Chapter 32 An Urgent Errand
AN URGENT ERRAND
Mrs. Reynolds saw us to the front door and introduced the gardener, a solid fellow of middle years with a deep tan and a big smile.
“The young lady knows the master,” finished Mrs. Reynolds.
He laughed deep in his belly. “A rare treat, then.”
Mrs. Reynolds harrumphed and received a cheeky grin in response, but she smiled as she turned away.
The gardener led us outside to a path beside the stream. He and my uncle began discussing the construction of the pools, the date of the original building, and other details that fascinated a man in trade.
I slowed, realizing I had forgotten to ask for a jug. Then I stopped, trying to understand my feelings. This visit had been different than I expected.
The stream chimed beside me. The valley shone with life. Below, the lake lay still, dark, and cold.
With a tremendous splashing, the Gardiners’ tykeworm bounded across the stream, arriving at my feet soaking wet and happy.
I smiled down at him. “You have escaped the carriage.” He cocked his head proudly, the scales on his nutmeg-brown muzzle sparkling with drops of water. He gave an enthusiastic, whistling coo and looked behind me.
I turned to see what caught his interest.
Mr. Darcy stood, frozen, no more than ten yards away.
Impossible. He was not to arrive until tomorrow.
Mr. Darcy was white with shock. His brow creased. His lips grimaced as he said in a curdled voice, “You have married.”
That jolted me into awareness. “What?” I looked around as if I had forgotten a husband. The dripping tykeworm peered up from my feet.
Oh.
“He is the bound draca of my aunt and uncle,” I stammered. “He… tends to follow me.” I looked back at Mr. Darcy, whose expression had contorted. I swallowed past a hard lump in my throat. “I have not married.”
Mr. Darcy visibly mastered himself, his posture straightening in jerks. That left a sense of wonder in his eyes.
He gave a self-conscious bow. “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.” I curtsied.
Then I realized how this must look. He would think I had thrown myself in his way. I babbled, “We were informed you were not at home. I had an urgent errand in… in the neighborhood…” I stopped. I could hardly explain that.
“I am back a day early,” he said. “To prepare the house for my sister.”
I heard a polite cough behind me. The gardener had stopped a discreet distance away with my aunt and uncle.
I turned back to Mr. Darcy. “May I introduce my aunt and uncle?”
“I would be honored,” he replied, staring into my eyes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner,” I said. I could not tear my own gaze away. “This is Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Darcy bowed, never looking away from me.
It was a strange introduction, but it seemed sufficient. My uncle came forward and added a few words. Mr. Darcy replied, and they began to discuss our tour. My uncle mentioned trout.
My aunt stepped beside me. Softly, she said, “You are more acquainted with Mr. Darcy than I had known.”
“We have spoken on several occasions.” I was having trouble keeping my voice steady.
“He is taller than I imagined.”
“He is quite tall.”
When my aunt did not reply, I braved a look at her. She had a most amused expression.
I looked quickly away.
“Mrs. Gardiner,” Mr. Darcy said. He was now standing beside us. He smiled—smiled!—at my aunt, and she complimented Pemberley House.
I gathered Mr. Darcy had released the gardener. He would show the grounds to us himself.
How was this happening? I only came here because the wyvern said it would help!
My aunt and uncle paired up, my aunt linking an arm with Mr. Gardiner. Naturally, I would be expected to walk with Mr. Darcy.
I eyed him warily and was gratified to see him look uncertain.
“If you… I understand if you prefer not to accompany us,” he said. “We shall return promptly.”
A ridiculous, desperate idea occurred to me.
“I would enjoy a tour,” I said. I rotated, considering the many exquisite options. Down through the gardens. Up toward the woods. “Which way?” He nodded to the gardens, and, without a glance back, I shot past him at a pace my aunt could not hope to match.
After a surprised pause, there was a flurry of steps. He caught up beside me.
We whooshed up a charming stone bridge that crossed the stream.
“In 1765, my grandfather visited a unique bridge…” began Mr. Darcy. And ended, as I raced down the far side without breaking stride.
Next, the path followed an elegant S through fractured black rock that sparkled with silver crystals. Stony edges sketched skeletal ridges sunken in ivy and moss. They seemed scattered at first, then hinted at musculature and limbs lost beneath waves. Morning glory trumpets spread like foam.
I realized the rocks sculpted a breathtaking, submerged draca, the twining neck completed by charcoal gravel on the S of the path, as we virtually ran from the far side.
“That was a garden,” noted Mr. Darcy in a dry tone.
There was a grassy clearing ahead. I made for it at full speed then stopped in the center.
Mr. Darcy arrived, puffing. My aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight.
“I am here on an urgent errand,” I said before I lost my nerve.
The wondering look returned to his eyes.
“You showed great trust in your communication to me. I must return that by sharing a most private topic, some of which is unknown even to my aunt and uncle.” I filled my lungs.
“You may recall that my sister Jane was gravely ill at Netherfield.”
“Of course. I was most concerned for her.”
“She had been stung by a foul crawler.” Horror crossed his features, then puzzlement.
