Chapter 26 To Bind #3
Harriet had chosen this setting because she and I often visited the drainsman on our picnics.
He was a reclusive soul, happier examining a basket of fruit than conversing with ladies, but he insisted that Mr. Knightley and I accept a loan of his cottage for the night.
After apologizing for the housekeeping, he headed off to visit his cousin’s farm.
It was a cozy, country place, with a feather bed and an iron stove, unlit in the warm spring.
Harriet had arranged the two ripe strawberries on the table with a wreath of leaves.
I placed my strawberry-decorated bonnet beside them and ran the tip of my finger through their delicate, rough-textured foliage.
“Emma…” Mr. Knightley said.
I had to stop my usual response, then smiled. “The problem with short engagements is that I have not practiced saying ‘George.’ ” I considered him across the small room, Lady Anne’s lanyard decorating his buttonhole. “George. It is a nice name.”
He did not smile. “In the rush—in the madness we have faced—I have relied on my own feelings and trusted you to know your mind. But here, I feel selfish. I know this is a duty you were told to perform, part of your role as a great wyfe. I feel no shame in aiding you; most people marry for duty or fortune, and you—you are like a queen or a princess, burdened with responsibility beyond the rest of us. So I can accept—”
I had reached him by then, and I lifted his hand, our bare fingers tight and pulling him so close that our knuckles brushed each other’s chests.
“That is a very kind speech, and very ridiculous! Do you think I am so selfless that I would marry a man I did not love? I spent years happily planning for a single woman’s life.
Even twenty nagging wyverns could not overcome that.
” I thought about it and added, “I admit I planned to be a single woman of good fortune, which naturally makes one respectable and sensible and pleasant. So, I had better reclaim Hartfield. But if we must be poor, I will try to be good natured and poor, and you can remind me when I forget.”
He was smiling by the end. “That is unlikely.”
I found I was empty of clever words, so I lifted his hand to rest against my cheek.
The touch, skin to skin, felt intensely precious, as if I was starved for contact.
When we kissed at the wedding, my senses had wheeled wide, skating over the hills and the shining draca around us.
For this kiss, I closed my eyes, reveling in touch, my fingers exploring his muscular shoulders and his coiled, soft hair, my lips his softness, my face brushing his chin, now clean-shaven.
He must have collected a razor when he visited the coach.
I felt a sliver of regret about that. It seemed I was the sort of lady who admired a ruffian’s shadow on a gentleman.
When the kiss ended, I turned to show my back. “Will you undo my dress? It is awkward to do alone.” Deftly, his fingers freed each button. I let it slip off my petticoat and pool around my feet, thinking it was like when he removed my pelisse before we danced on the ice-locked ship.
Just in case, I looked down at the dress, hunting for a shimmer or shadow of miasma, but there was only cloth. And then his elegant fingers encircled my waist and turned me to face him.
Later, in bed, I arched in ecstasy, and the shining brightness of draca surrounded us. Broccworms and tunnelworms, drakes and tykes, all reached out their bindings in reverent offer…
And, even dazed with passion, I thought, No, and the draca withdrew.
The next morning, Harriet called on us. We were dressed and waiting; the plan had been to meet early. Reality could not be dodged forever. This was a shire occupied by an invading army.
Harriet, eyes twinkling, met me with a delighted “Mrs. Knightley” and then peered expectantly around my feet. Rather like my husband had done this morning.
“We did not bind,” I said. “It is not time.”
I had always been told—Mr. Elton had shouted it at me when I confronted him in his vicarage—that only virginal ladies bind, and only on their wedding night.
Now I knew that supposed rule was an accident of passion and emotion and, importantly, expectation.
For draca, binding was a vow that must be entered knowingly.
A wyfe must both seek and consent to bind, and for most wyves, that occurred only once while also at the pinnacle of profound love.
“I suppose you will know when the time is right,” Harriet replied doubtfully. “When you saved Augusta, that was like something Lizzy or Georgiana would do. Like magic.” She frowned. “But I thought the entire reason you married was so you could bind?”
“I thought so, too, but I was wrong.” I smiled shyly at my husband, who grinned roguishly.
He looked handsome with his coat smoothed and dusted, although a little wrinkled from the last two days, and I had cleverly distracted him so he forgot to shave.
