Chapter 50 Loch Bairn
LOCH BAIRN
MARY
My pen catches on the paper, the tip roughened and split. These tracings blotch and skip, betraying the clefts in my thoughts and the hurt in my heart.
Dearest Lizzy. For all your Artemisia bravery, I never thought you could fall.
You seemed destined to forge bolts and witticisms until you tottered about, surrounded by irreverent grandchildren and doted upon by all.
Not least your younger sister who, shy and envious, never found words to express her adoration.
You and Papa would both mock a house embalmed in mourning. I have not your gift to rouse others from despair, though time slowly serves. But I must rouse myself, for when you sank, fate assigned purpose to me.
The breaking of Fènnù’s mind—called ‘the fracture’ by draca—unleashed more than a mad dragon.
Before that day, thirty years before the Christian era, there is no record of foul crawlers, those poisonous vermin called ‘draca bane.’ The influence of their venom upon draca and wyves are hints of their importance.
Others lie in Georgiana’s vision of the swelling storm.
So, I must breach the shroud of Pemberley and go forth.
I put aside my pen. Nine weeks. Lizzy would laugh at me. Why do you wait?
Pemberley’s edition of Debrett’s Dracal Lineage was old, the frontispiece stamped 1805, but my interest was old as well.
I flipped to the page for “Wyves of Surrey.” Emma’s maternal line was prominent; her grandmother bound the 1764 wyvern.
But it was the introductory passage, “Lore and Myth,” that my ribbon marked:
As is common, Surrey’s regional folklore revolves around an ancient wyfe attributed with supernatural powers and wisdom.
Inevitably, these tales are kin to myths of fairies and demons, but the Surrey mythology is unusual for its mundanity.
Rather than miracles, it celebrates a 1557 royal commission by Queen Mary I to investigate a unique magical object—an amulet of dragon scale.
No corroborating record exists in the royal archives, so this most cherished achievement of the ‘the Witch of Woodhouse’ must be gently placed in the book of fable.
I had asked Emma, of course. Was there an heirloom on her father’s side? An amulet or necklace? She shook her head: Nothing.
Fang, scale, and claw. The first was sunk in the unsoundable depths of Pemberley lake. The second had passed through Surrey. I had no hint of the third item, the claw, but if Mary Tudor’s thieving knights found two, why not three?
There was a knock at the open library door. Mrs. Reynolds, visibly disturbed, said, “Miss Bennet. If I may interrupt?”
“Yes?”
“Lord Wellington has called.” Her wrinkled fingers fretted.
“I gather he wrote to inform Mr. Darcy that he would visit, but the master neglected to tell me. Mr. Darcy chooses not to see him, and Miss Darcy is out, walking for how long I do not know. Lord Wellington is an old family friend, so I thought… I feel you are a proper mistress of Pemberley, madam, if you would greet him?”
That tribute from this dedicated woman, so dear to Georgiana, squeezed my heart between childish gratitude and a fear of exposure I could never truly banish.
We went down to the west sitting room. Lord Wellington’s hair had grayed at the base of his temples. After a silence, he said, “So Darcy will not see me.”
“I gather not,” I said.
“Do you blame me also?”
“No. But neither am I eager to discover what stratagem brings you to our door.”
“Is Pemberley your home, now?”
To evade that, I said, “I am soon to depart. How goes the war?”
“Brutally. It has descended to the slog of attrition. Both sides dig graves to bury the prodigal waste. The remnants of our navy sail again, but Tinsdale rules the coast of Kent and all of Sussex, Hampshire, and South West England. The treason he preaches sprouts in the north like far-flung seeds, so our line of battle judders and retreats, undermined by deceit and betrayal.” He shook his head.
“The American slave states have mobilized to a war economy. Chained slaves are building warships. Their sailors ride on timbers bloodied before their first battle.”
This from a man who unflaggingly supported the West Indies trade through his entire career. “I would think the paragon of England’s military establishment was inured to blood.”
“Less and less, as I watch the world,” he said. My jibes always fell short against him. He added, “Fury was sighted in Derbyshire.”
“And in Scotland. And in Wales. You have wasted a trip.”
He gave a slight smile. “I think she is drawn here.”
“I have not seen her.”
“Then perhaps you are not the great wyfe she seeks.”
Bitterness roiled my breast. “Stop your tricks. Leave our family be. If you skirted blame for my sister’s death, it was by blind fate, not innocence. Fight your war with cannon and men. The dagger is lost, and Fènnù is broken. I will not let you torment Georgiana with futile schemes.”
