Chapter 45 A Most Foul Wytch
A MOST FOUL WYTCH
The hired coach arrived at Longbourn mid-afternoon, delayed by a surge of travel due to the rumored French invasion. The militia were leaving Hertfordshire to reinforce coastal towns in the southwest, while gentry on the coast were rediscovering their longing to visit inland relatives.
As my bags were loaded, Miss Darcy said, “Tell my brother I will be cross if he does not act sensibly.”
“I will certainly end his ridiculous plan to sacrifice Pemberley,” I said.
“I expect more than that. Do not let him just bow and mutter.” I laughed at her description but flushed at her implication. Relations with gentlemen always seem simple to ladies offering advice.
Mary handed me the Longbourn journal—the Loch bairn journal. She had searched for passages relating to lakes and high beasts, and several black ribbons had sprouted, each marking a folded page of notes. I promised to read them on the road.
Jane’s golden wyvern was crouched imperiously by our draca house.
I had explained her responsibilities as best I could to a creature who neither counted days nor cared about entailments.
I gave her a scratch, then whispered, “Will you be able to keep other draca away?” She panted her laughter, eyes shimmering.
Then we were on our way. I started out up top with the driver—the same driver I used for my trip from Rosings, so he grinned as I clambered up. I admired the Hertfordshire spring while the horses trotted, and he told me the latest news.
“Napoleon’s bringing sixty thousand men,” he explained. “All on one giant raft, big as a city. There’s a dozen windmills that spin paddlewheels to make it go. And a hundred cannon. And a stone castle with turrets! I seen drawings in the paper, and they was marked ‘Accurate Plan’ in big letters.”
“That sounds formidable,” I said and kept my opinions on the accuracy to myself.
We stayed overnight at an inn in Bletchley I had visited with my aunt and uncle. Not long ago, I would have feared social condemnation for staying alone. Now, sneers and missed invitations seemed a trifling worry.
We set out in the morning at a relaxed pace, nothing like the sprint when I returned from Pemberley.
With a long day of solitary travel, I pondered Mary’s notes. The passages she marked were near the beginning of the journal, in archaic English I thought indecipherable. Mary had translated them. The most interesting was this:
“La Tarasque was a high beast as long as a horse, but water-bound in the Rh?ne, with teeth like swords and a serpent’s tail.
It jetted flame and burned any who fought it, or slashed them with the claws of a bear.
Saint Martha cast her holy splendor upon it, and it emerged from the river in foam and stood as quiet as a lamb, where she petted it and made it her servant. ”
Mary added this comment:
“If, as you propose, draca are aquatic before being bound, I believe this recounts a wyfe summoning and binding a wyvern, which would be ‘as long as a horse’ if one includes the tail or exaggerates the retelling.
This indicates that draca existed in ancient France, even though there are now none.
Perhaps the French spies were searching the Pemberley library for clues to draca in modern France?
Lastly, I was sadly unsurprised to find our journal’s story conflicts with the Church’s account of Saint Martha in which villagers kill the beast. Doubtless, the Church’s male establishment falsified their version to disempower a female saint.”
With darkness falling, I leafed farther and found a note I missed. Mary had written no explanation—just copied the faded text into legible script. I read it, disturbed and unsure what conclusion she intended:
“Unholy is she who drinketh of crawler and wyrm, for she is the most foul wytch and a great clerk of necromancy. The clawes of devils stain her skin. Beware her mischiefe, for she is cruel and vile.”
Still twenty miles from Pemberley, we stopped at an inn outside Derby.
The innkeeper and his wife kept a flock of long-haired Herdwick and were astounded to find a lady interested in their sheep, which were quite different from Longbourn’s half-dozen Suffolk.
We talked long after the candles were lit before I retired.
In the morning, I joined them for a simple breakfast of sheep’s cheese, oat bread, and tea. But the table decorations were anything but simple: elaborate weavings of flowers and leafy branches, and hollowed eggs dyed red.
“Your decorations are beautiful,” I said, touching a red egg.
“ ’Tis eve of Beltane,” the wife explained. “The eggs are colored for the bonfires. Green for the summer god Bel, and red for teine which is fire. At least, that’s what we say hereabouts.” She gave me an appraising look. “Are you staying for the bonfire?”
“I am afraid not. I am bound for Pemberley.”
“Pemberley? You’ll see dances, then. The Peaks keep the old ways, and the hills of Pemberley more than most. You’re a bonnie lassie, if you don’t mind my saying. A lad might ask you to dance.”
