Unpacking the small box, she placed the candles in a circle around her and lit them carefully before retreating to her position in the middle. Returning to the box, she withdrew an old canning jar that she had stolen from the kitchens several weeks ago. Taking a deep breath, she sat down and began pouring the other contents of the box into the jar, until it was halfway full of salt, coffee grounds, crushed egg shells, and nettle.
She wished that she had something something more personal to include, but that would require time she did not have. The coffee grounds had been collected, by habit, from the pot of coffee that she had served to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley on their last visit, and she hoped that they would suffice in channeling her energy toward the former gentleman.
Elizabeth had never done a banishing spell before, as her father had classified them as magic too dark to be attempted. Elizabeth, despite her jokes about banishing Mr. Collins, had to agree. But within her great-aunt’s grimoire she had found a spell for banishing emotions, and the temptation that night was too strong to resist.
What was it that Mr. Darcy had told her? “Some things simply need to be acknowledged to be purged.” She had not felt the need or desire to purge any great emotion when he had said that to her, and that day had felt so long ago; but now, she realized with a bitter irony, she intended to take his advice.
She could not — and would not — banish the man, but she could empty herself of those cursed feelings that were tethering her to him. In the morning she would accept her cousin’s offer of marriage, and she intended to do so with an empty heart.
She shook the ingredients together for what felt like hours, focusing on the man — his abominable pride, his inexplicable softness, the strong line of his jaw, the chilling feel of his hand as he reached out to her in the dark.
By the time she withdrew a scrap of parchment from the box, she was crying softly. “Write down what bothers you,” he had told her. Her tears smudged the ink as she wrote carefully, “Mr. Darcy.” With a bitter laugh, she realized that she did not even know his first name.
Elizabeth tore off the corner she had written on and placed it in the jar as she closed her eyes and repeated the words she had found written in her great-aunt’s book. She did not know their meaning, for it sounded like no language she had ever heard, but she pronounced them as best as she could.
After what felt like an eternity, she opened her eyes, folded the parchment, and held it over the closest flame. As soon as it lit, she dropped it into the jar and repeated the words again.
She watched as the fire burnt down, barely breathing in anticipation, but long after the parchment was ash, she felt no difference. Though magic was not visible, she knew what a successful spell felt like. The candles had not flickered, the wind had not picked up, and more importantly, the painful feelings were still nestled inside her heart, as raw and throbbing as they had been since the previous night.
With a grunt of frustration, Elizabeth tried again and again, practically shouting the spell, but there was no difference. The level of ash rose in the jar, and at last Elizabeth threw herself to the ground, sobbing in frustration.
That was how her sisters found her some hours later — huddled, crying in the middle of a circle of candles, exhausted from the effort and frustration of her failure.
“Lizzy! What are you doing?” Lydia cried, running forward to throw her arms around her older sister. Elizabeth was frigid to the touch, her hands stained with dirt, and her face red and swollen from crying and the cold. Tear tracks raced their way down her cheeks as she shook her head and tried to resist Lydia’s embrace.
“It is the most horrible thing. I do not want it. I was trying to free myself, to banish it, but it won’t work,” she whispered, her voice cracked and hoarse. Lydia’s eyes were wide in fear, and she turned around to behind her.
“Give me that shawl,” she instructed someone. Squinting through the candlelight, Elizabeth saw Kitty’s small form come forward and pull the shawl off her shoulder, her eyes wide and her hand shaking slightly. Lydia wrapped the cloth around Elizabeth’s shoulders, and then opened the blanket she was wearing across her own and motioned for Kitty to come forward and share it.
“Lizzy, what are you trying to do?” Kitty asked gently as the two girls knelt down beside their sister. Kitty reached out to wipe a tear off of Elizabeth’s cheek. “What are you trying to banish?”
A small sob of anger and embarrassment escaped from Elizabeth.
“I love him. Somehow I love him, and I can’t explain it but I do not want it. I know I must marry Mr. Collins and I thought I would banish these feelings, but I cannot do it,” she said quietly. Looking up at her two youngest sisters, the tears in her eyes caused the light from the candles to shimmer and obscure their forms. “Why can’t I do it? Am I not strong enough? I know I am not strong enough to carry these feelings with me my whole life. I know they will not fade.”
Lydia gasped and pulled her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, no, you mean Mr. Darcy, don’t you? The spell impacted you two, not Jane and Mr. Bingley, didn’t it?” she asked quietly. Elizabeth nodded.
“What spell?” Kitty asked, but Lydia shushed her.
“It does not matter. I am not strong enough to do it. I have been so foolish,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. Kitty and Lydia stared at each other for a long moment.
“Lizzy, a spell like that is dark. This is dark magic. We were told never to do it. You are not evil,” Kitty said plaintively. Elizabeth, despite her hurt, smiled slightly.
