Chapter 47 Reunited
REUNITED
Our horse plodded deeper into the woods. I was riding in the cart and driving it—something I had never done before, but it was simple enough with a single horse in harness. Mr. Wellesley walked alongside.
I should say, Lord Wellington. He was an earl now. At this pace, he would be the Duke of Wellington before long.
A complication occurred to me. “Will they not have heard your gunshot?”
“We were over the hill from their encampment. Without line of sight, a gunshot is a rambling echo. If they noticed at all, the direction will be unclear. But we are wise to move on.”
“I neglected to thank you for my rescue.”
“You are most welcome. You were doing quite well on your own. What do you call those little draca?”
“I have no idea. I did not know such things existed.”
“Nor did I.” There was a pause. “So, you summoned them, unaware of their existence, and they defended you?”
His tone was factual, but I hesitated, remembering the military’s desire to use draca in war.
After the silence dragged, he added, “Of course, I shall respect your privacy in this matter.”
“I am sorry to appear reluctant. I have been accused of witchcraft twice in the past week.”
“Then, in your position, I would be reluctant myself.” He spoke as if accusations of witchcraft were no more shocking than being criticized for an unfashionable hat.
“Have you seen Mr. Darcy?” I asked.
“Yes. He and I are partners in this adventure. He is unhurt. We should meet him at our destination.”
“Thank goodness.” A tension I had not recognized drained from my shoulder blades.
“You are not the only one to have an exciting day,” Lord Wellington said cheerfully.
“Men arrived at Pemberley and took Darcy at the door. I am embarrassed to say I was enjoying a soft-boiled egg at the time. Hearing the violent invasion of many armed men, I retreated to the cellars. I armed myself with a bung puller—rather like a large corkscrew. Then fate intervened, and Darcy arrived with proper weapons.”
“Proper weapons held by his three guards?”
“That part was inconvenient. How do you know of the guards?”
“I spoke with… the men by the lake.” I balked at naming my sister as a collaborator.
“Interesting. Did you learn anything more?”
“You will find it incredible. They are French soldiers, here on Napoleon’s orders. They wish to bind draca to a French wyfe. They married three couples by the lake.”
“I watched.” His tone was bemused. I wondered if he observed the post-ceremony activity. “Who was the young lady in black?”
I licked my lips, stalling. “Which young lady?”
“The lady treated by the French capitaine as a superior, which is a peculiar military organization. The lady with whom you spoke for a considerable time.”
His tone was not accusing, but it was exact. I was foolish to think I could conceal information from an officer who both employed and interrogated spies.
“She is my sister Lydia,” I said.
“Why is your sister in a position of importance with invading French forces?”
“She has unusual abilities. Not unlike mine.” I would not condemn her without defense.
“Lydia is only sixteen, and recently married. Her husband is George Wickham, a rogue who has drawn her into some dishonest scheme. There are more than French soldiers here. Wickham has recruited English thieves or deserters to help him.”
Lord Wellington made a hmm sound. At least he found the situation complex.
I was feeling remarkably normal, all things considered. The horse was a smallish, gentle animal, well-groomed and content to pull a light cart for miles. Dappled forest light rolled across his back. Other than some scrapes and a sore side where I was kicked, I was hardly the worse for my adventure.
“Why were you visiting Mr. Darcy?” I asked.
“He desires to divest himself of Pemberley. He asked if I would acquire it. I was honored by the offer. Pemberley is an extraordinary estate.”
“I trust you told him that giving up Pemberley is an absurd idea.” That came out more sharply than I intended.
“Of course.”
Well, that was good.
“May we stop for a moment?” he said. I reined in. He studied a hazel bush twenty paces ahead, then called out, “Well met!”
Leaves rustled, and a grinning boy of fourteen or fifteen stepped out and walked to us. He was tanned, ropey and fit, and barefoot below rough-spun shirt and trousers.
There were regular streaks of blue on his cheeks and forehead. Dried mud, I thought, until he came closer and I saw it was a stain on his skin. He had dyed a pattern onto his face, neck, and arms with woad, a flowering weed used to dye cloth.
“Sir,” he said to Lord Wellington with a bobbing, inexpert bow.
“You make an excellent sentry. Has there been any action?”
“Not a peep. Haven’t even seen a man cross the hill from the house. They are a poor lot of hunters, is all I can say.” The boy looked at me shyly. “Ma’am.”