In a few hours, I would ring at Pemberley House. I had thought on what to say but not gotten much beyond imagining Mr. Darcy’s surprise.
“The lad I am visiting does not care for dancing,” I replied. “But if he asks, I will say yes.”
We climbed into the Peaks, and I saw decorations beside the road: a wreath of yellow cowslip hung in a tree, then a figure of a man, woven from hawthorn branches with shining green leaves and blossoms that dripped white petals.
We drove through the town of Lambton. A maypole ten feet high stood in the small square, surrounded by a few awestruck children.
I did not watch our approach to the house—I was nervous enough—but as we passed Pemberley lake, my eyes were drawn to the waters, as darkly burnished as draca claws under the overcast sky.
The coach climbed the other hill, then the driver knocked on the roof to announce arrival. I stepped out, and the massive visage of Pemberley House was before me.
There was a taint of acrid smoke in the air. Something unpleasant had burned. Wool, perhaps. In the distance, a horse whinnied and another answered.
“Please take my things to the stable,” I told the driver. “I am sure someone will meet you there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said. He gawked at the manor’s stone edifice before returning to the coach.
The huge windows reflected the cold steel of the afternoon sky. I caught a flicker of movement behind one, gone before I recognized a face. Dark and cold seemed to brush the nape of my neck, and I shivered.
“It is only a house,” I said to myself, annoyed for being foolish. I marched up the steps and rang. The stone around my feet was muddy with boot prints as if a hunting party had tromped in and the staff had forgotten to clean.
The door opened.
I looked up into the unshaven face of Mr. Wickham, framed by the desultory collar of his scarlet uniform.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a broad smile.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me, stumbling and stunned, through room after room: past a handful of scruffy men in army uniforms lounging and smoking, their filthy boots resting on embroidered pillows; through an empty parlor, the floor sprayed with shards of a white porcelain vase that lay in pieces; down a grand hall where smoky remnants of broken picture frames and burned canvas overflowed a huge fireplace.
He threw open a door and pushed me into a luxurious chair in a well-furnished man’s bedroom. Then he sat on the bed, watching me with predatory interest.
His hand traced an arc, showing the room. “My humble abode,” he said. “I grew up here. Steward’s quarters. Comfortable enough, if inferior to the family residences. They never let my father forget his place. Then Darcy ascended. He enjoyed depriving me of what I deserve.”
Explanations were spinning through my mind. The best was that militia had been quartered at Pemberley and had grossly abused their status. The worst was robbery, a massive raid on the manor.
A sudden fear caught me. “Where is Mr. Darcy?”
“I wish I knew,” Wickham said with soft menace. “Here is my question. Why are you here?”
Relief fanned my first spark of outrage. “Whatever you are doing, you cannot succeed. The townsfolk will notice. You will have constables at the door. Let me go. Or run and leave me here.”
He walked to the window. “Come see.” After a moment, I got up.
The window overlooked a yard behind the stables. Dozens of horses were tethered. Men were unpacking bags and carrying equipment. Some wore uniforms, others common clothes, but they all carried muskets or pistols. A few had swords as well.
“If constables come, we will take them also,” he said. “I have fifty men. For this day, I am master of Pemberley.”
“What has happened to my driver?” I saw no sign of our coach.
“Detained, and less gently than yourself. Although that may change. I have not decided what to do with you.”
That chilled me. Stop asking every question that pops to mind. This man likely shot Mr. Rabb in cold blood.
I remembered that cold sensation on the nape of my neck. Pretending to be overcome, I closed my eyes and opened my mind. Everywhere around me was empty of draca, but toward the lake, darkness churned.
I opened my eyes. “Is Lydia here?”
“Of course.” Wickham said it like a threat. “Now, answer me. Are you here for Darcy?”
Broken furniture. Burned portraits. Wickham’s hatred for the Darcys was flaunted in every muddy boot print and broken dish.
“I am to meet Mr. Bingley and Jane,” I invented. “Tomorrow. For a tour of the Peak District.”
“And yet, your first question was for Darcy.”
“It is his house.”
Wickham laughed mockingly. “No longer.”
“What do you want of me?” We were alone in his bedroom. My muscles tensed.
“That is the question, isn’t it? Answer me this, Elizabeth. Lydia returned from her visit to Longbourn with her tail tucked firmly between her legs. She was furious with you. What happened?”
“Lydia’s scheme to steal Longbourn failed.”