“Dark magic does not necessarily mean evil. It is just an older kind of enchantment, more natural, more wild, and difficult to control. It is not refined like our simple charms and cantrips. We have been told not to do it because it is dangerous, not because it is wrong,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Is it really worth it?” Lydia asked in a whisper. Elizabeth was silent for a moment, and then nodded.
“It is. You do not know what this feels like. I love a man I hate, who hates me, and I despise myself for this. But even if I could come to terms with that, how am I to pledge my life to one man while I hold another in my heart? It is assigning myself a life of pain and unfaithfulness.”
“We’ll help you,” Kitty said, her voice uncharacteristically assured. “I cannot see you like this. Tell us what to do.”
Lydia nodded enthusiastically, and Elizabeth sniffed as she looked between them.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, her voice catching. Both sisters nodded their agreement, and scooted forward on the ground to be closer. Tearing off another piece of parchment, Elizabeth wrote down his name and repeated her actions from before, trying to channel all her frustration and desperation into her wish. She spoke the words she had read, and soon Kitty and Lydia joined in. Finally, she lit the parchment on fire and dropped it in.
The three sisters sat, holding their breath, waiting for some signal that the spell had been completed, but none came. At last Elizabeth sat back and yelled in frustration, hitting the hard earth with the flat of her palm.
“It is because you have not given a sacrifice,” came a small voice out of the darkness. All three sisters jumped and looked up as Mary walked toward them.
“What?” Elizabeth asked, unconsciously drawing back in preparation of the expected scolding she was about to receive.
“You are casting powerful magic. You are asking nature for something without any kind of trade. You wish to cast something out, yet you are unwilling to lose something,” Mary said, nudging the earth outside the circle with the toe of her slipper.
“But the spell does not say anything about a sacrifice,” Elizabeth said, confused. She pulled her great-aunt’s book back toward her and began flipping through the pages, looking for any kind of reference to the sacrifice Mary spoke of. “I have followed it precisely.”
“Great-aunt Elizabeth’s spells are powerful. She likely assumed no one would attempt them without a basic understanding of magical principles. But didn’t
you notice it was listed among the sacrificial spells?” Though Mary’s voice not harsh, Elizabeth felt herself blush with shame at her mistake.
“How do you know?” Lydia retorted, and Mary shot her a hard look.
“Elizabeth is not the only one who has borrowed books from father. Just because I do not attempt midnight spells does not mean that I have no desire to know my magic,” she snapped back at Lydia. The younger girl rolled her eyes, but remained quiet.
Turning back to Elizabeth, Mary took a tentative step into the circle, knelt down, and clasped her sister’s hands.
“I wish you to think very carefully about finishing this spell. It cannot be undone. Should situations change, you will never again be able to feel for this man,” Mary said, locking her eyes onto Elizabeth. Elizabeth nodded slowly.
“I know. I am prepared for it.”
Mary sighed and leaned forward again.
“You may never be able to love any man. Such spells are unpredictable and difficult to master. The cost may be higher than it’s worth, Lizzy. You could become a heartless woman, cold to the world. I do not know for sure, but I believe this is what happened to aunt Elizabeth. Do you truly want that?”
Elizabeth paused for a moment, mulling over her sister’s words. Their great-aunt had died unmarried and generally cut off to the world. Even as a child Elizabeth could tell that the cold, imposing woman felt little joy over anything. But hadn’t father said his aunt had always been like that? How could they know for sure? Looking down, she nodded once more.
“I am quite certain. Not even magic could rob me of my good spirits forever. And I shall not be like our aunt; I shall not die unmarried. I know I am to be wed, and that is part of the source of my anguish, Mary.”
Mary sighed and stood up, relinquishing her hold on Elizabeth’s hands and brushing her own off on her nightgown.
“Very well, then. But we must never tell Jane. She is so pure; the concept of doing dark magic would be foreign to her.” As one, the four sisters murmured their agreement.
“Kitty, Lydia, come join me outside of the circle. Elizabeth, what is in that jar?” Elizabeth glanced at the jar that was now more full of ash than salt, and told her sister.
“Do you have anymore?” Elizabeth looked inside the trunk.
“Only a bit of salt and some coffee grounds. A handful of nettles.”
Mary bit her lip for a moment, then nodded.
“That will work. Empty the jar outside of the circle, and start over. Do you know what magical sacrifices typically are?”
Elizabeth scrunched up her nose as she dumped the contents of the jar outside of the circle, and nodded. Reaching into her small trunk, she withdrew the salt, coffee grounds, and nettles, along with a pair of sewing scissors.
“Do you think these will work?” she asked tentatively as she held the scissors up for Mary to inspect. Mary squinted through the candlelight, then nodded.
“They will have to. Now, we will stand outside of the circle, hands joined, with you inside. Wait until you have put the parchment in the jar, then complete the sacrifice,” Mary instructed, her voice as strict as a school marm’s.
“I do not like the sound of that,” Kitty whispered, but Mary quickly shushed her.
“Remember to be extremely specific in your thoughts and wishes, Elizabeth. You must be specific.”
