by Maria Grace
“Speaking of things disagreeable….” Elizabeth donned the expression she used to send scullery maids scurrying.
Anne held her breath. One, two, three … she must contain her opinions. It was not as though she did not expect this conversation.
“You have developed a most objectionable and unseemly habit.” Elizabeth drummed her fingers along the side of her teacup, the china tinking under her fingernails.
Probably more than one, considering that lying was also an ugly habit. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Elizabeth harrumphed. “Your behavior with Mr. Elliot. It is highly improper, and I would thank you to stop immediately.”
Anne broke off a piece of her bun and placed it delicately in her mouth—an excellent way of keeping her remarks to herself. Just the right number of sultanas in the mix and a pleasing crunch of sugar on top.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself? Surely you realize how inappropriate you have been. Just look at you! You have not worn a proper fichu since he has been here. You have never done such a thing before. You are trying to distract him from paying attention to me.”
Anne sipped her tea. It could stand to be a mite sweeter. And Elizabeth had not been wearing a fichu either…
“Do not ignore me!” Elizabeth slapped the table. “You know it is wrong for you to put yourself forward to Mr. Elliot. I am the elder sister. You have no right for anyone to look at you before I am suitably married. It was bad enough—”
“There is no need to mention—” That was low, very, very low. Anne pushed her bun aside, stomach churning.
If only she could tell Elizabeth—or anyone—how little she liked this charade of flirtation and how much she resented Mr. Elliot for forcing her to it. Why did he not merely get on with doing his duty by the Order? Why did he act as though he might make some other choice?
“—that sailor fellow made you an offer, knowing full well that I was not married or even betrothed.”
Of all people she did not want to think about now, Wentworth was at the top of the list. “You did not even like him. What should it matter to you?”
“The elder sister is married before the younger ones. That is how it is done in proper society.”
“I do not see how it signifies—”
“That is the proper way that it is done, and it is the way it shall be done now.”
“You do not understand—”
“Indeed, I do.” Elizabeth planted her hands on the table and half-rose to lean toward Anne. “You have some perverse need to take precedence over me. I do not understand why you are unwilling to assume your proper role in this family—as my younger sister. I will not allow you to shame us so.”
“Shame the family?” Anne tucked her hands under her thighs lest they curl into unladylike fists.
“You will stop putting yourself forward with Mr. Elliot. You have been utterly shocking, fawning over him, insisting he pay constant attention to you.”
“To me? You and I have not been in the same drawing room, I think.” Since when had exchanging pleasant conversation over a hand of cards become fawning? And the conversation had hardly even been that pleasant; a few amusing anecdotes about his trip to Derby on Mr. Elliot’s part; a bit of tittering from Mary; and Father droning on about the lack of fashion to be found in that part of the kingdom.
Yes, he had been a bit flirtatious—not just toward her, but to Mary as well. Besides, responding to his questions was polite and appropriate behavior. And what had been required of her.
“Stop trying to defend yourself. You have been utterly shameless. One might think you a lightskirt for all your coy looks and attention-getting devices. I insist you come to your senses, and put a stop to it.”
“To what? What precisely am I doing wrong?” No doubt her sin was having attention paid to her whilst in the same room as Elizabeth.
“You leave me no choice but to speak to Father about it. I do not see why he has not already corrected you on the matter. I know he has watched and has been disturbed as I have. It must be his refined sensibilities that have kept him from rebuking you as he should.”
Anne pulled pieces from her bun and arranged them along the edge of her plate. Three had no sultanas. That could not be good. “I shall quit the drawing room entirely then, and leave you to enjoy Mr. Elliot’s company without me. Will that suffice?”
“Stop being petulant!” Elizabeth slapped the table with both hands. “Now, you have made me lose my temper. Why is it so difficult for you to see—”
“Pardon me, Miss,” Mrs. Trent curtsied from the doorway. Probably trying to keep her escape route from Elizabeth’s temper clear. “The master wishes to see Miss Anne in his bookroom right away.”
