Chapter 46 Unexpected Allies
UNEXPECTED ALLIES
What do you do when your sister is mad?
There had been an editorial in the Times on the treatment of mad people. They applauded the regular inspection of madhouses required by the Lunacy Act, but they criticized current medical treatment. Rest and care at home were preferred.
Perhaps we could fix up a room at Longbourn. Or wait until her coronation. Presumably, Napoleon had spare rooms.
My laugh cracked. Maybe I was mad, too.
“He is very bad at it,” Lydia said, misunderstanding what amused me. She had returned her pet crawler to her reticule and was watching the French weddings. The priest was stumbling over the Gaelic text in the binding-of-gold.
The couples had no green wyves or husbands behind them. Did that matter? Maybe that was a Hertfordshire tradition. Otherwise, they seemed knowledgeable about the Church of England’s ceremony. It was hardly a state secret.
I was supposed to be using my draca tricks to prevent them from binding. And to ensure they did bind. Lydia and Wickham had demanded opposite outcomes.
I laughed again. Could this be any more insane?
With everyone watching the weddings, I turned, examining the trees and the distant hills.
I was certain Mr. Darcy was out there. Had he seen us?
We were not subtle, with dozens of men, three gowned brides, and three chests of gold.
Mr. Darcy would know the grounds of his estate from hunting.
That was an advantage, even if he was pursued by soldiers.
It was strange they had not captured him when they arrived.
Even if Wickham had knocked at the door with a dozen soldiers, I was sure Mr. Darcy would meet them.
The assumption of gentlemanly behavior and rule-of-law was too natural.
Rather like when I confronted the crowd outside Longbourn. In hindsight, that was rather foolish.
I eyed Lydia. Even sane, my youngest sister was notoriously bad at keeping secrets. “What happened to Mr. Darcy?”
“Wickie was angry over that.” Lydia smiled, amused. “He sent Mr. Darcy to be locked in the wine cellar. The guards did not come back, so Wickie went to look and found them dead.” Her smile widened. Impressed. “Three men, killed. All the servants were gone as well. They had been in the wine cellar.”
I remembered Mr. Darcy taking a Frenchman’s sword. When he killed that man, he had sworn never to freeze again. But overcoming three men seemed impossible.
More important was their escape. Pemberley House was lightly staffed, but a manor that size required at least a dozen servants.
If they had all escaped knowing that Pemberley was overrun, it was a matter of time until word reached the authorities.
My best strategy was to be patient and wait for rescue.
But I was not the only one who needed rescue.
“Wickham has done something to you,” I said. “Infected you. Poisoned you.”
Lydia’s gaze did not leave the weddings. “Poor Lizzie misses her Wickham. Is he not more handsome now he is frightened? We pretend brave men are handsome, but I know better.”
“It is not Wickham I care about. It is my sister.”
Her head turned to me, listing at a disquieting angle.
“He thought I was a little girl he could tempt with sweets and frighten with scary old books. But I always liked whispering to crawlers. The books just told why. Then Wickie brought a crawler to scare me, and I tasted it. Oh, Lizzie, how he shouted! I have such tricks.”
Scattered cheers erupted, and she turned away, leaving me unsettled.
The weddings were done. All three women—wives, now—hugged their husbands. And kissed them, in full view of everyone. How shocking. Of course, they were French.
The new wives looked thrilled. These were willing partners, not victims of imperial decree. Two couples ran off, each ducking into one of the small canvas tents. The third stayed on the shore, still kissing.
“Now they race,” Lydia said. “It is a competition. Whoever binds first keeps their chest of gold.”
The French woman was wriggling while they embraced. Her gown fell to the ground. She wore nothing beneath.
I spun away desperately. The watching soldiers began to whoop and yell in approval.
Lydia watched with interest. “Well. He is… impressively eager.” I heard water splashing. “Oh. They think doing it in the water will raise la Tarasque. They are brave. It must be cold.” She looked at me, eyebrows narrowing. “Make sure you do your trick. They must not bind.”
My disbelief—my denial—of this bizarre situation had vanished.
Oddly, it was the finality of marriage that drove home the reality.
However strange this was, a country at war with England had managed an elaborate sortie into the heart of Derbyshire.
This was not a whim or folly. Captured French spies were executed, and Wickham’s men, whoever they were—deserters?
—would not fare better. These men faced death. The stakes could not be higher.
And the French commander was no incompetent. To accomplish this much was incredible. That frightened me for the escaped staff of Pemberley. And for Mr. Darcy. In truth, I was frightened for all of us. Including those poor French women being married in hostile England.
“Lydia,” I said. “I have no trick to do. No way to stop a binding. And it does not matter. Do you not see this is doomed? We are a day’s travel from the coast. You will all be caught.
Tried as spies.” She watched me, and I fought to reach her.
“The guards trust you. We could escape together. Find somewhere to hide. Constables will come soon, then the army. Bring Wickham, if you must. Tomorrow, we can go back to our lives.”
She cocked her shoulders the way she did while considering something. A hat in a window, or a gentleman at a ball. Behind me, I heard water splashing rhythmically amid enthusiastic shouts from the soldiers.
“I do not want my life,” Lydia said. “I want to be Empress.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled as she walked to Wickham. “Lizzy is useless. Can we not be rid of her?”
“Are you useless?” he asked me. His eyes held a silent question. Asking if I was fulfilling my part of our bargain.
“I can do nothing,” I said. I was tired of pretending I had a role in their feud. Tired of guessing what magic words would save me.
