Chapter 8 A Scarlet Calm
A SCARLET CALM
EMMA
I am Emma Woodhouse. Two of my secrets are revealed. I imagine false illness, and I see bindings. One secret remains.
Today, Harriet and I planned to tour the Darcys’ school, but we started our outing by accompanying Georgiana to her music salon. She wished to inspect it. Specifically, it appeared, the instrument.
The salon air had the stale, charred odor of an uncleaned fireplace. Harriet and I watched Georgiana prowl around the massive mahogany pianoforte. Already, the cuff of her sleeve had a half-inch sooty smudge.
Harriet touched my arm. “I keep thinking of those horrible visions you had. They must be so frightening.”
“They are frightening while I see them,” I admitted. It was strange to be so open, even with Harriet. I pictured the miasma flooding the world. “I lose my sense of what is impossible. You would laugh if I described what I see. It would sound like a silly dream.”
“Why did you not tell me before?” Harriet’s tone had no hint of accusation, only concern.
I smiled brightly. “I prefer happy topics.”
Harriet hesitated, then grinned. “We are staying in London! That is happy.”
The Darcys had invited us to stay the week.
Yesterday, I rode to London, fearful outside the shield of Hartfield’s walls. Today, I woke in a borrowed nightgown, and an unfamiliar maid fastened my dress and bemoaned the weather. I had been tipped into a foreign sea, but I had not sunk.
“I shall take you shopping,” I decided. “This trip will be your coming out as a lady. You need finer things for London.” I had written a letter asking for clothes to be sent, but Harriet’s wardrobe was dictated by Mrs. Goddard’s boarding school and very dull.
“I did not think of clothes when I asked to visit the school. Is my dress good enough?”
I gave a little sigh. The school was already a tiresome topic. “Your dress is more than sufficient for a school. It is society where you must present yourself with perfection.”
Harriet’s hands twisted. “The children at Mrs. Goddard’s do not notice my clothes. They do not care how I look.”
I patted her reassuringly. “That is exactly my point. You are wasted on children.” Her fingers wiggled. I patted more firmly.
Georgiana’s head was upside-down to see beneath the pianoforte’s lid. She straightened, tucked a fallen raven lock behind her alabaster ear, then sat and played a thundering excerpt of something jarringly modern. Beethoven, perhaps. Serious music.
As if summoned, Mr. Knightley appeared in the doorway, puffing and laughing. His coat was sprayed with snow like a child after a snowball fight. I fought an urge to rush over and sweep it off.
“Oh!” Harriet said. “Mr. Knightley is here.” She crossed the room, her steps a natural chassé. Mr. Knightley bowed to her extravagantly, and she clapped in delight. Then he caught my eye and mimed a handshake with a glove caked in snow. A laugh tumbled through my lips, surprising me.
Georgiana joined me with a satisfied sigh. “At least there is no damage.”
I looked up. My borrowed maid had enjoyed the novelty of yellow hair, so I peered through exorbitant curls. Blackened paint and broken plaster dangled from the ruined ceiling. “That appears damaged.”
“That does not matter.” Georgiana flicked her fingers ceilingward. “Fitz will pay the landlord if he makes a fuss. More likely, Fitz will scowl tremendously, and the landlord will pay him. But the instrument is a treasure.”
“Fitz?”
She beamed. “My brother is Fitzwilliam. I am an indulged sister, so I call him Fitz.”
“Your brother is quite intense.” Our long conversation at Chathford filled my mind.
“He is a good brother.” She glanced at me. “How are you today?”
I wore my dress from yesterday, although it had been ironed and freshened. My fingers were pinching a pleat to align the crease.
I forced my hand still. Putrid illness did not erupt from the floor.
Georgiana watched my fingers hover above the cloth, then said, “I was a girl when my parents died. My grief suffocated me like a choking blanket. I could only breathe if I made music, so I played day and night. Then my affinity with draca revealed itself, and it became easier.”
“If I have an affinity, it is no comfort.”
Her head tilted encouragingly. “Perhaps your affinity is not yet revealed.”
“When you sang last night, outside Chathford, I felt things change. What did you do?”
“I make music. Draca hear it. They trust me. If they are hurt or distressed, they are soothed. Lizzy says it is power—amplification—but it is only melody. Last night, the world of draca was discordant around you, so I… found the harmony.”
“At least you sound like a wyfe of song,” I said. “Your brother says I am the wyfe of healing, but I obsess over seams and buttons. I should be the wyfe of sewing.”
