Netherfield_Rogue Dragon_A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Maria Grace

  “I will sing to them. You will talk to them as you did to me whilst I was in my egg.” April rolled the eggs in the hay, arranging them to her satisfaction.

  “You remember that?”

  “Your voice was the first sound I clearly recognized. Being shell-bound was very dull. You talked a very great deal, but it was entertaining.” April hopped to her shoulder. “That is how I knew to listen to you once I had hatched.”

  “That and the honey I offered you.”

  “I well knew your good sense by then.”

  Phoenix hopped into the nest and extended a wing over each egg. “They will be my Friends, too. I like them very much already.”

  “As well you should, my Friend.” Aunt tickled under his chin, and he twittered happily. “They will do well to have so fine a protector as you.”

  Phoenix looked very proud of himself, with an expression a little like Mr. Darcy. How her betrothed would laugh to be told he resembled a fairy dragon, but Phoenix would think it rather a compliment to be told he took after Darcy.

  Chapter 13

  Several mornings later, dawn finally made its way across the sky and Elizabeth no longer needed to pretend to sleep. Who could expect anyone to sleep soundly on the eve of such a momentous occasion? Unless something untoward happened, Netherfield would be accepted by the Conclave, the first foreign major dragon to be admitted in recorded memory. At least, that is what should happen.

  Dragons could be unpredictable, though. Even when things went as desired, it often did not happen in the expected manner. Unexpected was not necessarily bad, or so she had tried to convince Papa. Now was the time to back up those bold words with her actions.

  During her last visit, Aunt Gardiner had brought over the blue silk gown, now altered to fit Elizabeth as though it were made for her. The color was perfect: a serious but not somber shade of blue, happy enough to make her smile. The fabric caught the light just so—subtle but striking. It was probably a little vain to enjoy a gown so much, but Aunt Gardiner was right: there was something about being properly dressed that made a day such as today easier to face. Elizabeth dismissed the maid and made a final twirl in front of the mirror. All that could be accomplished in one’s dressing room had been done. She squared her shoulders and strode into the corridor.

  Best check on Pemberley and make sure she was ready for Rosings to escort her—

  “You look very well this morning, Lizzy.” Lydia cut her off as though she had been lurking in wait, arms folded and lips pursed. “I do not wish to go to the dragon meeting.”

  “Pray forgive me, Miss Bennet.” Auntie scurried up behind her. “She is quite adept at slipping out.”

  Elizabeth clapped her hand to her forehead. “Are you using the servants’ corridors again?”

  Lydia tossed her head.

  Auntie snorted and snapped. Gracious, she had impressive teeth!

  Elizabeth sidestepped Lydia and addressed Auntie. “I will have the servants’ doors near Lydia’s chambers nailed shut for the remainder of your stay. Slate and Amber will keep watch over those corridors.” Turning to Lydia, she pulled her shoulders back in her most draconic posture. “I have no patience for your tricks and neither does my household. If you cross Auntie one more time, I will take you back to the Order offices and have you locked in a cell until such time as you are taken to school.”

  “You would not do such a thing.” Lydia stomped. “I cannot believe what has come over you, Lizzy. You are not even mistress of this house, yet! Aunt Gardiner was so understanding; she said you would be, too. Why must I attend the meeting today? With all the dragons of the kingdom? It sounds quite awful.”

  “The Conclave is the heart of dragon government, a key element of the Blue Order.” Elizabeth rubbed her temples with her thumb and fingers. “In the upper gallery, there are observation rooms with windows that look down over the Conclave floor. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner will take you there. You will not have to be close to the dragons, but you must go.”

  Lydia pouted and pressed her back against the wall. “I do not want to go. I do not like these scaly creatures. I do not like their society.”

  “I am sure the feeling is mutual.” Elizabeth sneaked a glance at Auntie who tried not to snicker. “But unless you want to die a spinster confined to the north of England with little money and no society, I suggest you reform your opinions. This will be a good way to begin.” Elizabeth stomped away and down the stairs.

