Chapter 21 The Maternal Line
THE MATERNAL LINE
At Longbourn, I had memorized and inverted Mr. Collins’s exercise schedule. Now I dusted off that knowledge and took long walks in Rosings Park, sometimes with Charlotte but more often alone as she was often busy with the household.
The Rosings formal gardens were like the wrapping of a lady’s gift, layers of meticulous hedges concealing flower beds as exact as embroidery and lawns scythed and clipped to velvet. I visited them once to admire the tulips and daffodils, but that was sufficient.
But Rosings Park was an immense estate, and even the opinions of her ladyship could not stamp it all into submission. An open grove edged one side of the gardens, and there was a path that wound under ash and oak, with rough patches and fallen logs to deter more sedate walkers.
I sank into a pleasant routine. There is an inescapable bustle living with four sisters. Here, the weather was warming, the woods were greening, and even Mr. Collins’s silly behavior—if rationed, like a sweet—became amusing.
Charlotte and Mr. Collins called on Rosings several mornings each week. I walked with them the first time, then wished them well and followed my own path through the trees.
We met on their return.
“Lady Catherine asked after you,” Charlotte said.
“Really? I thought she had enough of bolts.”
“She was quite insistent that you return. As was a gentleman.” I looked at her questioningly and saw a smile. “Mr. Darcy. Were you expecting another gentleman?”
“I was not expecting any gentleman.” Had his gamekeeper spoken to him? I hoped not. I preferred to keep my interest in draca private.
Two days later, this repeated, but we were invited to dine the next day. That was inescapable.
“At least the food is good,” I said grudgingly. “But I shall have to prepare facts on screws to offer over soup.”
“I detected disappointment that you would not be present until tomorrow.” Charlotte had an arch expression, but I could not imagine why her ladyship was impatient.
That afternoon, Charlotte read her correspondence, and I started a letter to Jane. Then the doorbell jingled. Mr. Collins dashed into the small drawing room as the maid announced Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Charlotte had mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam, another nephew of Lady Catherine.
I looked him over while Mr. Collins bent and flounced.
He was about thirty, rather tanned, and had a frizz of sandy brown hair.
He was not handsome exactly, but he had the confident bearing of an officer and the manners and speech of a gentleman.
When Mr. Collins released him, he bowed to my curtsy with a relaxed smile. I immediately liked him.
Mr. Darcy wore gray afternoon calling dress as impeccable as anything he had worn in Hertfordshire. He paid his compliments to Charlotte with his usual reserve, and Mr. Collins’s ludicrous bowing and scraping did not affect his composure.
I was a little perturbed to encounter him again. I curtsied without speaking, and he gave one of his sharp bows in equal silence.
Colonel Fitzwilliam began conversation and soon mentioned their visit.
“Darcy and I are cousins, but good friends nonetheless.” He laughed disarmingly, and Mr. Darcy concurred with a barely perceptible nod. “While walking, Darcy mentioned his acquaintance with Mr. Collins. Naturally, we had to call.”
Charlotte and I traded a glance. Calling Mr. Collins an acquaintance of Mr. Darcy was unfathomably generous—doubly so from what I knew of Mr. Darcy’s taste.
I spoke with the colonel, who had interesting observations on Rosings, including a few polite but amusing allusions to her ladyship’s opinions.
Then it was news of the war. He was well informed, and interested in my view, and the whole thing was vastly more entertaining than dull topics like the weather.
We conversed rather too long until he remembered his manners and shifted his attention to Charlotte.
That left Mr. Darcy, who was rigid and serious. He had ignored Mr. Collins, which I found oddly reassuring. But he was capable of conversation. At Netherfield, he had thawed enough for several long exchanges. They were even, if one listened closely, witty.
Noticing my attention, he inquired about the health of my family.
“They are well,” I said, the usual response. Then I added, “I wonder if you remember my eldest sister, Jane?” He had to nod, so I continued, “I am afraid her days are rather lonely with me away.”
That was a provocative and strange thing to say in company. But I was certain Miss Bingley had forced her brother away from my sister. Mr. Darcy’s reaction when he told me of Mr. Bingley’s departure made me suspect he knew the truth.
