Chapter 14 A Curt Goodbye
A CURT GOODBYE
It was a little past dawn. I was, once again, standing in mud in front of our draca house. Winter in Hertfordshire is a damp affair. But this time, I had a clearer conscience.
“I have been reviewing the circumstances when I felt draca thoughts,” I said conversationally. Our firedrake tilted his bronze, narrow head. “They have been moments of extreme urgency, or at least high emotion. So—”
A contralto shriek rose behind me. “Miss Elizabeth! What have you done?”
“Mrs. Hill,” I said reluctantly. Our housekeeper was staring, aghast, from the front doorway. “They are only boots.”
“Boots?” Her lips continued to open and close as if reciting an endless row of silent B’s.
I had borrowed my father’s riding boots, which reached to my knees, and then pinned my innermost petticoat to the outside of my skirt to create a sort of basket, lifting my skirts… well, not knee-high of course, but I admit they were above my ankles.
Mrs. Hill’s left hand landed on her hip, and her right stabbed at the doorway. “Get inside this instant!”
“I did not want to dirty more skirts…”
“Inside!” she snapped, and I clomped past her guiltily. “What if a neighbor had come?”
“It is so unfair, though, to dirty shoes and stockings and petticoats because—”
“No! No, ma’am, I am putting my foot down!
I will button my lip while you chatter at drakes, but I will not stand for you traipsing about showing your ankles!
” Feeling like a scolded child, I plunked down where the gentlemen removed their boots and reached for mine.
She slapped my hand away. “Do not touch those filthy things!”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked while she pulled them off. “Drag my skirts in the mud every morning? The laundry maids cannot enjoy that.”
“The joy of washerwomen is not your concern.”
Mrs. Hill had been dumbfounded when I returned from Netherfield and asked to meet the Scottish laundry maid on our next wash day. She seemed offended that I had deduced the existence of wash day at all, even though an entire yard was hung with drying cloth each time.
But now, I frowned at her. It was so… complacent to ignore the effort I was causing.
Affection creased her stiff cheeks. “Miss Lizzy. If this must continue, perhaps you could ask your father to place boards by the draca house? Like the walks in Meryton?”
“That is a brilliant suggestion. Thank you, Mrs. Hill.” Building anything, even a few boards, was so much a gentleman’s purview that it had not occurred to me. Instigating the idea felt as bizarre as my father suggesting embroidery for my bonnet.
It was Friday, the day I visit the tenants in Longbourn village. Pondering Mrs. Hill’s suggestion, I found Mary seated at our pianoforte but engrossed in a book, and I asked if she would like to come.
Changed to walking dress, we exited Longbourn. I took Mary’s hand, and her light brown eyes questioned me from under her black bonnet.
“I am aware of your visit to Papa,” I said. “You are too good a sister. And very brave.”
She squeezed my hand. “Lizzy, I so regret my words to you at the ball…”
“Hush. We should not be proper sisters without making each other cross on occasion.”
We set off arm-in-arm, and I broached the subject on which I wished her advice. We were in deep conversation when Mrs. Trew’s cottage came into view. Even so, I noticed a large gray horse with gentleman’s riding tack in the adjacent meadow.
“That is Mr. Darcy’s horse,” I said. Mary’s elbow whacked me, and I looked in the direction of her thrust. “That is Mr. Darcy,” I added, unnecessarily, as he strode toward us.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” His black hair was disheveled from riding and hung when he bowed. “Miss Mary Bennet,” he said next, with a deep bow. That was an excessively generous greeting for a younger sister, and I heard a surprised breath under Mary’s lowered bonnet while she curtsied.
“What brings you to Longbourn village, Mr. Darcy?” I asked warily, for my last words to him had been as I left the Netherfield ball, and they were exceptionally heated. I feared he would mention Mary’s humiliating performance.
“Riding,” he answered. “Pray do not let me keep you from your tour.”
It would have been awkward if he accompanied us. For all practical purposes, we were two ladies on business, which would certainly shock him. Fortunately, he bowed again and went to his horse. I took Mary’s arm, and we visited privately with Mrs. Trew.
We emerged and passed Mr. Darcy adjusting his riding tack in the meadow. He approached again, and we repeated our greetings. If he had not seemed so distracted, I would have suspected a satirical purpose.
This time, he asked, “What brings you to Longbourn village?”
Satirical or not, he was becoming inconvenient. If he would not leave us in peace, let him be shocked.
“A smithy,” I answered. That jarred his distracted attitude, and I savored my victory. “Or perhaps, a wheelwright. Would you care to see?” I took Mary’s arm, and we followed the path to the river that bordered Longbourn estate. Mr. Darcy accompanied us in silence.
“What do you say, Mr. Darcy? Is it a blacksmith or a wheelwright?” There was neither, of course, just a few boards where workers loaded harvests onto the barges that traversed this wide, sleepy stretch of water.
The wonderful thing about Mary is that, once she has begun a topic, she is relentless. As we had begun our discussion while walking, she resumed.
“I should say a smithy. Hertfordshire is predominantly rural, so has no concentrated market for a commodity such as wheels. Smiths, by contrast, fabricate custom products, so it is a skilled service.”
“The Meryton blacksmith is quite overwhelmed,” I explained to Mr. Darcy. “The fashion for iron-barred coaches, perhaps.”
“You intend to open a blacksmith?” He seemed stunned.
“Not myself. That would not be proper. But it occurs to me that I am perfectly capable of having things built. Why not a smithy in Longbourn village?”
“Farming is hopeless for societal advancement,” Mary added, having quite forgotten her audience.
