Chapter 13 The British Museum
THE brITISH MUSEUM
LIZZY
When we left the school, Emma walked swiftly ahead. Harriet, though, all but danced around me, tromping on my toes while she enthused about the young students.
“I think I must love schools!” she announced, face tilted to the sky.
“Do you know that Mrs. Goddard scolded me on my first day? I was six, and I did not know the rules, and she was so strict that I cried! But I still loved school. Reading stories, and learning to compose letters, and forming lines two-by-two for our outings. And your girls love this school, and I loved helping them!” She ended by flinging her hands exuberantly toward the school, launching her excitement like a dove.
That seemed a good finish, so I sent Harriet on her way.
Emma, fur-trimmed and lace-gloved, had observed us silently, but when Harriet linked arms with her, she gave her a fond smile, and they boarded discussing whether to shop for boots or gowns.
The coach departed, and I found myself even more perplexed by their friendship.
The surface was all asymmetry: of class, of influence—that was what disturbed Mary—but beneath the surface, there were roots deeply intertwined from both sides.
A four-horse town coach waited for me, the latest expansion of our London household by the formidably organized Mrs. Reynolds.
It was a lumbering, oaken beast equipped with a driver and a pair of footmen.
Even a single footman was ostentatious for Darcy, who preferred anonymity, but their purpose was evident from their military posture and the narrow wooden gun cases they had stowed behind the coach.
Mary’s and my unaccompanied stroll the day before had been noted.
While a milk cart clopped down the street, I watched the footmen—guards, really—and thought about soldiers.
England had been at war since I was eleven.
In quiet Meryton, the main effect was that I often dined and danced with officers.
Yet, not once had we discussed guards or sentries.
That seemed an oversight, as their methods were interesting.
One guard remained in the elevated seat beside the driver, watching the street, while the other stayed two paces from me, examining each passerby.
Still, two men could be overrun in seconds. It was like… what? I lost the thought, then was disturbed by a lingering interest in martial topics.
Interesting or not, the guards and their wooden cases were a token against the weapon I had brought.
I closed my eyes, and my mind filled with the elevated perspective of the Duchess of Wessex’s firedrake.
Her Grace was a notorious bore, and her firedrake, a clever creature, was every bit as bored by ducal life as the aristocrats trapped in the Duchess’s luncheons.
He had cheerfully accepted my invitation to our outing, and was perched across the street, his stippled bronze-copper scales largely hidden behind a chimney.
His eyes saw the street in colors that were distorted to human senses, but anything alive—people, horses, even the mouse creeping toward a dropped crust of roll—shone warm against the cold paving stones.
Motions were slowed, and the detail was terrific.
I could see the mouse’s trembling whiskers.
I pictured myself riding in the coach and felt a mental chirp of acknowledgement. To the driver, I called, “Montagu House on Great Russell Street,” and we set out, hopefully to resolve mysteries rather than add to them.
Mary was standing in the park that fronted the British Museum and studiously ignoring nods from passing gentlemen.
She was striking in a sweeping gown of heavy black cloth that exposed her collarbones and a fringe of crimson petticoat.
Her ink-dark bonnet was decorated with black lace, and her gold musical note, a gift from Georgiana, sparkled on her chest.
“You are very stylish today,” I said in greeting.
“This is not in style,” she said with such disdain that, had her salon been within earshot, there would have been orders for crimson petticoats at every dressmaker. Her scornful expression became uncertain. “Do you like it?”
I could not remember the last time Mary had asked my opinion of her clothes. “Well… it is dramatic. Such dark black…” I hesitated, sensing that this answer was important.
Mary grew visibly tense. “It must be black. I am mourning the unjust death—”
“—of our fellow sentient animals,” I finished with her, having heard this before.
“I understand. However, it is very unremittingly black. The red is becoming. You could have more color without undermining your message.” Mary bit her lip, and I resolved to be less obtuse than our last heartfelt conversation.
“It is not my opinion that matters. Why do you not ask the person you care for?”
Her bit lip whitened. She nodded, touched my arm, then walked briskly toward the museum entrance. I hurried to catch up.
Outside the doors, an officious, round-headed gentleman stepped into our path. “Ladies. May I be of assistance?”
“We wish to visit the museum,” I said.