Conflicted emotions crossed Mr. Darcy’s face, too fleeting and well concealed to be deciphered. “I am sure your sister’s charm will ensure society even in your absence. I fear more that, in her absence, you will find your own visit dull.”
That was polite, but a laugh escaped before I could stop myself. The dullest society I knew was sitting in front of me in a gray jacket. He stiffened, so I asked if he thought the days were growing warmer.
While walking the next morning, I met the Pemberley gamekeeper again, hiking in his leathers and battered hat.
“Ma’am,” he said politely, turning to head back.
“Please, do not leave. I was about to return myself.”
But I hesitated. On hunts, gamekeepers are respected, or even deferred to, by gentlemen. That fostered a relaxed attitude toward mingling. And this man had remarkable knowledge of draca.
“Are you visiting the wyvern?” I asked.
His weathered lips smiled. “If she deigns to visit me.”
“I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Tom Rabb, ma’am.” He touched his ragged hat.
Thank goodness there were pronounceable Scottish names. “I am sure she will come down.”
“Down, ma’am?”
I pointed to the tree where the wyvern watched, perhaps a hundred yards away. I had become adept at spotting her.
Mr. Rabb folded his arms, apparently vexed I had seen her first.
I could not resist. I concentrated. Please come down.
Then, thinking better of what I was revealing, I waved and added some clucking noises. It sounded like I was inexpertly calling a flock of chickens.
The performance was too late anyway. The wyvern was winging toward us.
She landed on a fallen trunk a few feet away, the wood snapping and popping as she tightened her claws for balance.
“Good morning,” I said, delighted she had come so quickly. She hissed and stretched out her neck. I had discovered she liked to be scratched under her chin, which was a surprise. Although other draca did not object to being touched, they never seemed to enjoy it.
One did have to scratch hard, though, and in a single direction. The scales were knives if you went the wrong way.
“Are all wyverns so affectionate?” I asked, leaning in to get leverage. She was panting in pleasure, her nose by my cheek. Her fangs were impressive, lustrous ebony and much longer than a dog’s. And thin, like blades. I peered closer. They were serrated on the back edge.
When there was no reply, I gave her a pat and turned back, afraid I was being rude.
Mr. Rabb was slack-jawed. “Crivens!” he exclaimed, then added several unintelligible words. He seemed to have reverted to Scottish.
“These are her woods,” I said, a little self-conscious. “I meet her most days.”
“Do you, now.” He seemed flabbergasted.
I tried to think of a topic that would set him at ease. “I suppose wyverns are aquatic while growing?”
“Aquatic?”
“Or… is amphibian the correct word? I have no books on the subject, but I recall an article.” He stared. “An article on frogs.” Surely a gamekeeper would know about frogs and tadpoles.
He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Well, now I’m dead certain.”
“Certain of what?”
“Why we’re still here. Suspected it was you.”
“I beg your pardon?” I was confused.
He laughed and touched his hat with a half-bow, then turned and walked back the way he had come, whistling.
We walked to Rosings for dinner that evening.
As we threaded the hedges, Charlotte said, “I should thank you, Lizzy, for yesterday’s visit. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
“I enjoyed meeting Colonel Fitzwilliam. Let us hope he attends dinner. That will liven things.” I had thought about the visit a few times. “Is it not peculiar that Mr. Darcy has friends?”
“What?” said Charlotte, laughing in shock.
“I do not mean that he has any friends.” My cheeks were heating. That had come out ruder than I intended. “But Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam are charming. They seem very fond of him. Is that not unexpected?”
“I imagine they see another side of him. Mr. Darcy is different when you are not present.”
“Different? How?”
Charlotte did not answer until we were climbing the stairs. “He speaks more.”
“He could hardly speak less.”
The colonel was at dinner, with Mr. Darcy, Lady Catherine, and her daughter. With us, that was seven, and conversation flowed, although occasionally it splashed to a halt when her ladyship became jealous of another group’s topic and demanded a report for her benefit.
Cheesecake was offered. I declined because I found Rosings’s sweets overly sugared. Mr. Darcy declined also.
Lady Catherine’s potent voice rose.
