by Maria Grace
“There is so much duplicity in this, Papa. Would it not be far better to inform Mr. Darcy of the situation and recruit his assistance?”
“He is not even at Netherfield now according to your report, so it is a moot point. Even if he does return whilst you are there, there is no need for you to discuss your errand with him.”
“I hardly agree—”
“Lizzy, do not interfere in business you do not understand. It is times like these that I question the Order’s willingness to involve women in such weighty matters.”
Why did he not just slap her in the face? It would be far kinder. Granted allowances should—must—be made for the desperation of the situation, but still, it would be far better should he keep such opinions to himself.
As expected, rain—dreary, drenching November rains—began shortly after Jane left the house and continued throughout the evening and well into the night. Somehow, the clouds exhausted themselves before morning, and the sun made its regular appearance at dawn.
Whilst the family was still assembled in the morning room, Hill delivered Elizabeth a note from Netherfield.
“I am sure it is from Jane.” Mama nearly trembled with excitement. “I can hardly wait to hear of her success. Read it aloud for us, Lizzy.”
It would not do to roll her eyes, so Elizabeth unfolded the note and cleared her throat. “She writes: My dearest Lizzy, I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to see me. Excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me.”
No, there was probably nothing the matter with her at all, save draconic influence.
“Well, my dear,” Papa removed his napkin from his collar and set it aside. “If your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
It was quite unfair of him to tease her so when it was all his doing in the first place.
Mama waved him off. “Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the carriage.”
Papa raised an eyebrow at Elizabeth.
“I am sure the horses are still wanted on the farm, Mama. I shall go to her for I am quite willing to walk to Netherfield.” She could not bring herself to meet Mama’s gaze.
“How can you be so silly as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want. The distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles.”
“Oh very well, if you must. You are a very stubborn girl. Be certain you pay all proper civilities to Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. If all goes as I plan, they shall be you sister’s sisters and in a way to set you in the paths of rich young men.”
Elizabeth rose, carefully avoiding both her parents’ eyes. “I shall keep that in mind, Mama.”
Mary followed Elizabeth out, Heather half hidden in the knot of hair pinned low over her neck. It was a most becoming—and convenient—style for them both.
“How long do you think you will be gone?” Mary grasped the banister and started up the stairs.
“If it were up to me, I would be home by dinner, but I cannot imagine Netherfield will give up its secrets so easily. I may be away for several days.”
“But Longbourn will—”
Elizabeth laid her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “I know. Longbourn gets cranky when I am away. You must step in and tend him while I am at Netherfield. Explain to him the nature of my errand and that Papa requires it—oh, and bring the pot of oil I have in my closet and the stiff brush. A sound application of both will leave him quite content. He has told me he likes the way you scratch.”
Mary chuckled. “He does enjoy that. But Heather—”
“He promised not to interfere with her when I introduced them. You may remind him of that if he seems to have forgotten.”
Heather peeked at Elizabeth and cheeped.
“I know Longbourn is frightening, little one.” Elizabeth stroked the top of her head with a fingertip. “But he is fiercely protective of his Keep, and you are part of that now. He may bluster, but that is merely draconic pride, to which he has a right as Laird of this Keep. Treat him with respect. If you pick the scale mites from his brow ridges, he might even share his mutton with you.”
“I don’t like mutton.” Heather snorted.
“Of course you don’t. But you do like beetles, and there are plenty in his cavern. He does not like the scratchy noises they make. I am sure you may eat as many of those as you wish, and he will welcome it.” Elizabeth scratched under Heather’s chin.
“I want to see Longbourn.” Heather rubbed her head along Mary’s ear.
“You see, the problem is solved.”
“You make it seem far too simple.” Mary tilted her head to cuddle Heather.
“And you make it far too complicated. You and Longbourn will get on fine. Invite Rumblkins with you as well. Phoenix too, if Aunt will part with him. It is good for all the dragons of a Keep to enjoy society together.”
“I have never seen that in the Order’s instructions.”
“Those tomes are useful to be sure, but not exhaustive. I have written a great deal down in my own commonplace book. You may peruse it whilst I am gone if you wish.” Elizabeth beckoned Mary into her room and closed the door behind them.
She unlocked a drawer in her bedside table with a key on her chatelaine and withdrew a thick, blue bound journal.
“Here. On this page is a list of Longbourn’s favorite things—and what he hates most. A recipe for his favorite scale oil. How to make a proper scale brush. Many bits and bobs I have observed. Take it, see if there is anything you might find helpful.”
