Chapter 3

The morning following the party at Lucas Lodge, Darcy woke with a headache that felt like the consequences of overindulgence in drink. As he had merely partaken of two glasses of wine and had abstained from stronger spirits the night before, he concluded that his current agony must be attributed to his mystery ailment. When the powders provided to him by Mr Jones proved largely ineffective, he knew it was time to pay the apothecary another visit.

Upon entering the apothecary’s shop later that day, he was greeted in a friendly manner by the proprietor himself, who set aside the phials he had been filling to approach. “Mr Darcy, good to see you again. How are the powders working for you?”

Darcy shook his throbbing head, then winced at the stab of pain which assailed him. “I am afraid there has been little improvement. Do you have aught that I have not yet tried? I fear my symptoms are growing worse by the day.”

Mr Jones’s joviality dimmed and was replaced by sympathy. “I am afraid not, good sir, you have already tried everything in my inventory. Have none of them assisted you?”

“The last helped somewhat at first, but its efficacy seems to have worn off. Is there truly nothing else?” If that were the case, he would be forced to apply to his physician in London for relief, which would be a complicated endeavour at such a distance. He could always return to town, of course, but he had promised Bingley that he would support him at Netherfield and Darcy hated to break a promise.

“Not that I can provide, but I am beginning to believe that your malady is more magical than natural. Though I say it myself, I know my own business and the persistence of your symptoms despite my tonics is unusual.”

Wonderful, now I shall have to employ the services of a healer. Perhaps my uncle can provide a recommendation.

The frustration must have shown on his face for Mr Jones immediately reassured him, “We have an excellent healer in the neighbourhood, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She is not in trade, of course, but she has ever been willing to provide magical remedies to those in need.”

Though Darcy was of course aware of Elizabeth’s Gift and the possibility of creating healing potions from it, he found he was still surprised to hear her name dropped suddenly from Mr Jones’s lips. He could not articulate why, precisely, other than feeling as if the apothecary were somehow reading his mind and dredging up his secret fancies of the fine-eyed miss. Such was impossible, of course, as there was no lady present to lend him her talents. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“If you have not yet been introduced, I will be happy to perform the office.”

“I, um…I have already had that honour, I thank you. You say that she can do what you cannot?”

“I cannot promise it for a fact, of course, but she is able to imbue her plants with magic. I am eminently capable of treating natural diseases, you understand, but Mrs Jones’s Gift does not enable me to do more. Her talent is Divination; useful, but not in creating medicines.”

“Of course.”

“Regardless, my advice is to seek out Miss Elizabeth for a second opinion. If anyone can cure you, she can.”

“To Longbourn, then, I suppose I must go.”

Upon arriving at Longbourn, Darcy passed the care of his horse on to the stable lad and strode in the direction of the manor house. As he lifted his hand to knock, however, his attention was caught by a sweet melody sung in a familiar soprano. He knew immediately that it must be Elizabeth; he had been replaying the song she had favoured them with almost constantly since the evening before. It had even been on his lips as he traversed the distance between Meryton and Longbourn. Listening intently, he followed the entrancing refrain around the side of the house into the back garden.

When he found her, his feet halted to an immediate stop as if they had suddenly grown roots. There she was, seated on a stone bench amongst a patch of wildflowers and singing her song to the cloudless sky. She appeared to be basking in the late afternoon sunlight, her eyes closed and her hair tumbling down her back in a wild tangle of dark brown curls. As he observed her, tiny leaves and curling vines sprouted along the length of her spiralling tresses. Even several feet away, he could smell the earthy mixture of lavender, greenery, and freshly churned loam which emanated from her.

“Enchanting…”

Elizabeth, alerted to his presence by the thought he had mistakenly spoken aloud, jerked slightly and whirled about to face him. Her fine eyes were open wide and her cheeks were coloured a rosy pink. “Mr Darcy! What do you do here?”

Darcy’s own ears were tingling with mortification. “I– Forgive me for startling you, it was not my intention. Mr Jones has recommended your services to me as a healer and I hope you are willing to assist me.”

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her heart and nodded before standing. “No harm done, sir; I was not attending to my surroundings.” Seeming to recall her unbound hair, her hands flew to the verdant mass. Producing pins from the pocket of her dress, she began twisting and securing it into a more socially acceptable formation. Darcy was sorry to see it tamed. “Goodness, I must look a fright!”

“Not at all, you look quite lovely,” he blurted, then flinched. Elizabeth’s Gift seemed to have expanded to eliciting accidental confessions from gentlemen. Or him, at any rate.

The pink in her cheeks intensified and she mumbled her thanks without looking at him. Well done, old man. Now you have made her uncomfortable.

Once Elizabeth had successfully pinned up her hair—an incredible feat, given the length and complexity of her wild locks—she cleared her throat and preserved them both from further embarrassment by changing the subject. “Follow me to the stillroom and I shall do my best to assist you.”