“Mamma straightened my seams, but she was a healer. I was eight when she died. I remember no miracles or magic. She was like a country healer, brewing herbs for tea and ointments. She said the herbs spoke to her.”
I remembered the verse Mr. Darcy quoted. “There are three great wyves. Does that mean Lizzy is the wyfe of war?”
“None of us believe that. Least of all, Lizzy.” Her brow wrinkled. “Fitz says my powers will change when I marry and bind. But I do not intend to marry.”
“That is very sensible,” I said. “I cannot imagine marrying.”
Her eyes darted to me, then fixed on the floor. “Why not?”
“I know precisely how I like things. It would be irritating to be in thrall to a gentleman.” I watched Mr. Knightley illustrate some point for Harriet with a swirl of his fingers. “Even a handsome one. Papa was very clear that I should keep Hartfield. Independence is a rare gift for a lady.”
“Yes,” Georgiana said pensively.
“Does your… affinity… show the scarlet around your brother?”
Georgiana did not answer. I turned and met her gaze, serious and still.
“Scarlet?” she said.
“Both your brother and Lizzy surge with scarlet. I thought it was a binding. I sense bindings, in the color of the bound draca. But they did not bind, and there are no scarlet draca. Besides, it is too strong. With Lizzy, it is blinding.”
“And with my brother?”
“With him it is… different.” The word that came to mind was “enticing,” but that was inappropriate.
Georgiana pursed her lips. “You must ask Lizzy. This is hers to tell.” Her tone became amused. “You should start your outing. Harriet has had her chance. Mr. Knightley must have a crick in his neck from stealing glances at you.”
“Do not joke,” I said, feeling the warmth of a flush.
Mr. Darcy arrived, then Lizzy. We set forth, leaving Georgiana happily cranking the pianoforte’s tuning pins.
It was good walking weather. The air was cold, but the sun was spilling between the clouds. The grime of London’s streets sparkled under crystals of ice and snow.
Lizzy was anonymous in a concealing coat and wool bonnet. She and I made a great contrast. I had dressed for the cold with long woolen gloves, extra petticoats, and knit stockings, so only the shoulders of my bright dress were covered with a shawl.
“Darcy and I are meeting Mr. Tinsdale at the school,” Lizzy told me.
“He is a politician, and we needed a discreet location. That should be brief, then we can do our tour.” She lingered until Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, and Harriet were a dozen steps ahead of us, then said seriously, “I am unsure how near to approach you.”
I remembered pulling away when she touched my bare arm.
“I can manage if we both have gloves.” I stretched out my hand.
Cautiously, she touched my fingers, glove to glove.
Scarlet writhed, powerful to the point of pain, but it was locked away—walled behind immense strength.
That was the difference from touching Mr. Darcy.
Then the scarlet shone, available and open.
“Do you sense something when we touch?” I said.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I sense scarlet. It is stronger today than yesterday. Nearer. Georgiana said to ask you.”
Her cheeks blushed rosier in the cold. “I misled you when we met. Darcy and I are bound. It is a secret. You sense that binding.” She set out at a brisk walk.
“If apologies are due for last night, they are owed to you. Darcy gave you little choice about revealing your secret. It is fair that we share ours. I will show you when we are back at Chathford.” After a few steps, she added, “My husband was close to his mother. He blames himself for her death. He is determined to save you.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I do not require saving. But I am excited to remind gentlemen of their mothers. That is a fine accomplishment.” Lizzy laughed merrily, and I remembered how much I had enjoyed her before… everything.
We followed as our party turned onto a street that hugged the Thames.
This was a shipping district. Burly men shouted orders, slinging sacks or rolling barrels to a queue of horse-drawn carts.
Skiffs and barges sat motionless at the river’s edge, trapped by the freeze.
The main channel was deserted, the ice so thin it was dark and glasslike.
A few feet of wispy fog hung above the surface.
The gentlemen and Harriet abruptly stopped.
As Lizzy and I caught up, Mr. Knightley said, “I should escort Miss Smith by another route.” Ahead, a group of rough-looking men were milling, holding signs and shouting.
Pro-slavers, all with cropped hair and belted black coats.
An equal number of men in sailors and soldiers’ uniforms shouted back, many of them dark skinned.
“We encountered pro-slavers before,” I said, squinting to make out their signs. They had not been dressed alike, though. “We simply walked past.”
“That would distress Miss Smith,” Mr. Knightley said. He offered his arm to Harriet. She accepted, and her posture straightened nicely.
“After yesterday, we should be cautious—” Mr. Darcy began.