Chapter 3 The Council of War
THE COUNCIL OF WAR
LIZZY
Mary led us briskly down a servants’ stair, out a plain pine door, and onto a narrow and chilly side street.
Mr. Knightley came also, talking with Georgiana and carrying a beautiful instrument case of lustrous cherrywood—a violin, from the scrollwork designs.
He tucked the case under his arm and jogged to the corner to hail a coach.
I stepped close to Darcy, who was so composed one would think gentlemen regularly strolled through London with ladies draped in their arms.
“You and I cannot accompany them,” I whispered. “Our other engagement…”
“Of course.” He grimaced. “I had forgotten.”
Forgotten a meeting with the Secretary of War?
Mr. Knightley returned leading a large hackney coach, the horses prancing skittishly in the tight space. Darcy and Harriet settled Emma into a seat. Emma did not answer when Harriet spoke to her.
Darcy jumped down so Mary could step in. He stopped Georgiana before she followed, and said to Mr. Knightley, “Sir, I have another engagement. Would you accompany my sister to ensure that Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith remain safe at Chathford?”
Mr. Knightley nodded. “I would be honored.”
“Safe?” Georgiana’s brunette brows arched over her ocean eyes. “I thought to offer them tea and summon a doctor. Is that safe enough?”
“Call it ‘private,’ then,” Darcy replied. “I do not recommend a doctor if Miss Woodhouse recovers soon. I think she will. I hope to speak with her then. Convey that, please.”
Georgiana considered him. For a reed-thin girl of seventeen, she had a tough spine.
Georgiana had her own extraordinary abilities with draca, so she had been pressed into difficult situations before.
Last year, and against Darcy’s advice, the military had attempted to use bound draca in battle.
Georgiana had been called by her brother to settle maddened draca in the disastrous aftermath.
The driver of a smaller coach caught behind ours shouted to clear the street. Georgiana gave a rushed, unsatisfied nod to her brother, then accepted Mr. Knightley’s hand to take her seat.
I closed my eyes, found the tykeworm’s bright awareness, and imagined Georgiana as she appeared to draca senses—her lithe posture and the golden aura that surrounded her. This was suggestion, not the brute force of command, but the tyke scrambled happily into the coach to follow her.
The large coach pulled away. Behind, the other driver clucked his tongue to start his horses but reined in when Darcy hailed him. Darcy helped me up, then gave directions before closing the door.
In the privacy of the coach, my curiosity came to a boil. “I trust you appreciate that only an exceptionally tolerant wyfe would stand meekly while you pay such attention to Miss Woodhouse.”
The corner of Darcy’s lip twitched. “I do not recall marrying you on a blessed Beltane eve for your exceptional tolerance. But you are right that she has my attention. I am curious about Miss Woodhouse’s ailment.”
“I see that. I am wondering why.”
The tip of his thumb brushed my cheek, then traced the crescent of my ear, the fine weave of his glove trailing a tingling frisson. His fingers landed lightly on the nape of my neck.
“You are distracting me,” I said sternly while fighting a blush.
Darcy had been smiling, but his smile faded. His hand cupped my neck in a far more businesslike manner. “You are very warm. Are you well?”
I pulled his hand away. “You are still distracting me. What of Emma?”
Now I was distracting him. Bursts of fever had struck me several times in the last few weeks. This latest one had crept in unnoticed, pricking a damp line up my spine. But the attacks left me energetic, not ill, so the last thing I needed was my over-protective husband worrying.
Darcy’s gaze was thoughtful. “I have seen an ailment like Miss Woodhouse’s before. I may have advice on treatment. Does that satisfy you, for now?”
I nodded and assumed the dutiful expression of a generous and understanding wyfe.
Darcy laughed out loud. He took my hand. “Elizabeth, the Secretary of War awaits. Do not exhaust your exceptional tolerance on your husband. You may require it soon.”
The coach swayed and bounced over London’s rough streets while fever prickled my neck.
The carriage let us out on Margaret’s Street. While Darcy paid the driver, I walked past the cab, then stopped short.
Westminster Palace sprawled before me, home to the House of Lords and House of Commons.
I had seen engravings in The Times, but in life, it filled one’s eyes—a vast mass of rambling gray stone streaked with black soot from London’s smoky rain.
The structure ranged from three to five stories with no discernable plan and fronted at least two hundred yards of the Thames.
