Chapter 22 The Ball
THE BALL
LIZZY
Darcy and I stood arm-in-arm under a night sky and a soaring full moon—the ball had fallen on the first clear night in weeks.
We were in the museum courtyard, fifty yards from the main building where we could admire its breadth.
Each towering eight-pane-high window framed lamps decorated with blue glass shades to mimic draca fire.
The museum’s two smaller wings had the same decor, so the courtyard surrounded us with a hundred glimmering blue flames.
We had arrived early, but carriages were already queued, their coach lights casting yellow ovals gridded with thin shadows from the paving stones. Under the silvery moonlight, it looked like a stupendous, cross-hatched drawing splashed with blue watercolor.
“Shall we?” Darcy said, snugging my arm tight.
“You sound peculiar,” I said in a worried tone. “It cannot be… do I detect enthusiasm for a ball?”
I expected a dry response. Instead, he drew me to face him. “Every ball I have attended with you has thrilled me.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I rather thought I irritated you the first time.”
“You transfixed me, and I am sincere. My life is transformed in the year we have known each other.” He recited, “My love is a smoke kindled in your eyes.”
I stifled an amused snort, which rather ruined the moment. “Shakespeare would turn in his grave if he heard how you butcher his prose.”
Darcy was unfazed. “It is verse, not prose. I have tailored it to your beauty.”
A blush climbed my cheekbones. “If we are being that romantic, I wish to be Juliet, not Rosaline.” He laughed with easy affection, and we set out across the stone-paved yard.
The entrance had a row of flaming torches. The glare made the back of my eyes ache. I shaded my gaze until we had passed, then I heard a familiar man’s voice outside the open doors.
“I am sure it is expected. Mrs. Darcy’s note clearly said—”
“Charles!” I called, skipping up the remaining steps and into a flurry of Bingley greetings.
Jane and I hugged joyously, then I pushed her to arm’s length to see what on earth I had thumped.
Even in her winter coat, her belly was prominent.
“Goodness! You grew that much more in a single month? Is it twins?”
“Mr. Johnson says no,” Jane said. Her happy smile warmed me to my toes. “But I did not know one baby could be so heavy!”
“Mary knows all about these things. She says you will be a grump in a few more weeks.”
“Oh,” Jane said, her face falling. “Must I?”
Caroline Bingley was eyeing me from beneath an elaborate poof of yellow curls.
Although nothing could have stopped me from embracing Jane first, it was also perfectly proper.
Caroline’s unmarried status rendered her inferior to married Jane.
That thought brought a sincere smile to my lips as Caroline and I curtsied to each other.
“Mrs. Darcy,” she said.
“Miss Bingley,” I answered. “But I must be Lizzy to you. We are sisters.”
“Eliza, then,” she said with a blazingly false smile, and I wondered if mine was equally transparent.
Charles was next, his hair as tousled as ever, and after greetings he began a flustered explanation. “This gentleman at the door is concerned, but I assured him it would be fine. Have we done this right?”
I looked at the gentleman in question and recognized a particular round-headed museum employee. “Is there a problem?”
“They have brought a monster,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at Jane’s glorious golden wyvern, who was sitting patiently a little aside.
“There will be draca in attendance,” I said. “It is in the invitation.” I had borrowed the wording Mary used in her salon announcements.
“That is not a draca,” he spluttered. “That is a… a dragon.”
Jane and I exchanged amused glances. Wyverns were powerful and rare draca, heavier than lindworms and with wings that spanned ten feet.
Not to mention four-inch razor claws. Still, even the Bingleys’ wyvern, which was unusually solid and muscled, weighed less than a hundred pounds, so she was an unconvincing dragon regardless of which mythologized account you preferred.
“I assure you she is not a dragon,” I said.
“All draca may enter. I suspect Lady Catherine will bring her wyvern as well. Do say hello for me.” I began to turn away, then turned back.
“I mean, say hello to her ladyship, not to her wyvern. Unless you wish to greet both?” The man shook his round head desperately, looking like a befuddled globe.
The Bingleys proceeded in. As Darcy and I followed, he whispered, “Bringing small draca I understand. But why did Jane bring her wyvern?”
“I asked Jane to bring her. Just in case.”
We passed the doors, and he caught my elbow and drew me away from the crowd. “In case of what?”
