Chapter 5 Wickedly Handsome
WICKEDLY HANDSOME
The days after the ball were eventful. Mr. Bingley visited three times in one week: twice with his sisters and once with Mr. Darcy.
By now, everyone in our household knew the story of Mr. Darcy’s slight to me, and there were many outraged noises when he was spotted approaching.
Mamma greeted him with exceptional rudeness.
Fortunately, Mr. Bingley’s attention was all on Jane, so he was oblivious to this mistreatment of his friend.
Mr. Darcy received mother’s greeting in silence, then acknowledged Jane and me, as we had conversed at the ball.
After his bow, he faced me for slightly too long as if he intended to speak, but he said nothing.
Then he found the farthest chair and stared out the window for the duration of the visit.
Afterward, I realized he never spoke a word.
“Why on earth did that disagreeable man come?” my mother scolded after they left.
“I imagine Mr. Bingley enjoys his company,” I said, unfathomable as that seemed. “Or he required a new companion, as his sisters had visited enough for one week.” A single gentleman could visit my father without harm, but Mr. Bingley calling alone on the Bennet sisters would launch gossip.
And if that excitement were not enough, I had a fresh refinement to enliven my days, although it would not impress Miss Bingley’s London high society.
It was a little past dawn. I was standing in mud in front of our draca house, and most vexed with our firedrake.
“Will you not look at me once this morning?”
Our drake had emerged, but today he was sulky. He curled around himself and studied fallen leaves, the stone of his draca house, the points of his wings, and every available item other than me.
Each morning, I had tried to replicate the strange vision that occurred when the drake and I stared at each other after the mad dog’s attack. Each morning, I had failed. I would have had more luck asking Mr. Darcy to sing.
With a huff, I crossed my arms and scowled. The drake twined restlessly, creeping closer then scuttling away, an endless cycle. Since the attack, he never returned to the kennel while I was present, but neither did he come close. Today, he would not even face me.
I had been rising early to avoid my family, but this was a washing day, and the household was waking. Frustrated, I pointed at the drake. “You are most ill-behaved.” He crouched remorsefully, pressing his belly flat to the earth, then fled into his house.
There was an exclamation behind me. I turned to see a servant—a laundry maid, by the rough, red hands covering her shocked mouth. She was an older woman, gray-haired and wizened under her simple bonnet.
I knew our housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, brought in extra help for washing day, but I had not expected to meet a strange servant while I was apparently conversing with draca, not to mention having my petticoats inches deep in mud.
But politeness serves in these situations, so I nodded and said good morning.
“Ma’am,” she said, even that short utterance revealing a Scottish brogue. Eyes lowered, she continued toward the back entrance, tromping a wide path to avoid the muddy patch by our draca house. Or perhaps to avoid me, as I was equally filthy.
Inside, I changed for breakfast, and our housemaid added the muddied clothing to the laundry she had collected. I eyed the pile, feeling guilty. But I could hardly go outside in bare legs.
The journal from my father rested on my dressing table. Although the oldest pages were indecipherable, I had read several parts, sometimes with Jane beside me for another opinion. But I learned little, other than a disturbing mention of “corrupted wyfe” and mysterious references to “draca essence.”
The day was warming when breakfast ended, so my sisters and I set out walking to Meryton.
The town was a mile away, and the muddy patches can be avoided if you are not distracted by disobedient drakes.
Lydia and Kitty were in high spirits and ran ahead, while Jane, Mary, and I followed at a brisk walk.
“Have you examined the cover of your journal?” Jane said, quite out of the blue. “For I believe it is not the Longbourn crest.”
Mary asked what journal, and we explained. It was no secret, and I had meant to show it to her, despite a selfish concern that she would then borrow it for a week.
Mary’s brow knitted. “You must keep it safe. An old document is valuable, even if it discusses only draca.” She added, “If you wish references, you shall require comprehension of Chinese. Draca originate in the Far East. But I have heard it is a challenging language.”
“I thought draca were exclusively English,” I said.
“No, draca were appropriated from the East by the peerage, who used binding to enforce hereditary rule. Binding and hereditary title together established the aristocracy, the corrupt elite that today represses honest workers.”
