Bingley looked nearly as ashen as Jane as he stood before Elizabeth, wringing his hands slightly.
“Indeed, sir, it is true. I returned upstairs to find her fever much worsened, and she does not appear to be able to sleep. I fear she has gotten worse, and the apothecary may be needed again.” Mr. Bingley nodded.
“Yes, yes, absolutely. I’ve already had him called for immediately, and I’ve instructed my servants to build up the fire and obey any order you give them. We must have Miss Bennet better again,” Mr. Bingley said. Glancing around the hallway, he leaned in closer. “Please, Miss Elizabeth, I beg you, tell me how I may be of service.”
Elizabeth smiled sadly. Any doubts she had as to whether the gentleman cared for her beautiful older sister had officially passed. He looked close to being sick himself.
“You have done more than enough sir, and I cannot ever repay you. I believe we have nothing to do but wait,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. Her healing magic was not strong, but it was worrisome that the fever had withstood both of her attempts to ease Jane’s suffering.
When the apothecary arrived his advice was, frustratingly, the same as Elizabeth's: wait. After allowing that Jane’s fever was worse than he had thought, he left a sleeping draught and a promise to return the next day, and departed with little advice and hardly any expression of worry. It took Elizabeth and two maids almost a quarter of an hour to get the sleeping draught into Jane’s mouth. Once she had finally swallowed the prescribed dose, however, she quickly turned and emptied her stomach violently. For the next two hours, Jane continued in this way, toss
ing from the fever and becoming sick, even long after there was nothing left in her stomach to expel.
Elizabeth's worry had grown into agitation and turned quickly into anxiety and fear the longer her sister stayed in this state. She had never seen someone become so ill so quickly, and she was at a loss as to how to help her, either medically or magically.
The fever was clearly too strong for Elizabeth alone to combat. She would need help.
Gathering her strength, she walked over to the window once more and opened it wide, allowing the cold breeze and fresh air to swirl through the room. Shivering, Elizabeth leaned out the window and closed her eyes. She began whistling slowly, several long, distinct notes that seemed to catch on the wind, multiply, and float away. She repeated the action several more times before she closed the window and stepped back. She had sent out a summons to her sisters, and she knew they would understand her call to aid. She had bid them to meet her that night after dark in the wooded area that adjoined the Longbourn and Netherfield estates.
Now there was nothing left to do but wait until nightfall.
V
Charles Bingley had woken in the middle of the night, completely unaware of where he was. It had taken him a long moment to adjust to the darkness of his bedchamber as the last notes of his dream floated away from him. He could still hear the sweet voice whispering his name, bidding him to come forth.
Or had it been a dream? The voice whispered through his room long after his eyes had opened and he had sat up, pushing off the counterpane. The night air was cold on his burning face, and each time the whisper rounded the room and passed him he felt the cool breeze of it pressing against his skin. He had left his room, his feet carrying him down the halls without any clear recollection of his decision to do so. He had found himself pacing outside of a guest chamber as the voice whispered past him again, quietly encouraging him to enter.
As he stewed over his coffee the next morning, Mr. Bingley could not understand what had made him open the door and enter the chamber, but he was drawn by some unknown force, pulling against the strings of his heart and carrying him forward. The chamber was dark, the fire died out, and the thin moonlight seeping through the window illuminated the restless figure of Jane Bennet, tossing back and forth gently in the bed.
The whispering voice rushed past him, crossed the room, and appeared to reconnect with Miss Bennet.
“Mr. Bingley? Charles, please help me,” she whispered, nearly inaudible. Even now, in the morning light, he could remember her face shining in the moonlight, her eyes fluttering open, her hand outstretched, reaching for something. He knew, instinctively, that she had called him there; and yet, as it was so in keeping with his own desires, he did not think that he minded.
Mr. Bingley had stayed there by her side for much longer than he had intended to, gently holding Jane’s hand as the light in the room grew brighter and her restless stirrings grew calmer. As the first light of dawn began to trickle into the room, Jane finally seemed to calm and at last sunk into a deep slumber. All at once, Mr. Bingley felt as though the haze in the room had lifted and a fog had passed; the force that had compelled him there had released him, and he had sat blinking into the new dawn for several long moments before the reality of where he was came crashing down upon him, and he slipped from the room quietly.
He was not the only Netherfield inhabitant who had risen from his bed before the dawn, but there was no floating voice or invisible string compelling Mr. Darcy from his sleep. In truth, his inability to rest was not unusual. He rarely slept well these days. Outside his window, a fog had settled along the grounds and dawn had not yet chased away the chill in the air. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he dressed quickly, not bothering to alert his valet, and made his way outside. He felt like he had been suffocating, trapped inside these past two days, his head stuck in a fog he could not shake.
The cold air was a blessing as it whipped against his face, and the wind picked up his hair as he strode quickly toward the stables. Even in the short time he had been at Netherfield the grooms had grown accustomed to his early morning rides, and as a result he was unsurprised to find his horse saddled and ready for him.