  April met her halfway down, landing on her shoulder. “You do not look very pleased. Is it the stupid one again?”

  Elizabeth sniffed and rolled her eyes.

  “You should spend time with my eggs instead. Georgiana is reading them stories from Tales of English Dragons. They are very entertaining.”

  “I am glad my recommendation meets your approval.” She cuddled April against her cheek.

  April sang a few notes, and a little bit of her tension eased. “They are waiting for you in the parlor. Go to him. He always makes you feel better.”

  She was right, perceptive little creature.

  Darcy met her at the parlor door. Gracious, he cut a fine figure in his best suit. It was not as though she had never noticed before, but today he was particularly dapper. Was it wrong to smile in approval?

  Well, if it was, then so be it. He smiled back and anything that put that expression on his face could hardly be bad.

  In the room behind him, Fitzwilliam laughed with Georgiana, probably at something Earl had just said or done. The sweet little creature was in his favorite spot, the crook of Fitzwilliam’s arm, chittering and warbling his draconic version of baby talk. It was difficult to decide which was dearer, the chick or Fitzwilliam’s response.

  “The carriage will be ready in just a few minutes. Will you join us?” Darcy offered his arm and laid his hand over hers. “Rosings just came to fetch Pemberley for the Conclave.”

  “As crusty as she can be, I am a little surprised to find her being such an attentive brood mother.”

  Fitzwilliam snickered. “Do not think too much of her. There are ulterior motives involved. She is tired of ill-mannered “younger” dragons misbehaving during official proceedings and has it in her craw that if Pemberley demonstrates proper behavior, then others will be apt to follow her lead.”

  Georgiana giggled. “It sounds like something Aunt Catherine would say.”

  Darcy’s shoulders twitched as they usually did with any mention of his aunt. “It is a shame we cannot do the same for junior keepers.”

  “Mary and Collins have been assigned a steward to assist them. Perhaps the same might be done for Anne.” Elizabeth offered a half-wink that restored Darcy’s smile.

  “It is an excellent notion, but unless it becomes policy for the Order as a whole, I fear the de Bourgh ladies would never accept it.” Fitzwilliam winked back at her.

  “I will take your good humor as an excellent sign for the proceedings this morning.” Elizabeth sat near Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, Darcy next to her.

  “I am choosing to look at things that way. When Cownt Matlock settles a matter, most dragons are apt to defer.”

  “With good reason. One does not argue with a huge ancient firedrake without a very good reason—”

  “And a small army of dragons in reserve.” Fitzwilliam guffawed. “I am convinced it is the right decision. Moreover, Netherfield brings unique value to the Order. He is a wealth of information, able to quote the lineage of nearly every major French dragon line and all of the ranking ones. I am sure the Order has no such Records.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but what use is that information?” Georgiana glanced between Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth as though she could not quite decide who was more likely to answer.

  Elizabeth extended her hand toward Fitzwilliam.

  He nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “Dragons can be quite clannish and if lines of relation can be drawn, those connections may be the foundation of new treaties. The right connections could ultimately help bring the pr
otections the Pendragon Accords offer English dragons to the continent.”

  Darcy snorted into his fist. “You sound like you are becoming a diplomat.”

  “There are worse businesses to be about.” Fitzwilliam shrugged.

  “That is not what you used to say. I recall you once called them—”

  “I am well aware of what I once said, but things change, Darce, things change.” Something about his expression, his tone, seemed wistful, even a touch melancholy.

  What could Fitzwilliam be repining when his mission had been such a grand success? The housekeeper peeked in to announce the carriage. Those questions would have to wait.

  Darcy handed her out of the carriage in front of the Blue Order offices. Would she ever grow accustomed to the fact such a place resided behind such a mundane façade? Probably not. Darcy offered his arm and escorted her to the blue-painted front doors that swung open at Fitzwilliam’s knock. Blue-liveried footmen recognized them immediately. They had been spending a great deal of time at the offices recently, so it should not be surprising but somehow, it still was. Darcy and Fitzwilliam might take it for granted they would be recognized when they went to great places, but a girl from a small country town did not even if her father was Historian of the Order.