Elizabeth rose and tossed her napkin on the table. “I am not finished with this discussion. We will continue once I have seen Father.”
“Begging your pardon, but he wishes to see Miss Anne.” Mrs. Trent backed away.
“Anne? Whatever for? Surely you are mistaken.”
“No, Miss. I am entirely certain of it. He said Miss Anne.”
“No, he did not!” Elizabeth stalked out, Mrs. Trent barely dodging out of her way in time.
Anne rose and followed, slow steps dragging along the marble tiles in the long corridor lined with hall chairs placed for beauty, not usefulness. Elizabeth’s strident voice echoed near Father’s study. Anne stopped and closed her eyes, her hand resting on the back of Father’s newest and favorite Trafalgar chair. No sense walking into that.
“You!”
Anne’s eyes flew open.
Elizabeth backed her into the wall beside the chair, nearly knocking her into a large picture frame. “I do not know how you have contrived to make Father do this.”
“Pray excuse me. Father requires my presence.” Anne sidestepped, but Elizabeth blocked her way.
“I am not finished with you. He may not realize it, but I know how your artfulness goes beyond this house, too!”
“Enough! I will not hear—”
“You have somehow kept Lady Russell away, the one person who would unfailingly censure you! I am certain she would not approve of your behavior. When I tell her how far out of hand things have got, it will ruin your friendship with her. Then how shall you feel?”
Anne ducked around her and rushed to Father’s study.
It would have been helpful to have Lady Russell here to persuade Elizabeth into a better humor. But her absence was utterly intentionally, and necessary. The risks were too great. Who knew if she could persuade Mr. Elliot, or if he would keep her secret if he found out? That would have to be dealt with, but for now, just one dilemma at a time.
She slowed her steps to a semi-dignified walk. Had Father and Mr. Elliot been discussing the estate’s dragon-based problems? How did Mr. Elliot feel, knowing he was heir to the land, but Anne, as the eldest dragon-hearing offspring, was heir to the Keepership? Or had he already come to grips with that and what it would take to satisfy the Order?
It was possible he would demand to be Keeper himself even though only Kellynch’s assent, or a judicial action, could transfer the role to him. Might he and Father argue over that? It was possible, though not commonly done. According to Mr. Wynn, most Order members found the uncertainty and bother of dragon preferences and judicial actions strong enough reasons to contract a convenient marriage.
Had they already agreed to an offer of marriage? Her heart pinched against its racing. Marriage—it would be the right thing to do—even if Mr. Elliot was no Wentworth. She did not have to love him to marry him, though it would have been nice. This was for the good of her family, even if they did not understand. Anne knocked on the paneled study door, biting her lip.
“Come in, Anne.” Father’s tone—he was exasperated.
The door dragged over the thick blue, gold, and ivory striped carpet with a shush—was it trying to remind her to keep her opinions to herself? Quite possibly.
“Yes, yes, come in.” Father beckoned impat
iently.
The carpet, heavy matching drapes, and as much upholstered furniture as could reasonably fit in the room dampened the sound in the study. It made it better for contemplation, Father said. But contemplating what?
The books on the shelves that lined both ends of the room were a display of the Elliot wealth, not something that ever saw use. No, that was not entirely true. He did read the Baronetage. That volume was always open on the most prominent table near the fireplace.
“Good morning, Miss Anne.” Mr. Elliot rose from his seat, a large gold brocade wingchair near Father’s imposing oak desk, and bowed. His green coat, buff breeches, and boots suggested he intended to ride this morning, or at least occupy himself out of doors. He would probably be flattered to know he resembled a fashion plate she had recently seen in A Lady’s Magazine.
Anne curtsied. “Good morning, sir.”
“It is quite a pleasant morning, thank you.” Why did Mr. Elliot appear so self-satisfied?