“Mary, what have you been reading?” I said, taken aback.
“Are they really from the Orient?” Jane said eagerly.
Mary blinked at us. Her scholarly comments seldom received such attention. “I was not much interested, so I recall only a little. Marco Polo described Eastern draca as most savage. Village headmen would sacrifice young virgins to their tremendous appetite.”
Jane’s eyes had gone round. “I will not believe that!”
“I find it quite plausible,” Mary replied primly, hurt that her authority was questioned. “Our English patriarchy commoditizes unmarried ladies. Primitive societies, unless truly naturalistic, would be as culpable.”
Jane was dubious. “But our drake would not eat a woman. He is quite tame. And small!”
“It is my impression that, in the distant past, the Eastern varietals were larger.”
“How much larger?” I said. I had never seen a wyvern, but they were described as nearing the weight of a middle-sized dog.
But Mary’s thoughts were proceeding on their own path. “I should be pleased to escape to a naturalistic society. The native tribes in America revere women and acknowledge them to be the wisest leaders. That would be most enjoyable.”
I examined Mary’s clothes, which, though she still wore black, were fastidious and impractical. “Are you sure? I should think practicing your music would be difficult.”
“I would bring a smaller harpsichord. Or perhaps a clavichord. One of the braves could carry it for me. They are very strong from wrestling bison and bears.”
This seemed an overly romantic view. “Are you sure?” I asked again.
We entered Meryton and found Lydia and Kitty, then strolled together until we reached a woman handing out abolitionist pamphlets. Parliament had outlawed the transport of slaves several years ago, but slavery was still rampant in the colonies. Full abolition was a prominent women’s cause.
I donated a penny, which was generous. Mary dug a full shilling from her purse and pressed it into the woman’s hand, then held tight with both hands and began listing horrors of the Caribbean sugar trade.
We walked on, leaving Mary with the increasingly wide-eyed woman.
Lydia flapped her pamphlet back and forth, then laughed.
“It is a serious issue,” I said.
“You are joking. Nobody cares.”
“You must not think that. Those poor people are as human as you or me. The color of their skin does not matter.”
“It is not that.” Her bright blue eyes studied me under her bonnet. She lowered her voice. “You are clever, Lizzy. You know. It is like worrying about people who are sick. We do it for show.”
“What?” I said. But Lydia had spotted Lieutenant Denny and another young officer, and she ran off.
I looked at Kitty, who knew Lydia best. Her eyes, pinched with worry, caught mine before she ducked her head and followed her sister.
Jane was oblivious. She had taken to daydreaming when Mr. Bingley was not present.
Jane and I joined the group, and Denny introduced a third gentleman, Mr. Wickham. Again, the two youngest Bennet sisters raced ahead, this time on the arms of the officers. I was left to entertain Mr. Wickham, for Jane was absent behind a faraway smile.
I rather enjoyed this arrangement. Mr. Wickham spoke like an educated gentleman, and he was handsome, with strong cheekbones and a warm grin.
He paid devoted attention as we examined the shops.
It was nice to be flattered. I had spent much of the week idly wondering how long Mr. Bingley could gaze at Jane without blinking.
After pleasantries, I asked if Mr. Wickham had recently come to Meryton.
“Very recently,” he replied. “I have accepted a commission in the militia stationed here.”
Our local officers were all with the militia, the volunteer service stationed throughout England. The regular army was deployed to the war with France.
He offered his arm while we crossed a street, then asked, “Have you always resided in this neighborhood?”
I explained that Longbourn was nearby, and Mr. Wickham remarked he had passed through Longbourn village, which he found efficient and smartly organized, indicating a modern philosophy of management.
Should I tell him I traipsed the back paths to manage the tenants? Probably not.
After a few more steps, he added, “If I am not mistaken, Longbourn has bound a firedrake?”
I nodded.
“A remarkable binding,” he continued. “Have you some tale of how it happened? A family recipe for attracting draca?”
I laughed. “I am unaware of any mystical lore. The Bennet wyves have always bound draca of exceptional breeds.” I suppose that was boastful, but it was a boast for my sisters as well.
His eyes appraised me a long time before we resumed our stroll.