An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Virginia Brand

  “We do not have one at home,” she said, turning to Mr. Darcy with a large smile on her face. “Mother thinks it is vulgar to keep plants indoors, and besides, witch’s gardens are rather obvious, aren’t they?”

  Mr. Darcy nodded, his face a blank mask.

  “Indeed. That is why this is built on the back of the house, in the family wing, Visitors do not go here,” he answered. Elizabeth flushed and picked at a thyme plant near her fingers.

  “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s gorgeous,” she said quietly, her eyes scanning the neat rows again. “I have always wished to see one.”

  Mr. Darcy walked to a far window and leaned his weight gently against it, the leaves of a nearby hibiscus plant almost tickling his hair.

  “I must admit I have never used it. My great-great aunt started it. My father loved this garden, and spent a prodigious amount of time on it. When he died, I maintained it more for his memory than its use, though I often come here to think.” Mr. Darcy gently swatted the hibiscus away from his hair and turned with a small sigh. “I rather think it’s a garden that should be used though.”

  “Perhaps one day. Georgiana told me she has been studying magic,” Elizabeth replied hesitantly. “She may find use of it.”

  Mr. Darcy laughed slightly and pushed away from the window and began ambling slowly toward where she stood.

  “She has made it a project to bring the garden back to life, it’s true,” he said, glancing at a feather dangling near his head. “I fear for the day she will be strong enough to send me about at her beck and call.”

  “Come now, you know she would never,” Elizabeth said with an arch smile. “She is utterly devoted to you, it is clear. She would never abuse you in such a way.”

  Mr. Darcy let out a small laugh and took a step closer.

  “I do not worry about her abusing me, though I confess I do lose sleep some nights over her judgement; adding magic to the mix does not ease my mind,” he said with a sigh. “At times she seems so mature, so commanding and sure of herself, but at other times she seems like a child playing with things she does not understand, and I am loathe to admit I cannot think of her as an entity that combines both.”

  “She is a teenage girl, Mr. Darcy — nothing about her is concrete. She is a different person one day to the next, I assure you. But her judgement seems clear; if anything, her further understanding of magic may aid her to know herself better, and help her be more confident and in command of her life.”

  “I have thought that as well, but then I think back to how she used magic to handle that… man,” Mr. Darcy said, nearly spitting in his attempt to avoid Mr. Wickham’s name. “I cannot believe that magic aided her then; if anything, it allowed her to act even more foolish.”

  “Are we not all fools in love?” she asked, taking a small breath. “Or at least when we imagine ourselves to be in love?”

  There: She had said it, the crux of what she truly wanted to know. She found herself holding her breath as she looked up at him cautiously, her fingers accidentally crushing a chamomile plant she had been inspecting. She searched his face for a reaction, but instead of a laugh or an awkward silence, his face was still frustratingly blank as he took a step closer to her.

  “Is it accurate to say ‘all’? Are we all fools, Miss Elizabeth?”

  Her face warmed as he took his last step, coming to a stop directly in front of her, his eyes searching hers. She felt unable to speak, afraid that the anxiety building in her stomach would burst out of her mouth and give her away. She had hoped that her phrasing would cause him to reveal something — anything — regarding his feelings. Had he come to regret his proposal and subsequent letter upon learning the truth about her and all she had done? Or had it changed his perspective, as his secret had changed her own?

  After a long pause, she nodded.

  “Yes, I daresay all,” she nearly whispered. Mr. Darcy’s eyes drilled into hers, and he reached for her hand gently and took it in his own. She gasped slightly as he carefully removed her glove and traced one finger across the scar that split her palm, sending shivers up her spine as he did so.

  “What did you try to cut out?” he whispered to her, his eyes still on her hand as her heart beat erratically. She felt almost faint.

  “Something I was not prepared to deal with. Something that frightened me to my very core,” she responded, allowing herself to lean forward slightly to close up some of the small space between them. Mr. Darcy looked up from her hand, still in his grasp, and into her eyes.

  He stood there staring for what felt like years before he slowly stepped backward and turned away from her. He moved toward the edge of the room and stood there.

  “I have done much thinking, these past weeks,” he said, running his hand along the top of several lavender bushes that were nearby. “It is strange, isn’t it, that we act as though magic does not exist. It is in our history at every point, it is in our bloodlines, and yet in sitting rooms and assembly halls we pretend as if it is a myth, even while it is at work in our government and aiding our war efforts.”

  Elizabeth stared at him in confusion. This was not the direction she had thought this conversation would go in.

  “At some point society dictated that we should hide it, and those of us who have it should bury our skills. I believed this, and abided by it, because it was what was expected of me,” he continued. “But I did not have to, you know. Many great men are lauded for their magic. With my wealth and connections, had I chosen to learn and make something of myself with my ancestral arts, I too would be accepted and revered. And yet this same courtesy would never be given to you or your sisters.”