He stood with a sigh. “Miss Bennet, I dearly wish I had a scheme. But I did not intend to press myself upon you. I bid you good day.” He bowed. “Know that, every day, I mourn your sister.”
Frustrated by his visit, I braved the drizzle and trod Georgiana’s favorite path. I found her, the rain sparkling on the pearly fairness of her complexion, her slim figure, clothed in black twill, bending graceful as a poplar in the squalling gusts.
We were met at the entrance by Lucy and Harriet, who had come with Mr. Knightley, so, a little soggy, we rushed to the sunroom for a reunion of smiling embraces and even laughs.
At last, Mr. Knightley turned serious and asked Georgiana, “How are you managing?”
“I am sad, but well enough. It is my brother for whom I worry.” She took my hand with a smile, and my heart skipped. Firmly, she said, “Mary and I have each other.”
Emma was taking turns between talking with us and giving Nessy a lesson in watercolor painting. Nessy was a fiend for the gardens, so this was Emma’s bribe to bring her in from the rain.
I watched Emma advise Nessy’s work. Once, no black thread touched Emma. Now, she was draped in ebony lace and jet buttons, a carbon ink engraving save for the stray locks of gold below her cap. Her fine wardrobe was courtesy of Pemberley’s seamstress.
Nessy, satisfied with her painting, put down the brush and came to give Mr. Knightley a hug. She invited him to tour the paths. “The rain is no bother, and it is mysterious here! There is magic, I am sure. Aunt Emma says you walked the wyvern trail?”
“I am not sure of that,” he answered, smiling. “I went searching for Miss Woodhouse. But it was a long and strange path.”
“It was magic, then,” Nessy decided.
“Knightley!” came Mr. Darcy’s surprised voice from the doorway as he entered. They shook hands, then clasped arms for a long time.
We took seats, Emma in a chair that Lizzy had favored, which set my teeth on edge.
She removed her gloves, and my eyes narrowed.
I had seen this before. Soon, in a careless moment, her finger would brush Mr. Darcy’s hand.
The bitter part of me wished to accuse her of flirtation—then I could hate her—but she did not smile or simper.
There were no longing looks or fatuous compliments.
Emma was a perfect guest in mourning. If I were honest, my frustration was that she helped.
On Mr. Darcy’s worst days, when his half-lidded eyes stared like lifeless pits, she could draw him out with news of a Pemberley farmer or of Nessy’s bafflement at a quirk of school.
But honesty did not satisfy my heart, which resented any light diminishing the shadow of absent Lizzy.
Emma’s fixations were evident today. Her gaze had snared on her sleeve. That tickled my mind. There was some oversight in my thoughts. I closed my eyes to see what would flow. Glimpses of our family’s journal, Loch bairn. I had not read it since Jane was ill. Why that?
Mr. Knightley drew me back with a question about my planned trip. I explained: “Jane’s child is due soon. I must ensure she is not draped with leeches or other idiocy by a male doctor. And a birth is a restorative wonder. I will enjoy that.”
Nessy, who was scuffing her feet, rolled her eyes. Dull Aunt Mary ranked far below charming Aunt Emma who played games, gave sweets, and found magic wyverns.
“We might travel to Longbourn together,” Mr. Knightley suggested to me. “Even in Hertfordshire, there are ruffians and scoundrels encouraged by the malice of the south.”
“Will you travel to Brighton?” Emma asked him, concerned.
“My preparations are complete. I must.”
“Be careful,” she said, and if I were to accuse someone of longing looks it would be the two of them, separated by eight feet of fine rug and a tangle of sensibilities and pride I could not begin to unravel.
Nor, apparently, could they. Emma added, “You could look in at Hartfield. The mail seems very poor. I have written to my maid twice and not had a reply. It is not like Surrey has fallen to the slavers. I know Hartfield would shelter you well. Just smile and say you are my friend. I would like that.”
“I will travel through Surrey, so we shall see.”
That made me consider. I must visit London, but also Surrey, and maybe go farther. Mr. Knightley’s clandestine network in the occupied south might be useful.
It became time for Mr. Knightley to go. Mr. Darcy had sat straight in his chair, hardly speaking. That reminded me of his long-ago visits to Longbourn where he stared, speechless, at oblivious Lizzy. But this cause was not so happy.
We rose, and Emma said, “May we all hold hands? Who knows when we shall be together again.” We gathered in serious but smiling silence, our fingers a messy tumble at the center. It was charming and sincere, and I knew Emma’s ungloved finger would touch Mr. Darcy’s.