  The footman directed them to wait near a cluster of hall chairs for a robed and hooded Bondsman to escort them to the court room at the deepest level of the Order offices. Odd how the heavy, even cumbersome and quite antiquated official robes lent the Bondsmen an air of authority. The deep hoods, obscuring their faces, did the same. Perhaps revealing the burly but pimple-faced youths who served in that role would undermine their control. She bit her lower lip so as not to giggle. Who could expect Lords and major dragons to submit to mere youths? Such scandalous thoughts as was capable of!

  How many steps was it down to the Order’s gathering floor? At least one hundred and fifty, maybe as many as two hundred steps, not including the landings where not a few took advantage of small chairs to catch their breath. One day she would remember to count.

  They paused upon reaching the court floor. The Bondsman scurried off to ready their places. Though the room had changed little since her first Dragon Conclave, today it felt far less threatening. The round room, as large as four substantial ball rooms together and as tall as a five-story house, still echoed, cool, dank, and dark as a pair of cockatrice flew around the perimeter lighting the wall lamps, first those at the floor level then slowly moving their way up the three balcony levels. With all the torches and mirrors, it would soon have as much light as a typical ballroom though its population would be anything but typical.

  Ten tunnels opened into the room from all directions. There was room for two more, but that space, considered the front of the round room, sported the raised platforms with three rows of chairs: the gallery where the Order officials would sit when the Conclave assembled. To the left rose the judge’s bench for the Minister of the Blue Court, Lord Dunbrook, and to the right, the desk for the Chancellor of the Order, the Earl of Matlock, who would preside over the Conclave.

  Between the two tunnels to the right of the Chancellor’s desk, a smaller gallery with five rows of chairs stood on a platform about a foot-and-a-half high. When they had last attended, a gated witness box had stood in this place. The Bondsman ushered them to sit in the front row, Georgiana between Darcy and Fitzwilliam. Earl snored in the crook of Fitzwilliam’s arm as Georgiana cooed over him.

  Darcy glanced at Georgiana, an odd, warm look in his eye. He had never expected to see her at such an event, much less to see her happy and excited to be there. Now that she was, he somehow seemed content, even complete, as Elizabeth had never really seen him before. He leaned into Elizabeth’s shoulder. Perhaps her presence with him was part of that completion as well. She would like to think it was.

  Keepers and dragons trickled in, a little like beans pouring into a basin, so few at first it hardly seemed possible it would fill, then suddenly there was hardly any room left. In the balcony galleries above, Dragon Keepers took their places by rank. She made out Mary and Collins almost directly opposite them on the highest level. On the floor above that, shadows moved behind a large window. That must be where the Gardiners sat with Lydia. Ironic, how Lydia was given a privilege open to few non-Keeping members of the Order, yet she probably despised it.

  Liveried attendants escorted major dragons of every shape to their places on the floor, carefully arranging them to keep tensions to a minimum. What a puzzle it must be sorting out how to preserve rank order while ensuring individuals remained separated from those whose proximity would spark violent reflexes. Just the thought of working out the correct height for the platforms for the rearmost dragons so they could see the proceedings yet not have their heads above the larger dragons in front of them made her head ache.

  Teams of Bondsmen with large curtains strung between tall poles stood ready to separate dragons if it appeared any were becoming too tense with one another. Another job she did not envy.

  “Look there!” Fitzwilliam pointed to the tunnel nearest the judge’s bench.

  Four Bondsmen escorted Netherfield to a gated and locked box next to the judge’s bench. Had he wanted, Netherfield could certainly have broken free, but with so many large dragons so close, it was very unlikely he could make an escape. If he even tried, the Conclave would not be merciful. He seemed content to settle into the box and watch the spectacle, catching Fitzwilliam’s eye, nodding as he did.

