Chapter 20 Miss Bates
MISS BATES
EMMA
Soldiers and broken ornaments are sad, but friends celebrate a marriage, and Anne and her husband rushed over to offer their sincere, if surprised, compliments.
The Otways followed more cautiously, but that drew the French captain into our impromptu celebration.
He shook Mr. Knightley’s hand, offering congratulations in his native language, and bowed to me.
A few soldiers touched their hats and smiled.
“You have set us on our back foot!” Mr. Weston continued heartily, neatening the tips of his mustache with two pinches. It had been drooping before.
Anne bobbed her child, who was looking around blurrily, woken by the fuss. “Were you married in London?”
“No,” I said exactly as Mr. Knightley answered, “Yes.” I stiffened, but he chuckled handsomely and explained, “In Chelsea. It is very rural, so Mrs. Knightley is correct.”
I looked around our little group, then realized that was me.
“And when?” Anne asked breathlessly.
“Ah,” Mr. Knightley began expansively. He seemed to have gotten into the swing of things. “It was three—”
“—weeks ago,” I finished firmly. I was afraid he would say months.
That would have been terribly rude of me, as I should have told Anne immediately.
“I am sorry I did not write to you. I thought it would be amusing to appear in person. And then there was the war.” I pouted, and Capitaine Fournier had the decency to appear abashed.
Anne plucked my sleeve, pulling me aside for a private conversation. “You said you would never marry! What happened?”
“We danced on a ship that was frozen in the Thames.” Really, that was romantic.
“He is very handsome. Does he have money?”
“Not a penny!” I answered cheerfully. She giggled—I was being very improper—but I meant it…
although, how did I mean it? It was true, or true enough by the standards of rich Miss Woodhouse.
But I was rich no longer. How would we survive?
We were not actually married, of course, but it was an irritating thought.
“He performs,” I added. “Music.” Could we live off that?
Mrs. Otway joined our ladies’ discussion, and wedding topics proceeded. The giddy rush of my invented marriage dimmed. I answered with smiles; suddenly, fabricating details tasted sour. The discussion drifted to recollections of other weddings, and my mood turned pensive.
We were still prisoners, even if the French soldiers were amused.
The Overseer had stalked off after my announcement.
That, at least, worked as I planned. A bound woman did not interest the slavers.
Nor, for that matter, a woman who was not gentry.
And I doubted the French captain would rip Mr. Knightley from the arms of his weeping bride, so he was safe as well.
The French captain, though, had left the parlor to speak angrily with the Overseer in the front hall. John was there too, glowering at me through the parlor doorway. He had heard the happy news.
John shouted, “Everyone must proceed outside!” That meant everyone; the French captain barked a command, and the French soldiers left before us at a trot. A pair of Confederate soldiers forced us out with rude prods and pushes.
Outside, the cheery mid-afternoon sun clashed with the scent of gunpowder on the breeze. At the top step, Mrs. Otway broke away and ran to where her daughter Caroline, only sixteen, stood shivering and frightened, held by a gray-clad soldier.
“I am sorry,” Caroline burst out, “I tried to see where they took you…” Her mother wrapped her in a silent hug.
There was one other new arrival. A middle-aged lady in a frowsy blue-and-white dress and a slightly tired cotton-lace cap was chattering at the soldier from his other side. The roseworm, who had loyally followed me outside, perked up, watching her.
Miss Bates.
I concentrated and saw the rose-hued binding between her and the roseworm. Of course, the draca would be hers. There was no other bound roseworm in twenty miles. I had only discounted that because her roseworm was so secret. She never let her be seen in public, let alone visit people’s houses.
Meanwhile, Miss Bates, a committed conversationalist, was proceeding full blast to her captive audience.
“—and I always say that a soldier is a fine sight, for you know I can hardly tell the difference between soldiers, what is a blue or a red jacket after all, with the navy in blue anyway, and now gray ones too, so really how can one expect a simple woman to know? Although if I may say, gray is a very dull choice. Do they let you pick?”
The soldier was displaying the same glazed expression I had worn myself on occasion, so I took advantage of his stunned silence to call, “Miss Bates!”
She beamed at me. “Miss Woodhouse! What a delight. Only two days ago I was reading a letter from my niece and thinking, if only Miss Woodhouse were here to enjoy it with me!”
“Shut yer face,” the soldier said as he pushed her, Mrs. Otway, and Caroline into a clump with Anne and me.