Father sat behind his desk while Mr. Elliot pulled a matching wingchair over for her. Anne sat and looked at Father.
He stared back, eyebrow raised. “Ah, yes.” He pressed his palms on his completely bare, polished, and intricately-inlaid desk top. “You understand why I have asked you here?”
“No, sir, you have not yet explained.”
“It is a disagreeable business, to be sure.”
He intended to talk about dragons. She must not sigh.
“It is a difficult thing indeed, to be saddled with a great beast to take care of who adds nothing to the value of the estate.”
She glanced at Mr. Elliot, but his expression remained rather neutral. “As I understood, the land belongs—”
“Stuff and nonsense, I say. Who can give precedence to a foul, cold-blooded creature that does nothing but sleep? I resent anyone, any organization, that would consider a beast of higher rank than a man.” Father snorted and flicked his hand.
So that was why he despised all things related to the Order or dragons.
“I am ashamed that you will have to inherit such an estate, Mr. Elliot. My truest comfort is that these things are not discussed in polite society, and that no one of true worth need know.”
Anne leaned forward just a bit. “But, do not most peers—”
“That is quite enough, Anne.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “I do not wish to discuss it further. However, Mr. Elliot has expressed a wish to see more of that … aspect … of the estate. He should … meet …”
“Pray, would you take me to the dragon lair and introduce me?” Mr. Elliot blinked slowly as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be asking.
“Would it not be better for you to do so? You are the Keeper, after all.” Anne tried to catch Father’s gaze, but he refused, glowering.
“I have other matters to attend this morning. I trust you have nothing pressing? You may put off your morning calls to another day.” He brushed imaginary dust from his pristine desktop.
Good of him to decide her priorities for her. She tipped her head, teeth clenched. “I will do what I can, sir.” Now was not the time to explain that one did not wake a sleeping dragon. “Pray allow me to fetch my bonnet, and I will take you there.” And devise a way to explain to Mr. Elliot he was not to disturb Kellynch in the process.
A few minutes later, they stood enjoying the midmorning warmth near the multicolored snapdragon border of Mother’s garden, surveying the estate. In the distance, Shelby chased a few errant sheep back into their field. Overhead, the local harem of fairy-dragons twittered against the pale grey clouds shadowing the sun. She still did not know their names, but their colorful flights were very familiar. How peaceful and normal it all had seemed before she became aware of the true nature of the place. Now it was mostly peaceful, but hardly normal.
“So, what do you know of dragons, sir?” She did not look at his face.
“Enough to have this.” He pointed to his signet ring. “I became a member in my youth, before I attended university.”
She pressed a hand to her burning cheek. No doubt he knew far more than she.
“I am far more familiar with the smaller varieties than I am with the large ones, though. I have never actually met a major dragon in its own lair before. I think the prospect is rather exciting.” He rubbed his gloved hands together.
“But you have encountered a major dragon before?”
“I have seen them at the Blue Order. When I was inducted into the group, in London, the Minister of Keeps, Sir Carew Arnold and his wyvern dragon Langham attended. Uppity, smelly old beast. I do not spend much time there, nor do I care to, to be honest.” He snorted under his breath.
“You do not care for dragons?”
“I can see the value in the lesser creatures. They can be rather useful, to be sure. But the large ones? I share your father’s sentiment. They are parasites on the land.”
Lovely, just lovely.
A short distance away, a creature screamed.
That was Beebalm! Anne dashed toward the voice. Mr. Elliot pelted along the sandy garden path behind her.
Beebalm shrieked again—a sound more of terror than of pain. A dark hulking shape, rather like Wincombe, thrashed through the stalks of bee balm, showering pink and purple petals onto a huddling green-brown mass with frill extended.
“Stop! No more of that!” Anne stopped a wingspan away, her heart thundering loud enough to drown out her own voice.
The dark shape looked over its shoulder. Sunlight glinted off a sharp black beak and glittering jet eyes. Shiny ebony feathers covered its broad wings and trailed down its back into a glistening black serpentine tail. It hissed, first toward Beebalm, then at her.