“I suppose the wyverns will be cross with me,” I continued.
“The only thing they ever explained clearly is that I must bind, and here I have ignored them.”
“Well, whatever the wyverns think, you are married,” Harriet observed. “I came to find my mother, and I have, but I do not like being surrounded by French soldiers or those slavers, who are worse!”
“Where is your mother?”
“I asked Mr. and Mrs. Collins to take her home. It is on their path and away from the fighting. The Collinses are taking Lady Catherine’s carriage, which is very intimidating and has two footmen. I do not think she can be much safer than that.”
“And Lady Catherine?”
“She and Miss Bates went off with the widowed wyves, and Augusta is at the Westons. I was there last night, too. Mrs. Weston insisted. She is so loyal to you, Emma, and her husband is delighted to be sheltering fugitives. When I left, he was marching around their house insisting we call him Captain, as if he was still in the militia. It was rather funny, but it is serious too. The Otways went to stay with their cousins, but Augusta has nowhere to go.” She pulled out an envelope.
“Lady Catherine asked me to give you this.”
I broke the seal:
“Mrs. Knightley,
After our conversation, I found myself reconsidering certain moments of my life. That is an unfamiliar sensation which I abhor. I am remedying it by assisting the widowed wyves, as I find this exceedingly satisfying.
Assuming your and my survival, I expect you and Mr. Knightley to visit me at Rosings Park. A stay of six weeks will be sufficient.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh”
“Was she rude?” Harriet asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I am sorry for her.”
“What will we do?”
“Escape north,” Mr. Knightley offered bluntly.
“We can swing westward to avoid London. That will be the focus of battle. Perhaps Mrs. Elton can accompany us. We certainly cannot let her fall into her husband’s hands.
But once we are north of the fighting, Emma and I must make speed to Pemberley.
You accomplished your quest, Miss Smith.
We did not, and we must tell the others of our failure. ”
“Mary trusted me,” I said, and the words tasted sour.
The terrible things I had pushed out of my mind returned—the slavers’ crimes, the theft of my fortune, John claiming Hartfield, the lost amulet.
I summoned a smile for Harriet. “I did not come to Surrey to marry. We were seeking the amulet.” When Harriet screwed up her nose in confusion, I explained, “That was a discovery after you left Pemberley. After you… found your own way.”
“Oh,” she said.
There was a moment of mutual embarrassment; she and I had hardly been speaking then. As hurt feelings can, it seemed foolish in hindsight. I took her hand, and she held tight.
“Why an amulet?” she asked.
“It was made with one of Yuánchi’s scales, and it can help heal what has gone wrong—the blight, perhaps the war.
It was sent to the Witch of Woodhouse, so Mary thought it might be an heirloom, but Papa never mentioned it.
The French tore Hartfield apart looking for it.
All they accomplished was breaking things.
” I remembered shards of ornaments spraying across the floor.
“So, it would be red,” Harriet mused, “and old fashioned. Is the setting jade? With a lot of…” She twirled her finger in little whorls very like the drawing the French officer had shown us.
There was a silence. I looked at Mr. Knightley and met his disbelieving stare.
Harriet was grinning now. “If it is so important, should we not collect it before we go?”
“Where is it?” I cried. “How do you know?”
“I know because…” Her smile faltered. “Do you remember, when I was a student at Mrs. Goddard’s, a tradesman visited pretending to be my father? The man who was hired by Mr. Wood—by our father.”
I remembered. “With whiskers and a bent hat…”
“He was a bad pretend father, but he gave a pretty speech about regretting leaving me alone. He said it very carefully, like it was memorized, and at the end, he gave me a gift. He called it an heirloom. An amulet of jade and shining red. Red that is exactly like Yuánchi’s scales.”
“Papa wished you were a Woodhouse,” I breathed. “He just was not brave enough to share his name.” A rush of relief made me giddy. “I cannot believe I did not ask you!”
“Well, nobody else did, either,” she said, casting a look at Mr. Knightley.
I grabbed her fingers. “Please tell me you did not throw it in a river or—”
“Of course not!” she scoffed. “It was beautiful. And the chain is gold!”
“Where is it?”
She winced. “This is where it is difficult. It is at Mrs. Goddard’s school.”
In the center of French-occupied Hartfield.