“Miss Woodhouse is Mrs. Knightley now,” Anne said to Miss Bates, nodding toward Mr. Knightley, who had been placed with the gentlemen. I was glad he had not been singled out, but he looked dangerously angry.
Miss Bates, who had ended her patter with an affronted “Well!” shot a highly perceptive glance at me that flicked to her roseworm by my feet.
I had seen this side of her before—the real Miss Bates, far more intelligent and serious than the bumbling persona she presented in society.
And far more knowledgeable of draca and their lore.
Miss Bates put her head by mine and whispered, “We are preparing a rescue. I am here to give the signal.”
My heart leaped. “Who is preparing a rescue?” I whispered back.
“The widowed wyves. But we must wait for Kent.”
Her short sentences were as baffling as her long ones. Were there more bound, widowed wyves? And who was Kent?
The six French soldiers had assembled in a two-by-three column. Their captain approached me.
“The amulet?” he asked bluntly.
“I do not know.”
“Then we search elsewhere.”
My relief from my wedding ploy turned to a sodden mass in my belly. “You cannot leave us with that slaver. Please do not!”
His gaze mixed frustration and regret. “I do not wish to, madame. I am a husband. I have a daughter. But my orders are from the Emperor himself.” He bowed, his regalia gleaming, and marched his soldiers away from the house.
At the same time, a two-horse coach was rattling up the other side of Hartfield’s circular carriage drive. A coach I recognized. The sodden mass in my belly turned to lead.
“Oh,” Miss Bates gasped like she had been struck. “He is early. Where is Kent?”
The coach was met by more soldiers, and a narrow-shouldered, overly pretty young man stepped out wearing a clergyman’s white collar with a belted black coat. He greeted the Overseer with a smug smile and familiar handshake.
Mr. Elton. My apprehensions lurched to life.
A woman wobbled down the coach’s step behind him.
Her head was lowered, her features concealed by an oppressively deep-brimmed poke bonnet, but her dress was English and extremely overdecorated with cheap ruffles and draped beads.
That unfortunate style could be only one person—Mrs. Augusta Elton, the vicar’s wyfe, married a year ago.
She had been touted as an impressive match, having a substantial fortune, but then failed to bind, a grating embarrassment to the vicar which I had privately celebrated.
An unpleasant clicking drew my gaze to her feet. A grossly oversized foul crawler had slithered out of the coach, following her like a sullen housecat. It was three feet long, flowing in a rattle of shell-wrapped segments.
Mr. Elton finished shaking hands with slavers and strode toward us. Augusta shuffled in his wake. A short length of rope was tied around her wrist, and one of the soldiers picked it up, tugging her when she drifted the wrong way.
“I hoped it was not true,” Miss Bates whispered, her breath harsh with outrage. “He has made his wyfe one of their horrors.” She clamped her eyes shut, hiding the scene. No. She was drawing sharp, focused breaths, building her resolve. “We cannot wait any longer.”
Her hand drew something small and glittering from her skirt pocket—a glass vial. The cork fell into the lawn. Hiding the vial in her palm, she tossed the contents in her mouth and swallowed with a choked cough.
The roseworm at our feet hissed as a sour, bitter odor stung the back of my nose. I knew that scent. When an American slaver had forced Harriet to use the black dagger, he drugged her with that to strengthen her control. Crawler venom.
“Are you mad?” I whispered to Miss Bates.
She was unnaturally still and silent.
“Emma,” Mr. Elton announced in surprise, halting a few steps from us.
I said coolly, “Mr. Elton.”
I had dreaded meeting him, expecting to be frightened. Instead, the fear that had filled me receded. He looked far less consequential than I remembered, rather skinny and superficial.
John hurried to shake Mr. Elton’s hand, bobbing like an ingratiating fool. “Welcome, welcome. Is all proceeding to plan?
“The True Church rises in Highbury,” Mr. Elton replied. His eyes were locked on me.
John noticed his attention. “Ah, yes. I managed to bring Emma after all.”
“That is very excellent,” Mr. Elton said. “All together, again.”
“And I do not believe this marriage nonsense for an instant,” John scoffed.
“Marriage?” Mr. Elton echoed. He stepped closer, examining me and the roseworm. “You cannot marry.”
I felt an irrational edge of pride. “You are mistaken.” Defiantly, I picked up the roseworm. Roseworms are small but solid, with a draca’s gem-like scales, dense bones, and musculature. She curled into the crook of my arm like a warm brass sculpture.
“You certainly cannot bind,” Mr. Elton said with a lopsided smirk.