“But skilled trade improves wages for the working class, and apprenticeship spreads productive wealth, which is superior to the stagnant wealth of the corrupt aristocracy. It is a virtuous cycle that alleviates generational poverty.” She frowned, then amended, “Absent government repression, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Mr. Darcy, sounding a little dazed. I assumed he spoke from polite habit, as he was himself a paragon of the corrupt aristocracy. As was our own family, in Mary’s eyes. She was cheerfully fair about such judgments.
“I am not sure how to proceed, though,” I said, drawn into the puzzle. “I suppose we should encourage an apprentice to locate here.”
I strolled to the grassy shoreline. Sun sparkled from ripples while the river murmured. A loan perhaps. It would be a form of investment, as Longbourn would receive tenant fees. Papa would have ideas. At least, after he recovered from his surprise.
A narrow, crested wave shot toward me across the width of the river, sinking into the surface a few feet away.
It left a wake of whitened, choppy waves. They spread in a frothy V with me at the point, then slid downstream, softening and bending around the occasional mossy rock.
A fish? I had no idea the local varieties were so vigorous. The bream we ate at dinner were not much longer than my hand.
I peered into the water. The dark murk swirled, impenetrable from the rains.
“Miss Elizabeth…” came Mr. Darcy’s cautioning voice behind me.
Waves shot toward me from a half-dozen positions, upstream and down, each so fast that they traveled with a sizzling, slicing sound, like a linen-draper’s knife cutting cloth. The water exploded in thrashing, frenzied spray.
I managed not much more than an “eep” before I was lifted and flying through the air. I came to earth yards away from the water, held by Mr. Darcy.
His hands were clamped on my torso below my arms, so we were face-to-face and closer than was customary, even when dancing.
In the daylight, his dark brown eyes had tiny green flecks. They were almost hazel.
Mary made a variety of excited sounds, whether due to the splashing or my position, I could not say.
“Are those fish?” I asked. I had never accompanied my father when he went fishing. Perhaps it was more exciting than I imagined.
“No,” Mr. Darcy said. He appeared extremely concerned. “I have no concept of what that was.”
The splashing had ended as quickly as it started.
I wiggled, which achieved nothing. My toes were barely touching the ground. Were all men this strong? That would be… disquieting.
“I shall not fall in from here, Mr. Darcy.” He removed his hands, and my heels settled on the grass. “Thank you for steadying me.”
“I will not see you again,” he said. “I have been called urgently to London on business.”
How abrupt.
He seemed to expect a response, so I tried, “What a pity.”
“Draca have been deployed in war.”
“What?”
“It was a disaster.” His tone was bitter. “Draca and masters were injured and killed. No wyves were present, so the draca are distressed and violent. I go to meet resources I have dispatched from Pemberley.”
“Your gamekeeper?”
He looked at me, surprised. “For one.”
“Why is the absence of wyves significant?”
“A master’s binding to draca is through his wyfe, so the wyfe’s bond is stronger, always. This is why no man can hold draca after his wyfe’s death.” His lips thinned. “They were fools to think men could command draca in battle.” He was speaking to himself as much as answering me.
“I have been told that draca cannot be commanded at all.” I said that to test his reaction. He was already revealing knowledge I had never heard.
His eyes met mine, as intense as I had ever seen them. “They should not be commanded.”
“Should not. It is possible, then.”
“In extraordinary cases, their bound wyfe has some influence. But not their master. Even more reason why this military experiment was thoughtless and doomed.”
Mary inserted herself. “The male bias of the establishment—” I discreetly raised a finger, requesting that she wait. To my surprise, she did.
How much could I ask without revealing myself? “Then, draca can never be influenced by… other parties?”
“That night, with the Hursts’ lindworm. What did you do?” His eyes were wondering, but his tone was urgent and angry.
His intensity, and how he had discerned my true interest, frightened me. I fell back on social habit. “Please do not let us keep you from your urgent business.” That was a meaningless deflection, how I would end an unwanted conversation at a ball. Immediately, I regretted it.
His expression became impenetrable. He bowed. “Miss Bennet. Miss Mary. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course.” I continued by formula. “We shall miss you at Netherfield.”
He was already turning, but he stopped in his tracks. It was like I had slapped him.
He did not look at me as he said, “Mr. Bingley and his sisters also return to London.”
“Why?” I asked, simple surprise breaking me from polite form. He did not answer. “For how long?”
Then he was gone, into his saddle and galloping away on his gray horse.
With growing foreboding, I rushed us home. I raced to our room and found Jane clutching a crumpled sheet of elegant paper covered with a lady’s flowing hand. She would not speak but passed me the letter. I smoothed it, and tear-stained ink darkened my fingers.
Miss Bingley had written, curtly, that the Bingleys were departing this morning and would remain in London for the winter, if not longer. She continued:
“I am convinced that Charles will be in no hurry to leave, for Miss Georgiana Darcy is coming to London, and Charles is eager to meet her again. Georgiana has no equal in beauty, elegance, and accomplishments, and Louisa and myself feel great affection for her ourselves.
To confess a secret hope, I dare imagine that Georgiana will soon become our sister. In friendship, I could not leave the countryside without confiding this, as it will assist you in denying any untoward rumors about your own sweetly innocent acquaintance to our family.
Yours fondly, Caroline Bingley.”
“He is gone,” Jane said, quiet but controlled, as I finished.
“This is false, Jane.” My anger was growing with every breath.
“His sister is a vile, manipulative woman. She seeks to separate you so her brother will marry Miss Darcy and she can further her own pursuit of Mr. Darcy. But I have just had reason to believe Mr. Darcy knows Mr. Bingley’s true feelings. ”
“What does it matter?” The color had fled Jane’s face. She looked lifeless as ivory. “He is still gone.”
And, even while my heart was breaking for my sister, I remembered Mr. Darcy saying resources had been dispatched from Pemberley, and the letter saying Miss Georgiana Darcy was coming to London.