“Miss Bennet. Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins.
Or would have been, had he bound.” That was thoughtless to say, but I answered yes.
She continued, “I think it ridiculous to entail estates from the female line. In any event, I held my draca after Sir Lewis’s death. Will your mother do the same?”
“I prefer not to speculate,” I said, a little testily. The question was prying and morbid.
“It is a matter of will,” her ladyship continued. “When Lewis passed, I was greatly affected. I feel all events, whether in life or in art, most profoundly. But a woman requires stature. I refused to accept the loss of a wyvern.”
That was intriguing, so I bit down my annoyance. “Were you not concerned about condemnation? A lady alone may gain stature from draca, but society does not always approve.”
She snorted. “Men do not approve. Binding is a force of women. There will always be men who challenge a woman of intelligence or stature. Both I and my sister, Lady Anne Darcy, bound wyverns. That is the force of our maternal bloodline. But my sister was a fussy, fastidious thing. She lost her wyvern on her husband’s death. She had not my will.”
Mr. Darcy’s hand landed on the table with a bang. “My mother released her wyvern.”
“Impossible. There is no such action as release. And even if she did, what did it get her? Wasting away from binding sickness…” Lady Catherine’s voice stopped.
I had never heard any of this. When the silence stretched, I asked, “What is binding sickness?”
Lady Catherine’s eyes, strong blue behind her wrinkled lids, had teared. The unexpectedness of that moved me. It was like discovering a wall of flint could cry.
Colonel Fitzwilliam answered. “Binding sickness is a strange malady. It can affect bound wyves if their draca is killed. It is, however, rare even then. And because draca are so seldom killed, it is almost unheard of.” He paused.
“It is thought to be more likely with a strong binding. I knew Lady Anne, a little. She had remarkable affinity with her wyvern.”
“I attended the only recent case,” Mr. Darcy said.
His tone was rough, concealing emotion of his own.
“Draca were killed in the idiocy of attempted application to war, and I feared those deaths would cause the sickness. But the French used some more foul weapon. Some draca died, but others were… driven mad, perhaps. It was as if their bonds were broken. One young wyfe of such a draca did not survive. We even attempted to restore her binding.”
“It was a wretched thing,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said softly.
No one spoke for a minute. But my curiosity got the better of me.
“But how could you restore a binding?” I asked. “I thought there was only one opportunity to bind. On the…” I stopped, realizing where the topic was headed.
“The marriage night,” Lady Catherine said.
Her impenetrable exterior had returned. “Restoring a binding is nonsense. Marriage gold and passion create the binding. And not blind passion. Love. Sir Lewis and I had love. Although he performed well. The maternal bloodline is key, but men do contribute. It is a matter of technique.”
“Technique?” I had not intended to speak. The word just popped out, rather squeakily.
“Of course, technique. Your generation is hopelessly inferior at educating gentlemen for their marriage night duty.” She cast her formidable gaze at her nephew. “Are you educated, Darcy?”
“I prefer not to speculate,” he replied, so instantly and dryly that I almost laughed.
Her ladyship scowled at him while the next dessert, lemon tarts drowned in crystallized sugar, was served. Again, both I and Mr. Darcy declined.
Her blue eyes fixed on me. “Do you perform, Miss Bennet?”
I decided to match her boldness. “Given the subject, I am unsure how to answer.”
A man chuckled. The sound was from Mr. Darcy’s direction, but that was impossible.
Lady Catherine was unamused. “I refer to music. There are few people in England who enjoy music more than myself. Or have more innate talent. Do you play? Sing?”
“A little.”
“You will perform for us.”
“I am quite woefully out of practice. You will not enjoy it.”
Lady Catherine frowned, again.
“Elizabeth sings beautifully,” said Charlotte, my so-called friend. I tried to kick her, but the table was too wide.
“Music and romance both require passion and technique.” Her ladyship’s rolling tones were reminiscing. “Anyone may develop technique with practice, but brilliance requires talent. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”
“At which, madam?” I asked innocently. This time, two men laughed. One must be Mr. Darcy.
Lady Catherine’s frown twitched. “Music, of course. Go, Miss Bennet. Perform with something other than your wit.”