  A hush settled over the room, the kind of heavy, unnatural sound that set one’s nerves on edge. The sort of sound a forest made—or rather did not make—when a large dragon was walking past. Bondsmen with gold-embroidered Blue Order crests on their chests and feathered turbans in place of hoods appeared from the near tunnel, more of an honor guard than an escort, three on each side of Shin-dee-a. Her bright red hide shone in the candlelight, probably oiled just for the occasion. She smelt of exotic spices, warm like ginger and cinnamon, but not nearly so commonplace. The Bondsman settled her near their gallery.

  “You look warm and well-fed.” Elizabeth rose and curtsied deep, pulling the edges of her cloak over her head.

  April peeked out from the folds of Elizabeth’s hood, wings over her head, bowing.

  Shin-dee-a chuckled deeply. “Pleasing to see you, Erizabet. I very well treated, thank you. Barwines Chudleigh most gracious, even sharing me her cavern. Her salons most interesting … Lairda April, surprised to see you here.”

  “I come as Earl’s nursemaid.” April pointed at him with her wing.

  Shin-dee-a laughed heartily. “Can you sing large dragons to sleep, too? Most handy skill at such a gathering.”

  April chuckled and twittered softly. Shin-dee-a’s eyelids drooped. Whether it was real or feigned was difficult to tell, given the envoy’s gentle sense of humor.

  Fitzwilliam choked on his laughter. “I have had the same thought. Look! Pemberley arrives.” He pointed to the tunnel opposite the Officers’ Gallery at the center of the back wall, the most prestigious entrance for Conclave attendants … and the most noticeable.

  Rosings paraded in, regal and assured as only an ancient firedrake could manage. She extended one wing over Pemberley as they walked, both sheltering her from too much attention and making clear her presence was no accident or oversight. For her part, Pemberley did a remarkable job of maintaining her composure, except for a brief moment when she peeked under Rosings’ wing and grinned, waving at Elizabeth, but surely that was too adorable to bring much censure.

  “Your family dragon arrives.” Shin-dee-a pointed at Longbourn who took his place among the lower ranked dragons. That was one of the differences between English and Eastern dragons. Instead of Keeps, Eastern dragons were attached to particular families.

  A gong sounded, cutting through the room’s roar, and another eerie hush fell. Baron Dunbrook, the Minister of the Court, gold ormolu scepter held high, led in the parade of Blue Order officials, robed in blue, gold, and
ivory. Papa hobbled in at the end of the line, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  When was the last time she had seen him in his official robes? If only Mama could see him, looking so official and important—how proud she would be. Or would she be embarrassed that he was at the end of the line? It was difficult to say.

  The officers took their places in the gallery.

  Lord Matlock, blue robes resplendent with heavy gold trim, mounted the steps to his desk. His somber expression fitted the gravity of his office, but it was far and away lighter than it had been when he had called her into his office to discuss the matter of Netherfield.

  Once she and Darcy married, she would be connected to him. How strange it would be to consider someone so far above her as family. Then again, Lady Catherine would be her family as well, so perhaps one would make up for the other.

  Lord Dunbrook raised up his firedrake-topped staff and rapped it on the large brass plate in the floor just behind the judge’s bench. Sonorous tones resounded off the stone floor and walls, reverberating deep in Elizabeth’s bones—the kind of sound it was difficult to tell whether one felt or heard. She struggled not to clap her hands over her ears to block some of the noise, not that it would have helped much. The dragons with the most acute hearing snapped and snorted and stomped. The Bondsmen watched, ready to jump in to prevent aggressions until the sound faded away. Perhaps it was time to craft a new gong that would be less objectionable to all? Papa would probably have a fit to hear her suggest such a thing.

  As the room came to order, Lord Dunbrook opened the Conclave by reading a summary of the Pendragon Treaty and Accords, as much an act of ceremony as a reminder to agitated dragons of the behavior required of them. Sitting at the judge’s bench, he rang a high-pitched, desk-top chime three times. “The Dragon Conclave of England is now in session.”

  A brief roar of assent, then silence.

  Lord Matlock rose. “We are privileged to welcome a most honored visitor into our midst: Shin-dee-a, envoy of the Eastern Dragon Federation.”