His lips puckered, then his forehead. When he did not move, I tried sidling to one side. He stepped in front of me and said, “Then your husbands are bringing the tickets?” dragging out the final S.
Tickets. I glanced at Mary, saw her preparing to erupt, and hastily said, “I understood the museum is public.”
“It is public for those with tickets,” he enunciated through bared teeth. “The collections are for serious visitors. Ladies’ tickets are requested by those with”—his gaze strayed down our skirts—“proper credentials.”
“Are proper credentials a physical appendage?” Mary snapped.
“Madam?” he said, gathering his lips into an offended rose.
I was reading an elaborately engraved brass panel on the wall. I sighed theatrically. “My aunt will be so displeased. She had specifically requested our report.”
He curled his lip. “How sad.”
“I have witnessed Lady Catherine’s displeasure,” I said cheerfully, which was perfectly true as I had been the cause of it.
“Displeased is severe enough, but I fear she will be seriously displeased, and that is frightening to behold.” My hint did not seem to be penetrating, so I added, “When we last dined at Rosings, I fondly remember Lady Catherine de Bourgh reminiscing about her patronage of the museum. You must give me your name so I may compliment your service to her.”
The man’s eyes grew round as his head. Doubtless, her ladyship had visited to ensure her funds were properly spent. She invariably left an impression.
“Your tickets were likely held in reserve,” he stammered. “Do you recall your guide’s name?” I stared blankly, so he prompted, “A museum curator? Or the area of interest…”
“Dragons,” I said as Mary replied, “Tudor royalty.” The man smiled as if that were perfectly sensible and dispatched a young boy.
The boy returned with a scarecrow of a young gentleman. His coat dangled from shoulders sharp as folded paper, but his smile was full and welcoming, and he said, “Tudors, is it?” and led us to the entrance.
The museum entryway was grand, with twenty-foot ceilings, endless pillars, and elaborate wrought iron banisters. Mary mentioned the Pendant of Fiery Justice, and our guide studied his shoes, muttered “east wing,” and wandered off. Mary and I exchanged a glance and followed.
The east wing was secured by a locked door that swung open with a hoary groan.
The airy spaces vanished as we wandered through a cluttered mess of dusty display cabinets, crates that were closed and obscurely labeled, crates that were open and empty, and peculiar items of art and nature in baffling locations.
As I passed an enormous stuffed owl head-down in a basin, our guide stopped in front of a rack of ancient cabinets.
“The first Queen Mary,” he announced. “Not her remains, but rather the museum’s stored artifacts from her reign.
The pendant…” He opened a drawer and began piling the contents on top of the cabinet.
“I doubt the pendant is here,” I said. “We saw it elsewhere.”
“Oh, no,” he said reassuringly. “I remember it. It cannot have been more than four years ago.” He extracted a snuffbox, gave a delighted cry, and peered at the underside.
“The pendant is not in your collection,” Mary said sharply. “We hoped you would know who possessed it.”
“The Pendant of Fiery Justice,” he said.
“Beautiful piece. I saw it, no more than four years…” He bent double to peer deep in the drawer.
Mary sighed very audibly, and he shook a finger in the air without interrupting his examination.
“Do not be impatient. I understand you perfectly. The pendant was in the museum collection, and it was here. Nobody could move it without my knowledge.” He straightened and frowned. “Yet it appears to be gone.”
Despite Mary’s hope that this would provide a clue, I was not surprised. Anyone who secured both a royal artifact and deadly crawler venom was clever and resourceful. “Can you tell us about it?”
He ticked off facts with his fingers. “Crafted in gold by the royal jeweler. Four oval sapphires, each three carats. Twelve minor stones. Despite the incorrect hue, the blue gems represent dragon breath. Originally it was worn with a leather strap, then fitted—”
“What?” I said. “You know that dragon breath is not blue?”
He blinked as if I were an errant entry on his list. “Yes. Dragon breath is not blue. At least, not the dragons I know of.”
The blue flame of regular draca was a terrible weapon, hotter than any forge, but Yuánchi’s breath was something else.
I was not even sure it was fire. He had used it twice in my presence, and it was too blinding to view and too thunderous to hear.
It was like a fragment of blazing sun torn away and smashed to earth.
“Do you know of many dragons?” Mary asked, which was good because I was too surprised to speak.