“Well, you know. Trouble. Yuánchi cannot fit through the doors.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Of course,” I said, grinning, although really it was just a practical observation.
“You cannot unleash a wyvern in the British Museum!”
“Love, do not worry so. Lord Wellington is overseeing security for the dagger. He and I agreed—”
“He and you! Are you involved with the security?”
“I cannot imagine what ‘involved’ means,” I said, a shade guiltily as Lord Wellington and I had walked a full circuit of Westminster Palace while scheming.
“I am the hostess. Naturally I care about all aspects of the evening. Now, come. We are ignoring our duties. You are supposed to be acquiring influence in government.”
I spied Emma and Harriet at the door. Emma was dressed in the same striking golden silk gown she wore to Mary’s salon but with only a wool shawl for warmth. She looked positively frosted. I fussed over her and asked, “Where is your beautiful red pelisse?”
“I am tired of fur. It makes me sneeze!” She declared this with wide eyes and a crinkled nose, and Harriet giggled.
Darcy and I quickly passed our coats, mittens, and boots to the coat clerk so we could move to the foyer, where it was warmer, if only marginally.
I had enlisted Mrs. Reynolds and Lucy to organize the decorators, and their two personalities were apparent.
Formal jade scarves draped the banisters, while lively sprays of green holly and hothouse crocuses were tucked in nooks and vases.
There was a surge of arrivals, and Darcy and I were engulfed in London acquaintances, some good friends to me if new, others remote enough that I had to nudge Darcy for hints.
He never seemed to forget a face. Then I spotted Mamma and Kitty in the crowd and shamelessly abandoned him to run to them.
They wore traditional white muslin over layered petticoats for warmth.
Kitty was on the arm of an unfamiliar gentleman in naval dress uniform, while a second uniformed gentleman walked a step behind. A spare, perhaps.
“Dear Lizzy,” Mamma said with a firm embrace. “Oh, and Mr. Darcy!” She curtsied as he joined us, and he bowed gravely, which never failed to leave my mother clucking with delight. She peered around the museum’s massive entry hall. “Is this your London house?”
“This is the museum, Mamma,” Kitty chortled, “You know that! How are you, Lizzy?”
She hugged me, and I was in ecstasies to have all my family together, then shot through with loss because Papa would not insert a dry remark, nor Lydia her laugh—the Lydia I cherished in my memories, younger and more innocent than what she became.
Kitty introduced the companion on her arm, a clean-shaven young gentleman in a naval officer’s uniform of dark blue tailcoat with gold buttons, white waistcoat, and white breeches. He had a reckless grin, and Kitty whispered proudly—and far too loudly—“He is a purser!”
“To think I used to like a red coat,” Mamma exclaimed. “Blue is much more handsome.”
That comment came while the officer bowed to me. He rose with a good-natured chuckle and confided, “My mother has been saying the same thing ever since I received my Navy coat.” I decided I liked him.
Both officers met Darcy and Charles, and then I drew Emma and Harriet into the muddle, as they had been watching with polite smiles at a distance.
The entire group—even Kitty—became reserved while greeting Emma.
I had seen this effect before, but this time I tried to put my finger on why.
Emma was a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown, but the room had more spectacular gowns and more daringly dressed ladies.
It was something particular to her, an eerie perfection of presentation.
Her smiles and greetings were pleasant, but her person seemed untouchable. Ethereal.
Out of curiosity, I closed my eyes and sought the perspective of a ferretworm perched on the second-floor banister.
The flood of detail from ladies’ lace and gentlemen’s cravats was astonishing, but once I dragged my attention past that, Emma and I were obvious in the crowd, shining with the aura of great wyves.
Opening my eyes, I found Harriet and Kitty heads-together in intimate discussion.
“I read the most wonderful novel about a dusky heroine!” Kitty said. “I sat in the sun for days, but it was hopeless! I hardly tanned at all. That was silly of me, but I do so envy you. You must have all the gentlemen in pursuit.”
“That has not happened yet,” Harriet said, thankfully looking flattered rather than offended. “There are few single gentlemen in Highbury. And they shoot all day.”
“All gentlemen shoot,” Kitty commiserated. “I do not understand why. They cannot do it with ladies. Do you have officers in Highbury?”
“Not one,” said Harriet.
“You poor thing!” She called to the second officer, “Henry, would you not like to accompany Miss Smith?”