  “It is not just our social class, Mr. Darcy, but our very gender which creates such a divide,” Elizabeth said hesitantly. “Women who practice magic are ill respected.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Darcy answered. “Men are revered; women are burnt.”

  Elizabeth took several steps toward him, and he turned at last to look at her.

  “May I ask what has inspired this line of thinking, sir?” she asked, stepping closer. She felt as though she had lost all control of her treacherous feet. She did not want to approach him or be so forward and yet it seemed as though she couldn’t stop herself.

  His dark eyes were boring into hers, and she was certain he was going to reach for her again. At any moment her hand would be in his again.

  “Elizabeth, surely you know—”

  “Lizzy? Lizzy, are you there?”

  Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s heads turned as one to stare at the far wall of the greenhouse, where a slender, unadorned mirror hung on a bare patch of wall. A faint, shimmering reflection appeared on its surface, though Elizabeth could not make it out clearly. Squinting, she moved toward it, but Mr. Darcy stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

  “Lizzy, it’s me, Jane,” the voice called again, drifting eerily toward them. Mr. Darcy’s arm was still outstretched in front of her, nearly blocking her from view, and she put her hand gently on his arm and moved it away.

  “It is fine, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said gently. “I know this magic.”

  She moved around him and walked toward the mirror, each step bringing the shimmering image of her sister deeper into focus until she stood directly before the mirror, Mr. Darcy just a few feet behind her.

  “Jane? What is it?” she asked anxiously. She knew Jane would never cast such magic without good cause.

  “I am sorry to bother you and frighten you in such a manner, but I could hardly wait any longer. It is Lydia. We have learned from Kitty that she has left Brighton, and is traveling with Mr. Wickham.”

  XXXI

  “I do not fully understand why, but she says she has gone to seek an audience with the aide to the Duke of Wellington, to offer her assistance with the war effort,” Jane said, her voice soft as it echoed through the mirror. “Lizzy, I do not think this will end well.”

  “The Duke of Wellington? Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth cried, her ha
nds coming up to cover her mouth. “But that is ridiculous! Where would she get such an idea?”

  “Kitty said she has been talking of it for quite awhile, but I can only assume the idea was put to her by Mr. Wickham,” Jane answered, shaking her head. Even through the haze of the reflection, Elizabeth could see that her sister was pale and tired looking.

  “She will be ruined,” Elizabeth said more softly. She could feel the tears beginning to well in the corner of her eyes, but she shook her head.

  “Kitty assured us that they are to be married on their way, but I am not so confident,” Jane said, her voice strained. “We have no money, no inheritance. What possible motivation could Mr. Wickham have to marry her?”

  “Her magic,” came Mr. Darcy’s voice, much closer than Elizabeth had expected. She turned to see him standing behind her, his mouth tight and his expression dark. She could barely not herself to meet his eyes, and so she turned back to Jane, who looked surprised at the gentleman’s sudden appearance.

  “I fear Mr. Darcy is right, Jane,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Wickham asked me to do magic for him several times, but I always acted as though I didn’t know what he was talking about. That’s why he would marry her — in order to have access to her magic.”

  “Have you heard from her? Are you able to contact her using this… method?” Mr. Darcy asked Jane, his voice gentle as he moved to stand next to Elizabeth. Jane turned her head to the side, and appeared to be speaking to someone else for a moment, and then suddenly Mary appeared in the mirror as well.

  “She spoke to Kitty a week ago to tell her, but we have heard nothing else from her. I tried to reach out through the mirror, but whenever I attempt to contact her, I only see water. I believe she has placed some charm or another in water as a way of blocking me from her,” Mary answered quickly. “I must confess, it is far more advanced than I would have expected from her.”

  “Lydia is flighty and foolish, but she is far from stupid,” Elizabeth muttered. “What has father said?”

  Jane and Mary exchanged a glance, and Elizabeth could tell that something was wrong.

  “He is not overly concerned, Lizzy. He says that she is in control of her own magic now, and if she wishes to make herself useful, he will not stand in the way,” Jane said. “His only worry is that she is not married. But as he does not know where she has gone, and she has promised to be married, he does not think it wise to endeavor a search and draw more attention to the matter.”

  An anger filled Elizabeth from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, and she flexed her hand instinctively to keep from lashing out.

  “Does he not understand the implications of how this will affect the rest of us?” Elizabeth asked, her voice low and murderous. “And so close before your wedding as well! I cannot believe she has been so selfish.”

  “Do not worry about me, Lizzy,” Jane said quietly, stealing a brief glance at Mr. Darcy. “Charles — ah, Mr. Bingley, is aware. We are delaying until we know Lydia is settled, but there will still be a wedding yet.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Elizabeth asked, her voice cracking slightly from the strain of keeping her emotions in check. For a brief, maddening moment, she felt the pressure of a hand on the small of her back, but when she looked sideways Mr. Darcy had stepped away from her, and was looking in the other direction.