Because she had not died. “Jane survived because I treated her with raw draca blood, taken willingly from the Hursts’ bound draca.
” His eyes widened. “But I was unaware of a risk from treatment. An unbound wyfe, in love, must bind once she is treated with draca blood. My sister was in love, you see.” My eyes were beginning to tear, but I forced myself forward.
“Because she has not bound, she has fallen ill. It is a form of binding sickness. Due to my intervention.”
Mr. Darcy was bent forward with shock. I saw his expression change as he understood all this implied.
I dashed a hand over my eyes, angry to appear weak. “Will you say something?”
“Even before you told me this,” he said, “I have thought constantly of your feelings on my intervention between your sister and Bingley. I have dwelled endlessly upon my actions.”
“I do not admonish, sir,” I said tightly. “I have spoken from urgent necessity, not for any personal reason.”
He straightened. There was a nod. “Of course.”
“I am in no position to require your help, but, from your sense of decency, I hoped you would share your knowledge of this ailment, and how to treat it.”
“May I ask her symptoms?”
“She is… at first, she was increasingly reserved, then… then she…” A barrier broke, and words flooded out.
“She eats only under duress. She is wasting away. Her awareness of reality is sundered. She lives in fantasy, other than speaking of the man she lost. She barely knows even me.” My voice broke at the end.
Mr. Darcy took several harsh strides over the grass, then back, as if desperate to move.
“I have never heard of this cause for the illness,” he said, “or even that draca blood can treat crawler poisoning. However, the symptoms you describe are binding sickness. From my reckoning of the date, the progression is slower for your sister than is usual. I can only speculate why. Perhaps because she needs to bind, rather than having had her binding broken, it is less severe.”
Hope grew in my heart. “You mentioned Pemberley has a collection of writing on draca.”
“You are, of course, welcome to use the library. I caution you that I have studied the contents, and there is no mention of this form of the malady.”
“Still, I will try.”
He nodded.
I braced myself for my next request. This, I feared, would be rejected. “I have wondered if Mr. Bingley would wish to be notified of Jane’s condition.”
There was no hesitation. “I am sure he would. With your permission, I shall write to him.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I was astonished that was so simple. “How long will it take a letter to reach him?”
There was silence before he answered. “Mr. Bingley is in America. To my current knowledge, the post is ten weeks. A return trip, at least as long.”
“Twenty weeks?” My heart sank even as I realized he had guessed my desperate hope that Mr. Bingley might return. But perhaps we had that much time. “In your experience, how far have Jane’s symptoms progressed?”
The answer came slowly. “The symptoms you describe are advanced illness.”
“And what is the outcome of binding sickness? How long…” I knew my question, but I could not speak it aloud. “Perhaps your library would inform me of the usual duration?”
The silence stretched longer. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and exact.
“After more consideration, I feel you would not be well served by the literature in Pemberley’s library.
I will, of course, put it at your disposal if you wish.
You need but say a word. However, I suggest I review it on your behalf and forward any practical advice. ”
“Oh no.” I had to stop to regain my voice. “Is it so dire as that?”
“I assure you there is hope.” He stepped forward. We stood close now. “I give you my word.” His voice was intense, deep, and resonant with sincerity.
I nodded. My fear retreated at his certainty.
“I have a last request,” I said. “A small one. But you must indulge me by not asking why.” For all I had admitted, I dared not reveal that I had conversed with a wyvern.
He waited, as if agreement was undeniable.
“May I borrow a jug?” I said. “Or a jar? Something that can be tightly sealed?”
His formality relaxed. An eyebrow arched. “Without asking why, if you explain further, I could choose a suitable container.”
“I wish to take a sample of water from the lake. Your lake. Pemberley’s lake, that is.”
“I will have a sample of the water delivered to you tomorrow.” He betrayed no surprise at my odd request. “May I ask where you are staying?”
I told him the name of the inn. And then, I had nothing else to say.
We stood in silence. Even as I realized we were inches apart, he retreated a step, then looked around.
“We have lost Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner,” he observed.
“I cannot imagine where they have gone,” I said. We had spoken long enough for them to catch up.
Mr. Darcy indicated the path back, and we proceeded at a sedate pace.
The Gardiners were by the pool where we had begun, sitting on a bench.
“I am sorry,” my aunt said. “I found I was more tired than I knew. We decided to rest here.”
“Then you must visit again to finish your tour,” Mr. Darcy said. He addressed Mr. Gardiner. “The trout you spotted prefer the eastern pools. There is also excellent coarse fishing in the lake. I would be pleased to provide you with tackle.”
“That is exceedingly generous, sir.” My uncle gave a bow.
Mr. Darcy continued, “Regrettably, I must leave you now for pressing business. You are welcome to enjoy the gardens in my absence.”
My uncle thanked him but said we should depart, and began goodbyes, but could not resist a question about the trout. The two men turned and began pointing to areas of the stream.
My aunt took my arm. “Are you all right, Lizzy?” she said softly.
“Yes. I am quite relieved, in fact.”