“That is a shame,” he said. He called out, “Put her with the others.”
The obese man in a too-small uniform prodded me to a small cart pulled by a single horse and squeezed in beside me. We began plodding back up the hill toward the manor.
We rode in silence. I tried to ignore the rank odor of my companion, and his fleshy leg pressed against mine.
How long would it take authorities to arrive?
Avoiding the road, Lambton would be six or eight miles on foot through woods.
Two or three hours, if the ground was not too bad.
My guess was Wickham had been here that long.
Although the escape might be more recent.
Rescue could be about to arrive, or hours away.
The sounds from the lake faded to nothing. We had climbed the hill but turned away from Pemberley House. The horse puffed as it pulled over the crest. The lake vanished behind.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“With the others,” the man said in a rough monotone.
We rolled along a narrow path. There was no sign of buildings or people. I did not like this.
Could I outrun this man? He did not look fast, but it was a cool morning, and I had two petticoats under my dress. Running would be a desperate thrash. And the man had a pistol on his belt. I would have to dodge a bullet.
Running was a last resort.
We clopped another two hundred yards, then he stopped the cart. There was nothing in sight but trees.
“Now what?” I asked quietly.
“A bit of a stop. A little fun. If you’re good to me—”
I hit him in the face, feeling his greasy nose flatten under my palm like a piece of dough, then vaulted out and ran. On my fourth step, something snagged my dress, cloth tangled my legs, and I slammed face first onto hard roots and earth.
For a second, I was stunned, pain shooting from a knee and an elbow. A voice cursed a foul stream behind me. I shoved myself up, but my dress caught, holding me half bent over. I yanked with both hands. It tore free just as a boot slammed the small of my back, sending me flat on my face again.
I had to see. I rolled on my back.
The man stood over me, fingers pressed under his nose, blood dripping over his lips and down his chin. He snorted wetly. “You’ll bloody pay for that, woman.”
I closed my eyes and threw my mind outward like I had never tried before.
The emptiness of Pemberley opened around me. But I was away from the lake now. I stretched my mind the other direction, farther and farther. Farther than I had ever reached before. Too far. Nothing so distant could be here in time.
There was a glimmer, dust motes in the air. Something tiny.
Help me! I screamed in my mind.
A kick hit my ribs. I curled up, gasping. Damp loam ground the side of my face. I tasted dirt.
The man stomped into the brush beside me, still swearing. Meaty fingers grabbed my hair and yanked my head up. Our faces were a foot apart. His breath filled my nose, hot and fetid from decaying teeth.
A buzz whipped past, like a bee, but far faster.
The man started back, releasing my hair. “What the?” A two-inch red line had appeared on his forehead. He touched it, puzzled, smearing blood from his fingers. No, his forehead was cut. Drops began to run.
Another buzz whipped past, and another. Motion flicked in the air.
The man scrambled to his feet, waving like he was fending off a cloud of gnats. There was buzzing all around us. “Gotcha!” he exclaimed, raising a fist. I heard a crunch as he squeezed.
I sat up, and something stopped stock-still inches in front of my nose. It had the iridescent jade body of a dragonfly but was two-legged like a miniature firedrake. The wings were an invisible blur. An instant later it was gone.
Do not sit like an idiot. Run.
I leaped to my feet, turned, and found myself face-to-face with a gentleman I had never seen before.
Taller than me, which was not saying much, but not as tall as Mr. Darcy.
He had short dark hair with a slight wave, refined features that placed him in his forties, and dark eyes.
Above his dress trousers, he wore a white shirt tied with a starched cravat, as if he had discarded a formal coat and waistcoat.
“Pardon me,” he said. His hand pressed my shoulder. Like a dance, I stepped aside. His other arm raised a pistol where I had stood and fired.
The report was two feet from my head and incredibly loud, drowning my startled shriek. The echoes quieted, leaving soft buzzes, the tones differing just enough to clash like pianoforte strings slightly out of tune.
The man who had abducted me lay on the ground, half his head blown away. I looked away, fighting a wet heave in my stomach.
The gentleman’s arm was still outstretched, a curl of smoke rising from the pistol. Tiny jade shapes surrounded him in the air, all pointed at his face in a threatening manner.
“What are these?” he asked conversationally.
“Some form of tiny draca,” I said. I sensed them now, pinpricks of awareness. I swallowed, calming myself, then held out my hand. I am safe now. Will you come to me?
The little flock dispersed, but one landed on my hand. She had four rigid, insect-like wings. Her two legs were much sturdier than insect legs, more like a lizard, and had glistening red feet.
She advanced an inch across my palm, dragging the tip of her tail for balance. The feet tickled and left a trail of minuscule red dots.
Blood. From the man who was killed. My hand shuddered, and the creature took to the air. I wiped my palm on my dress. It was ruined anyway.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I presume?” the gentleman said.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “How do you know that? People I have never met keep knowing who I am. It is very disconcerting.”
“I sympathize. But you are a young lady with dark eyes and a strange affinity for draca who is visiting Pemberley. I would have had to ignore Darcy for months not to know you.”
“You know Mr. Darcy?”
“I do.”
The gentleman had not introduced himself. But he looked familiar.
“Are you sure we have not met?” I said.
“Pardon me. Arthur Wellesley, at your service. Recently raised to Earl of Wellington, if that helps.”
His face was familiar from the papers. This was the acclaimed leader of England’s armies in the Peninsular war against Napoleon.