“Good afternoon,” I said. Late afternoon by now.
We set off again, the boy chattering inconsequential cottage news to Lord Wellington, who listened seriously.
The blue streaks on the boy’s face were pulling at a memory, but I could not place it. Something important. “May I ask why your face is decorated?”
“ ’Tis eve of Beltane. Afore them folk come to trouble Mr. Darcy, we was preparing for the Pemberley festival.”
“Are we within the estate?” We had come several miles at least.
“ ’Course, ma’am. Pemberley is the biggest estate in the world.”
I smiled at his enthusiasm, even though I knew there were larger. “Do you work the land?”
“Not like farmers. We’re Britons. Hill folk.” I cocked an eyebrow and he explained, “We live the old ways, and keep the true gods. Hunting. Fishing. Raising goats. Pulling up what grows natural.” He added a wry grin. “Sometimes, we trade with the house. Get some bread and tea.”
“Mr. Darcy lets you hunt his land?”
“He does. That’s why we’re on Pemberley. Most lords don’t let nobody hunt. They want to ride about and shoot foxes. Pemberley’s different. Honors the old ways. There’s us!”
He ran ahead. We followed at the horse’s plod and entered a village. There were a dozen small homes scattered, each with walls of wattle and daub, and thatched straw roofs dotted with green where stray seeds had sprouted.
In the center was a clearing, and within that rose an unusually thick maypole cut from a birch trunk. The top reached as high as the thatched roofs.
Lord Wellington went to speak with a pair of men, their faces also striped with blue woad.
I clambered off the cart, shook out my stiff legs, and took a closer look at the maypole.
The top foot of the birch was stripped of bark and beading with sap.
At the height of my head, a wreath of flowering rowan and pale honeysuckle wrapped the pole in white froth.
I stuck my nose in and took a sniff. The scent of rowan was rich and musky. The sweetness of honeysuckle dripped beneath. I pulled my face out, feeling a little dizzy.
“You’ll be asked to dance, you do that,” a woman’s voice said beside me. I turned to find a smiling, yellow-haired woman a few years older than me, wearing a simple linen dress. “I’m Agnes, but everyone calls me Aggy.”
“I am Lizzy,” I said, deciding that a French invasion justified informality, and curtsied. I felt foolish as Aggy bit her lip and returned an inexpert imitation. Obviously, curtsies were not done here. I gave her an apologetic shrug and grin, and she chuckled.
“Guess you ran from them soldiers,” she said, looking me over. “You’re a bit of a mess.”
“Am I?” I looked down. My dress was smeared with dirt and clay, and dotted with burrs and dried leaves. A chunk of torn petticoat dangled.
“Only for a lady,” she amended, even though she looked far better than I.
“I have rather abandoned being a lady.”
“Lady is as lady does,” she said in a singsong that made me think it was a local saying.
She clicked her tongue, and something small barreled towards us and jumped up. She caught it expertly and tucked it into the crook of her arm. A roseworm. The scales on his back shone forest-brown above the rich red of his belly.
“You are bound,” I said, shocked.
“Four years,” she said with a comical eye roll. She held up her left hand, showing a narrow wedding band of silver. “Got a daughter running about, too. She’s three, and a right handful. Full of strong opinions, like her father.”
“I should like to meet her,” I said, but underneath, I was stunned. Only gentry bound draca. Only gentry were able to bind. Or so I had been taught.
She gestured to the woods. “Jacob—that’s my man—he’s off with Mr. Darcy checking the house.” Her expression became worried. “They was to be back afore now.”
“I am sure he is fine.” In fact, fear had tightened my chest, but meaningless reassurance was a social habit—one I found irritating when done to me. However, Aggy smiled her thanks, then cocked her head, watching me.
“You know Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
My concern must have shown. “Yes.” I waited for her to declare that I was the notorious Elizabeth Bennet, but she just nodded in sympathy.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she offered.
“That would be wonderful,” I said fervently.
Aggy’s house was nicely kept and roomy enough to have a separate room for sleeping. It was less polished than the houses of the Longbourn tenants, but as comfortable. The kitchen had a table, a few chairs, and a tiny iron stove. The village must trade for more than bread and tea.
Together, we brushed the less ground-in debris from my clothes. I tore off the dangling strip of petticoat and borrowed Aggy’s tin looking glass in a doomed attempt to discipline my hair, as several pins had been lost.