Chapter 9 Draca Deaths
DRACA DEATHS
I visited the Lucases the next morning, benefiting from the loan of the Bingleys’ carriage and the gift of being unaccompanied by the Bingley sisters. They felt, correctly, that they did not know the Lucases well enough to visit so soon after misfortune.
Lady Lucas was red-eyed and fluttery. I had known her since I was a child, so I hugged her tight.
I was not as close to her husband, but he was sadder to see.
Sir William’s jovial bluster had crumpled.
He sat in silence, then abruptly started a strange boast of expecting condolences from a duke.
That stopped mid-sentence, and his lips worked until his wyfe took his hand.
Had this been a family death, I would, unfortunately, have known what to say. But I struggled to express my condolences. There was no protocol or precedent to guide me.
Draca are hardy beasts. They never seem to die, at least not of old age.
They are not invulnerable; a musket or heavy weapon can penetrate their scales.
But they are dangerous and resilient, and they are considered outside of gentlemanly conflict—embargoed against violence, both as a symbol of gentry honor and because they cannot be trained to fight, so they are not a threat.
After I visited the family, Charlotte and I retired to talk in the garden. Charlotte is a wonderful friend, sensible and practical, and she was completely calm.
“I was surprised,” she explained, “but Lucas Lodge is not entailed like your estate, and our prestige is secured by my father’s knighthood, which he will remember soon enough, and then cherish even more.
” She was smiling, and I laughed at that.
“In truth, it was only a tunnelworm, no great badge of honor. I did not care for it. Indeed, I wonder sometimes whether I will be able to bind. Draca frighten me. They are ugly, vicious creatures.”
My recent fascination disagreed, but this was not the time to praise draca, so I acknowledged her feelings.
Then I asked, “But how could your draca die?”
“We do not know. My mother found it dead when she went out in the morning. There was no mark or injury. Only a strange smell, like oranges and burned almonds, which faded. Perhaps that was a symptom of death. Nobody has experience with this.” Her brow wrinkled.
“Our neighbor suggested sickness. A draca plague.”
“One death does not make a plague.”
“No, but I thought of you. For if Longbourn…”
“You are a good friend to worry about us, but our drake is quite healthy.”
“Oh! How is Jane?” Charlotte caught my hand. “I should have asked sooner.”
“She is better now. But she was frighteningly ill. You cannot imagine my relief to see her cheerful and sitting up in bed.”
“Is she well enough to enjoy her visit, then?” Charlotte said archly.
“You mean Mr. Bingley?”
“Of course. I saw them together at the ball.” I smiled back, and she continued, “Lizzy, promise me you will advise Jane to secure him promptly. There is no benefit in delay. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. It is best to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”
“Charlotte!” I laughed. “I shall do no such thing. That is excessively cynical.”
The Lucases lived near Meryton, so I walked there afterward. The carriage had returned to Netherfield to collect the Bingley sisters, and we planned to meet in town.
I walked the few minutes with an increasingly foul attitude. I was not eager to be serenaded by the sisters’ false concern for the Lucases.
The Bingley carriage had not yet arrived, but Lydia, Kitty, and Mary were outside the haberdashery with some officers, including Mr. Wickham. He offered his arm, and I latched on, amused at my behavior after scoffing at Charlotte’s advice.
Lydia rewarded me with a grumpy expression. Mr. Wickham was now resplendent in his scarlet regimental uniform.
Fortunately, there were officers enough, including one for Mary.
She tended to be stranded when competing with Lydia and Kitty, who were aggressive in securing gentlemen.
Of course, I had snatched Mr. Wickham without even considering her.
That was an uncomfortable thought, although it turned out all right in the end.
Pondering the dynamics of five unmarried sisters, I watched Mary converse with her companion. She was smiling, but to my eye, her pleasure seemed forced. I was not sure what was wrong, but I wished she were happier.
I returned my attention to Mr. Wickham, but he seemed distracted. I followed his gaze.
On the far side of the street, an iron-barred coach was being loaded with luggage. A steel mesh cage on top held a draca.
Wondering what fascinated him, I said, “Colonel Forster reports the regular army is recruiting married, bound officers.”