My eyebrows rose at Kitty tossing gentlemen’s Christian names about—perhaps she was under the influence of the navy’s famously rough language—but the fellow stepped forward smartly.
“It would be my honor, Miss Smith.” Judging from his uniform, he was another warrant officer, although I did not know navy ranks as well as army.
Exact rank aside, he cut an impressive figure in his coat and snug breeches, and he offered his arm handsomely.
Harriet smiled shyly, and the four of them vanished toward a table with punch bowls.
“That was quick,” I observed, as it turned out, only to Emma. Everyone else had been claimed by surrounding conversations.
Emma did not answer. She was staring at the room and still as a statue.
Softly, I said, “Are you well?”
“Of course,” she answered immediately with a charming smile, but I was unconvinced.
There was a flurry at the entrance, and an aged, stentorian lady’s voice sliced through the babble. “What can you possibly intend by speaking ‘Hello’ to me?”
“Ah,” I said. “She has arrived.”
The crowd parted, and Lady Catherine sailed forth, an eighteen-inch ostrich plume cutting the air above her hair. She spotted me and changed course with resolute disdain.
“Aunt.” I greeted her with a curtsy.
“Hmm,” she said, ignoring me and studying Emma. “Who is this?”
“Lady Catherine,” I said, “may I present Miss Woodhouse of Surrey.”
“You are smartly put together,” Lady Catherine declared. “And Surrey is tolerable.”
“Your ladyship,” Emma said, rising from her curtsy. “I am fond of Surrey myself.” She looked both unintimidated and friendly. In my experience, that was an unprecedented combination when encountering Lady Catherine.
“Indeed.” Her ladyship scowled at me. “And have you filled the museum with bolts? Recall that I do not share your fascination.”
“There are none, madam. Our featured exhibit is a dagger.”
“Weapons? That is more practical.” There was a shocked cry behind her, and people scrambled apart. Her ladyship smiled in triumph. “I am attended by my wyvern. London has been too long without the presence of a truly magnificent draca.”
“You are generous,” I said, and to be generous myself, I headed off a faux pas by adding, “Jane has brought hers also, so London is doubly blessed.” Lady Catherine exhaled in sharp annoyance.
Lady Catherine’s wyvern, shining beautiful bronze amid the hundreds of candles, approached us, drawing gasps and murmurs.
Wyverns have the same general form as other winged draca, two-winged and two-legged, but they are shorter necked, solid, and heavily muscled, quite different from the lithe elegance of the smaller firedrakes or huge Yuánchi.
Lady Catherine loftily addressed the room.
“Do not approach her. She is exceedingly dangerous.” Lady Catherine appended a quelling glance at me with a clear message: hands off.
I had demonstrated my ease with her wyvern when she last visited Longbourn, but I had no desire to embarrass her, so I simply smiled.
Her wyvern, however, had spotted me and was trotting forward with her usual enthusiasm.
I sent a silent thought, Please wait. I shall give you a scratch later.
Like dragons, wyverns communicate with articulate thoughts—or at least, thoughts I could comprehend as articulate.
With other draca, I communicated through images and feelings.
Disappointed, the wyvern stopped beside Lady Catherine and sat on her haunches, wings snugly furled and the tip of her tail flicking. Then her gaze swung to Emma and fixed there.
Another great wyfe. An unfamiliar one. While planning the ball, I had worried about the mysterious dagger, Gramr, but I had forgotten this would be the first meeting of other potent forces.
Emma sank down until her eyes were level with the wyvern’s, her posture perfect as a ballerina.
As she dropped, her gloved fingers skimmed her spreading skirt so it fell symmetrically on the gray granite, her hands finishing behind her so the hem formed a golden oval.
The bronze wyvern approached until their noses were a foot apart, and the room silenced.
The great secret of this meeting was that this wyvern was unbound.
Decades ago, Lady Anne Darcy, a powerful great wyfe, had summoned a wyvern to conceal an embarrassing truth: her sister, Lady Catherine, failed to bind when she wed.
Ever since, Lady Catherine had flaunted her prestigious draca, unaware that the wyvern accompanied her solely to honor her dead sister.
Like dragons, wyverns have faceted eyes that shimmer in a rainbow of reflected colors. Those prismatic glimmers now stared unblinkingly into Emma’s hazel eyes.