Darcy couldn’t explain why he felt so unsettled lately. True, he had been plagued by worry and more than a little guilt over his sister Georgiana’s low spirits, and his trip to Hertfordshire to instruct and advise Bingley on the running of an estate had been endlessly irksome, largely owing to his friend’s lack of interest in all estate matters. Not to mention the puzzle of Elizabeth Bennet that had been needling at the back of his mind.
She was a truly intriguing woman, he would grant her that. He had been unable to determine whether she truly was a practicing witch, and the query fascinated him. Just as he became positive that she was an enchantress, he would just as quickly change his mind. It was this question which made him ruminate on her as much as he did, he told himself.
Magic fascinated him in an uncomfortable sort of way, and as it was wholly unfashionable, he had never met a woman so frank in her discussions. Most ladies of fashion would shy away from the subject altogether. But Elizabeth Bennet was decidedly not fashionable. Darcy hadn’t yet decided whether that was a point against her or in her favor.
Like a specter he had summoned with his thoughts, the shadow of a woman appeared ahead of him in the fog, barely visible in the pre-dawn light. The woman emerged from the thick wooded area along the line of the property, moving slowly through the mist, and for a moment Darcy’s heart was frozen through with ice at the unsettling sight. But as the figure drew closer, he felt as the ice immediately thawed and was replaced with surprise at the sight of Miss Elizabeth Bennet walking slowly, her head down as she crossed the dewy lawn.
Did his thoughts summon her, or had she summoned him? He quickly shook the ridiculous thought from his mind, and, without thinking, urged his mount closer toward her to close the distance between them.
Elizabeth looked up at the sound of hoofbeats to see a large, black beast coming toward her from the fog. She stopped cold, her eyes wide and her hand flying to her chest. Her father had always warned her that when a witch used her powers for ill, she would be summoned by one of the dreaded horsemen to serve in their army for the end of days. She had never believed it; the horsemen of the apocalypse may exist in the Bible she was taught as a child, but they had no place in her true religion. She assumed the story was meant to frighten her, and at that moment she realized that it had worked.
But as the horse and its rider emerged through the fog, Elizabeth saw that, rather than a harbinger of death coming towards her, it was simply Mr. Darcy, and she was filled with an overwhelming relief she found surprising.
Her relief quickly turned into agitation the moment he came even with her, however. The gentleman went to tip his hat, but, upon realizing he did not wear one, nodded awkwardly.
“Miss Elizabeth. I didn't expect to see anyone out this early. Pray forgive my appearance,” he said briskly. Elizabeth eyed him curiously, noting that his hair was still rumpled as if from sleep, his cravat loosely tied, and his general demeanor far more relaxed than she had ever seen him.
“Good morning, sir. I admit you find me in a similar situation. I did not realize anyone else would be awake,” she said quietly, glancing down at the muddy coat she wore over her dressing gown. Her hair was still braided to the side, and it had not occurred to her to change or look presentable for company. She had left Netherfield several hours ago to meet her sisters in the woods, and had planned to return to the house before dawn. Glancing back over her shoulder nervously, she remembered the small fire that was still burning deep within the woods. They had lit it as part of their rite, and were to alternate watching over it throughout the day. The fire had to stay lit in order for the magic to work, and Elizabeth was anxious over whether they had done the enchantment correctly. She could not bear for it to go awry.
She knew Mary had noticed her anxiety that night as they prepared the herbs that they we
re going to burn. Mary, aside from Jane and Elizabeth, was the only one who understood the disadvantage that the coven was at, being comprised of an uneven number of witches and having their magic bound to the land. Though they could practice magic well enough, large spells were difficult for them; and if they pushed too far, nature pushed back.
“If we wish to practice, it is not just our wishes we must consider. We must contend with the wishes of every rock and leaf and flower, because we must access our power through them,” Jane had whispered to her once, late at night. “And anyway, no witch is meant to change fate. If we try, the universe shall correct itself. I think that’s what happened when father kept trying to use magic to get a son; we were never meant to have a brother, but father tried to tempt fate. So instead of a healthy son or a balanced coven, it gave him five girls who are constantly searching for magical equilibrium.”
In the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach, worry was growing. Was Jane’s illness nature’s way of punishing her for calling the rain? And even if it wasn't a punishment, wouldn't casting a spell to cure an illness caused by a magical rain throw off the delicate balance? As they completed the ritual, Mary had squeezed Elizabeth’s hand quickly in an uncommon display of sisterly affection, and Elizabeth was thankful for the reassurance. Both Lydia and Kitty had acted like the rite was great fun, and seemed completely unaware of how precarious their situation was.
Though she had been worried about the spell’s efficiency just moments before, now, standing in front of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth worried about being found out. They had done the spell on the border of the two estates to take advantage of Longbourn’s magic and to be as close to Jane as possible, but it was still likely that someone walking — or riding — would come upon the fire. Even if whichever Bennet girl guarding it at the time managed to flee, the signs of witchcraft were obvious; the fire built in the middle of the woods, the sacred patterns made out of stone surrounding it, and the healing tokens made from twigs which protected it.
An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 4