  “We are going to scry for her. I know you do not wish to practice anymore, but next to Lydia you are the strongest of us, Lizzy,” Jane said, glancing from her to Mr. Darcy with an apologetic look.

  “I do not know how, Jane,” she nearly whispered. “I have never done such a thing before.”

  “It is very simple in theory, but none of us have been successful. I can walk you through it,” Mary answered. “Where are you? Are you safe to practice where you are?”

  Elizabeth flushed deeply.

  “I am… I am at Pemberley,” she answered. “I do not… that is, I don’t know if—”

  “Tell me what you need, and I will supply it,” Mr. Darcy answered, his voice even. “The garden is kept private from servants; I will make sure you are not disturbed.”

  Elizabeth turned to look at him, the tears spilling over as she lost her battle for composure, but he did not meet her gaze.

  He cannot even look at me, she thought with no little distress. He has heard how Lydia has degraded herself with his worst enemy. How could he stand to have any connection to me or my family ever again, especially when our best scenario involves Mr. Wickham becoming a brother-in-law?

  “She will need a bowl of water, three candles, lavender, dandelion, and a tinderbox,” Mary told Mr. Darcy, who nodded and left the room. Elizabeth watched him leave, and then turned back to her sisters.

  “Why are you at Pemberley, Lizzy?” Jane asked, and Elizabeth shook her head.

  “It is not important right now,” she answered, pulling out her handkerchief to blot at her eyes. Straightening up, she carefully picked up a wooden bowl sitting on a nearby shelf and crossed the room to pick a small bundle of dandelions and lavender before returning to her spot before the mirror. She heard the door open quietly behind her and turned to see Mr. Darcy entering the room, a large white bowl in his hands, and Georgiana trailing behind him, her arms full of candles.

  Mr. Darcy set the bowl down carefully then picked up a small work bench and carried it over to where Elizabeth stood, before transferring the water bowl to her new station.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly as she took the candles from Georgiana and placed them around the bowl. The younger girl smiled and nodded, and stared curiously at Jane and Mary’s images in the mirror.

  “We will give you your privacy,” Mr. Darcy said, placing a hand on Georgiana’s arm, but the younger girl hesitated.

  “Elizabeth, can we be of any help at all? If not, may I stay if I promise to be silent? I have never seen a practiced witch work before,” she said breathlessly.

  “Georgiana,” Mr. Darcy said curtly, a note of warning and embarrassment in his voice, but Elizabeth shook her head.

  “No, it is fine. If your brother consents, you do not need to leave,” Elizabeth said kindly. “I have not practiced my magic in quite awhile; I may need a steady hand to ground me.”

  “Oh, Fitzwilliam, please let us stay to help her,” Georgiana said, rounding on the tall man, who, despite looking exceedingly uncomfortable, nodded his consent.

  “Mary, tell me what to do,” Elizabeth said, turning back to her sisters.

  “You must bind it with something that will call out to Lydia, such as blood,” Mary said, and Elizabeth grimaced.

  “I have had enough blood magic to last me a lifetime,” she mumbled, though she dutifully took up a nearby pair of garden shears.

  “Just a small amount. Do not worry, Lizzy, it will not be like last time,” Mary said comfortingly. “Prick your finger and make sure the blood lands on the herbs. Light the candles, then light the herbs, and allow yourself to take in the smoke. Then lean over the water and focus. This is an imprecise art — the water will take shapes, and can show you visions of anything from the past to the future, but it is guided by your thoughts. If you focus very clearly on Lydia, it should hopefully give you a sign as to where she is.”

  “Very well,” Elizabeth said, wielding the shears. With a deep breath, she pierced her index finger and a small hiss of pain escaped her, but she held her hand over the bowl of herbs and pinched the area around the wound, willing the blood to flow. Once several drops had fallen, she wrapped her hand in her handkerchief, lit the candles, then lit the herbs.

  The smell was far from pleasant, and she fought back coughs as she craned over the bowl, breathing it in for several moments before she turned her attention to the bowl of water.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, willing her mind to empty, her breathing to slow, and for all but the sound of her heartbeat to fade. When she felt in control, she placed her hands on either side of the bowl, and peered down.

  At first there was n
othing, and she squinted slightly, willing the small ripples and reflections to speak to her, and at last, slowly, shapes began to form.

  “There is a man,” Elizabeth said, her voice sounding low and disconnected in her own ears. “He is standing in the rain.”

  “Is it Wickham?” she heard Jane ask, as if from miles away.

  “No,” Elizabeth answered slowly. “He is tall. His hair is in his eyes, and he is tired. He is very tired, and very sad. Or is he angry? He cannot decide.”

  “Elizabeth, who is the man?” Jane asked gently.

  “I know his face, but I cannot see it. He has acted foolishly, he feels,” she said.

  “Lizzy, I do not think you are seeing Lydia. Clear your mind, refocus,” said a voice. Mary this time, she thought. Elizabeth closed her eyes again, slowly, as she attempted to do her sister’s bidding, but when she opened them, the man was still there.