“Leave her alone!” Anne stomped a little closer, crushing a stalk of violet beebalm.
“Who are you to command me?” The voice was thin, and sharp, and ruthless.
“Who are you who trespasses here?”
The creature—a cockatrice was it?—flipped its long wings to its back. “I do not owe you my name, but I am Jet, and there is no trespass.”
“You have Kellynch’s permission to be here?”
“Kellynch is of no authority whilst he sleeps.” Jet cawed and flapped—was it to give the impression of being larger than he was? One of the books said something—
“This territory is his, awake or asleep. You are trespassing.”
The creature took three menacing hop-steps toward her and extended its neck. Beebalm squawked and dove for her hole.
“I do not recognize your authority.” A musky, feathery dragon scent wafted toward her.
“I am junior Keeper here, daughter to Kellynch’s Keeper.”
Jet hopped two steps back and puffed out his chest. Maybe now he recognized authority?
“I suspect you have been hunting our doves and chickens. Without permission.”
Jet snarled. “I must eat.”
“That is trespassing as well.” Anne folded her arms across her chest lest Jet, or Mr. Elliot—why was he not helping her?—could see her hands trembling.
“What are you going to do about it?” Did Jet just spit at them?
“Give you an opportunity to stop trespassing and escape unscathed.” Pray he did not call her bluff.
“And if I choose not?”
“I will employ the assistance of a bigger dragon than you—several of them perhaps—to put an end to your violation of Kellynch’s territory.” Heavens above! Hopefully that was a correct answer.
“And who do you think will stand up to me? That stupid drake Shelby?”
“I have a certain cockatrix in mind who would not take kindly to poaching ….”
Jet hopped back, his head bobbing toward the ground. “There is no need.”
Mr. Elliot stepped forward. “Absolutely! There is no need to further trouble this family or this estate. Listen to the good lady and remember your place.”
Why had he waited so long to intervene?
Jet flapped at M
r. Elliot and snapped, “What rank have you here?”
“I will be master of this estate one day, and I have no need for creatures of your ilk.”
Interesting, he said master, not Keeper.
“You are nothing to me.” Jet’s head swung back and forth as he approached Mr. Elliot.
“But you should not ignore me.” Anne tried to glower, but as unfamiliar an expression as it was, it was probably unimpressive.
Jet cocked his head and pulled his neck back in something very much like a sneer. “What then can I eat?”
“What is wild in the woods and not dragonkind. I know you are apt to prey upon other dragons, but you may not do so here.” That was the typical stipulation to minor dragons on an estate, at least according to Lady Russell. Pray she was right.
“No fairy-dragons? They will overrun the place.”
“They have enough predators in the hawks and stoats and foxes here. You will not eat anything—anyone—that can speak back to you.”
Jet’s eyes narrowed. Hateful creature.
Bold, she was supposed to be bold. How was that to be done? “No. I know that look, and no. Do not attempt to find any loophole, make any wordplay with what I have said. My meaning has been made clear to you. I will not have you playing games with me.”
Jet growled under his breath. “I do not appreciate—”
“Trespassers and poachers are not asked for their preferences; they are usually hung—or eaten. Be off with you now, and let the next time I see you be under better circumstances. Go!” She waved him away, arms wide.
Jet growled, stomped, flapped, and flew away. Perhaps she should have turned him off the estate altogether. But without the aid of Lady Russell and Shelby, she could not ensure he did not trespass.
Mr. Elliot stepped near her shoulder as they watched him fly off. Her head spun, knees growing more unsteady by the moment. Had she really just faced down a dragon—a minor one, but a dragon nonetheless? She staggered to the nearest tree and clung to it for strength. Hopefully that was a normal reaction for one’s first hostile dragon encounter.
Mr. Elliot followed her. “Is that sort of confrontation commonplace?”