The lack of planning extended to the jumbled architecture.
Crenelated towers suited for a ruined Scottish castle abutted modern, sloped roofs and shining glass windows.
Still, the effects combined to create an air of age and importance.
“The seat of governance for Great Britain,” I said as Darcy joined me. “How remarkable.”
“Do not be overly impressed,” he said. “It is notorious for mice and rotting sills.”
“Which of us is intolerant?” I asked innocently and took his arm.
The large yard in front of the building was hidden behind a twenty-foot stone wall. We followed the perimeter to an iron-railed gate where a guard dispatched a runner to announce Mr. Darcy. Then he stared down his nose at me. “Have you arranged for the lady to wait?”
“Mrs. Darcy will accompany us,” Darcy said before I could open my mouth.
The guard’s pointy chin thrust forward, then left and right before settling dubiously in the center.
Was it unexpected for a lady to enter, or improper?
There had been a tremendous scandal when Lady Caroline Lamb stole into the Commons gallery to observe her husband’s speech, achieving her feat by dressing as a teenage boy.
Of course, the London newspapers implied that Lady Caroline performed many outrageous feats, usually accompanied by Lord Byron, who was not her husband.
With relief, I recognized a figure striding across the yard in a scarlet coat and shining gold epaulets. Darcy greeted him with a bow. “Lord Wellington.”
Lord Wellington shook Darcy’s hand warmly.
“Save your ‘Lords’ for when I thrash you in our next bout.” My husband and Lord Wellington were fencing partners, a discovery I still found bemusing.
Lord Wellington commanded England’s forces in the long-running war with France.
There was hardly a more famous or admired figure in the kingdom.
My hand was swept up next, and with not much more formality. “Mrs. Darcy. I am delighted that a charming wyfe is visiting this dreary pile of stone. Do you not agree, Hicks?” he added, directing the last to the guard.
The guard, who had assumed the rigidity of a flagpole when Lord Wellington appeared, inclined his head a half inch.
We crossed the yard to enter a set of broad doors, climbed a wide staircase with fading red carpet, then wound through a series of dark-paneled rooms. A scent of stale tobacco and spilled port grew.
Darcy and Lord Wellington seemed comfortable and chatted cordially, but I found it off-putting, as if I had stumbled into the gentlemen’s parlor after dinner.
We stopped outside a heavy, elaborately carved oak door.
“This meeting is, of course, unprecedented,” Lord Wellington said, speaking in a soft voice that would not penetrate the closed door.
“This has become more urgent, and more secret, in the last week. Only two members of the Council will join us.” He hesitated, his eyes on mine.
“The Council of War has voted to implement the policy described in my letter.”
Darcy opened his mouth, but this time, I was quicker. “That sounds very settled. You proposed using Yuánchi in war. My reply expressed my reservations. I should say, my disagreement. How did the Council respond?”
“The Council addressed their request to Mr. Darcy,” Lord Wellington said.
“I judged it unwise to present a reply penned by his wyfe.” I drew a big breath, but he raised a finger and continued, “Instead, I insisted that you be invited to this meeting. I have respected your privacy about the events at Pemberley, but my discretion has left the gentlemen of the Council with… conventional expectations.”
Lord Wellington had witnessed me controlling draca and summoning Yuánchi—and the destruction that followed. Afterward, Darcy extracted his promise to conceal my abilities. Darcy feared they would be irresistibly tempting to the military.
However, pretending to be a wide-eyed innocent was irritating in situations like this. I plucked a fold of my skirt. “I should think the ‘conventional expectation’ is that the wyfe who bound a dragon is Mrs. Darcy.”
Lord Wellington studied me with no hint of humor, but a glint in his eye. He almost seemed pleased. Then he knocked twice and opened the door.
We entered an office like a large gentleman’s study. The walls were panels of quarter-sawn oak dulled by decades of beeswax polish. A rack of shelves held thick legal volumes. A square window faced the walled yard. The sill had a hole, mouse-sized and distinctly nibbled.
A massive walnut desk dominated the room, each chunky leg carved with a lion’s head and clawed foot.
One corner held cut-glass decanters of whisky and port.
Beside a pen and blotter, an empty glass tumbler weighed down several sheets of paper.
Four armchairs upholstered in ruby velvet formed an arc in front.
Two gentlemen were waiting. They rose as we entered.