Mr. Wickham turned to me with a smile. “Indeed, I have considered joining the regular army. Serving in the militia is an honor, but the regulars, even more. I have little patience for men who shout of patriotism while playing cards in drawing rooms.” The corner of his smile dimpled. “Regretfully, I am unmarried.”
I bit my lip to squash an impending blush. “I am sure you would be welcomed. They have a great shortage of officers for the war. They award commissions to those who demonstrate an officer’s character.”
“You are well informed,” he said, abruptly defensive.
I kicked myself for overstepping. “I am sure I am poorly informed, compared to an officer of the militia.” With a doting smile, I added, “Shall I call you Lieutenant Wickham now?”
The warm smile returned. “Truthfully, I enjoy hearing you say Mr. Wickham.” He gave a bow. I felt we were set right again, although my method left me uncomfortable.
Then I had to ponder whether “Mr. Wickham” was a more intimate address than “Lieutenant,” and I decided it was.
His attention returned to the cage on the carriage. The draca was agitated, jumping against the mesh so the cage shook. It was a smallish quadruped, about the size of a rabbit. A reddish underbelly pressed against the wire, and I recognized a roseworm, who take their name from their color.
Lydia and Lieutenant Denny crossed the street toward it.
Blue flame shot from the cage, shivering the blue sky, barely visible but heating my skin like an open furnace.
A patch of mesh on the cage glowed red-hot, the center yellow-white and smoking.
The roseworm clawed in a frenzy, and the metal tore like fabric.
The creature scrambled over the carriage roof and fell into the street.
Even falling, it fell wrong. Draca of every variety are sinuous and exact in their motion, a graceful mix of stalking cat and hunting bird. But this was a flailing, painful plummet, and I heard a thump and an animal’s shriek as it hit the ground.
People crowded close. Then a woman screamed, and they scattered pell-mell like children at a game. One man cried out with every step while a woman supported him, his trouser leg in bloody shreds.
I caught a flicker of rose among the running feet, then the roseworm darted free. It ran toward Lydia and tumbled to an awkward halt a few feet from her.
Lydia’s hand extended in fright. The roseworm’s chest swelled like our drake’s had before it threw fire.
Ten paces away, my thought was an instinctive, silent scream: Stop!
The roseworm’s threatening pose froze. Lydia’s hand hung, outstretched like a command. Then Denny wrapped her in his arms and pulled her away.
The roseworm’s head twisted toward me. My vision blurred. I felt… shame. Terror and confusion. And pain. Burning pain that had struck while trapped in the cage.
With a snap, the sensation vanished. The roseworm fell on his side, convulsing and screeching. It was horrid, a creature in ultimate agony. He bounced on the ground like a child’s abused rattle, then lay still.
“She stopped the attack,” Wickham said in a wondering voice. His gaze was on Lydia.
“Kill it!” someone shouted. Men ran for sticks. An officer drew his sword. But they hung back, afraid to approach.
“He is killed already,” I whispered. I walked between the standing men and knelt by the poor creature. Dead, he was a little thing, with beautiful red scales that turned golden on his back and tail. The memory of his dying terror tightened my throat.
There was a strange odor. Sour orange and bitter almond.
Firm steps approached. “Miss Bennet, please come away—” a familiar baritone began.
“Elizabeth!” said Mr. Wickham’s concerned voice.
On each side of me, a man’s hand was extended. One was gloved beneath an elegant dark sleeve, the other bare beneath an arm clothed in scarlet regimentals.
As I rose, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham turned from me to each other. Mr. Darcy’s face became cold, then white with fury. Mr. Wickham was red-faced. He took a flustered step back before touching his hat in greeting.
With no word, not even the bare minimum of a nod, Mr. Darcy turned his back.
His gray horse was a few steps away, untethered but waiting with perfect discipline.
With a horseman’s uninterrupted sweep, Mr. Darcy was into the saddle and trotting away.
He kicked the animal and vanished down the street at a gallop.
Mystified, I turned the other way. Mr. Wickham’s scarlet back vanished through the crowd in the opposite direction.