Elizabeth nodded, and took a long, deep breath as her sisters retreated outside the circle and joined hands. She had long grown numb to the hard, icy ground beneath her, but she closed her eyes to the light wind that was now whistling in the early morning air, playing with her hair and blowing gently against her heated, swollen face.
She began the ritual again, combining the salt and coffee grounds, shaking in the nettles and focusing on the man once more. Elizabeth pictured his hair ruffling gently in the wind as they met that first morning at Netherfield, and the soft light playing along his jaw as they watched the sun on Oakham Mount. She felt his arms around her as they moved across Netherfield’s ballroom, entirely alone, entirely connected.
She allowed this warmth to build within her as she mixed the ingredients and wrote his name on the parchment. She thought his name, now synonymous with love in her mind, over and over as she lit it on fire.
And as she picked up the sewing scissors and unhinged them, she allowed that warmth to burn, brighter and brighter until it turned into anger. A bitter taste filled her mouth as she remembered his presumptuousness, his insistence, his arrogance. She called forth Mr. Wickham’s warning, and allowed that first twinge of fear to fill her as she remembered Mr. Darcy’s advice from the ball to Mr. Collins, that she was not a moral choice.
And as she brought the scissors down to slice a large gash in the base of her palm, she replayed the moment of their first meeting, when she had first known she would hate him, when she had heard his hateful words. “She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me. She seems to have a rather bitter temperament, and I believe she may be a simpleton.”
She cried out as the scissors cut skin, and she rushed to hold her hand over the jar where the parchment was still burning, the flames licking around his name and devouring it. Elizabeth waited until the flames took the last letter, and clenched her hand tightly, allowing her blood to run down and quench the flame with a small hiss. Behind her, her sisters were still chanting the words, their voices rising above the the wind.
“I wish him out of my mind, out of my heart, out of my life,” she whispered into the dark of the night. “I wish him gone.”
There was a sharp whistling as the wind rushed forth, and, moving in a counterclockwise motion, extinguished the circle of candles one by one, plunging the Bennet sisters once again into the darkness.
Across the fields at Netherfield, Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke in the early morning light, filled with a sudden, overwhelming need to flee.
ACT II
XIV
Elizabeth had, naively, believed that the worst night of her life had passed, and that when she awoke in the morning her life would be reset — or at least one act would have resolved to make way for a new beginning, a new story. So it was with great surprise that she received the message that Mr. Collins had been so eager to impart on her.
She had taken longer on her toilette that morning in an attempt to ease her dry skin and still red eyes, but she knew she did not look her best. She silently hoped that it would add credence to her claims of being ill the previous day, should Mr. Collins ask any questions. But he asked almost none as he led her back out into the cold air to take a turn around the Longbourn garden as they had just days ago.
Her hand, which was carefully wrapped in a bandage so thick it barely fit inside her small gloves, was smarting in the cold, and she attempted to keep her mind off of the pain and focused on her cousin, though it was difficult. He was droning on in his usual fashion, about Lady Catherine, his hopes for coming to Hertfordshire, his lucky situation, the expectations placed on him by his parishioners, and so forth. Elizabeth bit her cheek and desperately wished he would hurry up with his actual proposal so she could agree and they could retire to the house.
“I say this, dear cousin, so that you will understand exactly why I have acted as I have. I wish no ill will between us as we go forward with our lives,” he was saying, and Elizabeth’s head snapped up. This did not sound like a proposal.
“My mind was made up, but I realize I was foolish. I owe much of it to Mr. Darcy, to be honest, for I had thought only of my happiness, and not at all of anyone else’s. So eager was I to fulfill a responsibility that I forgot how great a responsibility it truly is,” he said, his head down and his hands fidgeting nervously with a button on his worn coat.
“You must understand, surely, that it would not have made you happy, should such rumors and viciousness follow you. We would be questioned, doubted, our very roles diminished, and though my patroness, Lady Catherine, is exceedingly generous, she is very particular in matters of morality. It would not
have been easy on you.”
A slow horror began to fill Elizabeth’s stomach, and the pain of her hand receded from her mind. He was not proposing! After everything she had done, she had simply assumed the gentleman would abide by his plan. She had taken solace in his desire to speak with her still, and in her presumptuousness had never considered that such a conversation would not end in marriage.
“I must beg your forgiveness, for I know I established expectations I am not meeting. I believe we could have been happy together, but I hope my subsequent actions will bring you some solace. I know how close you are, and she is truly an intelligent woman. I think she will handle very well, very well indeed, and I believe Lady Catherine will approve. There will not be so much… well, I shall say friction, for lack of a better word, as I had somewhat expected were I to make you an offer.”
“Mr. Collins, who are you talking about?” Elizabeth demanded, cutting into a monologue that she expected to continue for some time. Mr. Collins stopped walking, and stared at his feet, his hands working the button so furiously that Elizabeth feared it would fall off.
“I have made an offer of marriage to Charlotte Lucas, and she has accepted me. We are to be married in a month.”
An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 14