Mary clutched it to her chest. “This is amazing! Something useful at last. The Order’s books with all their histories and genealogies and territory maps have hardly a practical insight from beginning to end.”
“That is because they were written by men, my dear, upon whom the government of men places the authority of law. So that is what they write about. However, Providence has put us in the place to care for hides and hearts. So we must keep our own books.”
“Might I share this with Aunt Gardiner?”
“Of course. April has taught me so much. There are pages and pages of my ramblings about fairy dragons there, too.”
Mary hugged her hard. “You are truly the best of sisters.”
A quarter of an hour later, she left the house, April hiding in the hood of her cloak. Best avoid the discussion of whether her ‘pet’ ought to accompany her on a visit.
The recent ugly weather made the usually pleasant walk a soggy slog through puddles and fields that more resembled swamp rather than meadow. When at last Netherfield rose before her, her half-boots were soaked, her stockings and hems laden with mud and her barely-recovered ankles aching and sore.
And cold.
Though the day was reasonably warm for November, the mud and puddles were uniformly cold and just simply miserable.
Nicholls, the housekeeper, showed her into the breakfast-parlor, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. Somehow, that she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. April disapproved of them whole-heartedly and began softly convincing them of their concern for Jane and how very ill she was.
Mr. Bingley immediately gushed with solicitude toward Jane.
He was awfully susceptible to dragon persuasion, just as Papa had thought. At least it might work in her favor now. She would worr
y about the other implications later
Mr. Darcy—when had he arrived back from Ware?—watched the entire conversation without comment himself. He looked away when she met his eye, probably embarrassed that she had caught him staring at her hood, listening to April’s determined discourse.
No doubt he would inquire about that later. What was she to tell him? Papa’s plans did not consider the possibility of his presence here. Even if she told him nothing, Walker would have it out of April in a trice. Then what?
Miss Bingley showed her to Jane’s room. The poor dear had slept ill and was very feverish. Certainly not well enough to leave her room, or so Miss Bingley said, and left her to her sister.
Jane looked very ill indeed, but a hand to her forehead confirmed the fever only a draconic persuasion. Jane’s relief at her arrival only deepened the creeping guilt that one entirely unaware of the situation at hand should have to suffer so for it, even if the sufferings were effectively imagined.
At least she could suffer in comfort. The guest room was well appointed with sumptuous bed linens and feminine paper hangings. A generous fire crackled in the fireplace. Her hostess was certainly sparing no expense for her comfort.
Not long after, Mr. Jones the apothecary came. About that time, Rustle perched on the railing just outside Jane’s window. He and April whispered constantly, and the apothecary agreed that Jane had caught a violent cold, and promised her some draughts.
After Mr. Jones left, Jane’s feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely, solidifying Elizabeth’s resolve to make quick work of her errand here. Even imaginary suffering was unpleasant.
The Bingley sisters called upon Jane and sat with them for some time, quickly succumbing to Rustle’s suggestion that they invite Elizabeth to stay and attend to Jane.
A servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes. All was settled exactly as Papa had wished for.
That, of course, was the easy part.
***
Darcy dismissed his valet and stared in the mirror. Starched white cravat at a time like this? He had far more important business to be about than dining with Bingley and his houseguests. But without daylight, he could hardly be off and about looking for anything. Besides, where would he look? He and Walker had investigated everything that smelled of egg. Now they were reduced to aimless wanderings in hope of finding a potential hiding place.
What were Miss Elizabeth and that flying blue flutterbob doing here, convincing everyone her sister was far too ill to be moved?
Walker flew in through the open window and landed on the edge of the dressing table, assiduously avoiding the unstable mirror.
“Have you ascertained what Miss Elizabeth and her dragon entourage are doing here?” He buttoned his waistcoat.
“I do not like this, not at all. She is keeping the fairy dragon very close to herself—away from me. I have not been able to talk to her at all. I have already promised them both that no harm will come to the tuft-of-fluff from me. There is no reason at all for them to avoid me.” Walker preened the edge of his wing.
“And what of the cockatrice?”
“He had little more to say, only something about her father and the Blue Order—oh, and he does not much like you.” A loose feather drifted to the floor.
The cockatrice or Bennet? Probably both.
“I will keep that in mind, thank you ever so much. But that is of no help. Could you truly get no more information out of him?”
“Bennet wants his daughter here for some reason that probably has to do with the egg. But more I cannot say. You will have to talk to her yourself.”
“You know I cannot do that.” Darcy tugged his cuffs to show just below his jacket sleeves.
“More like you will not. You well know you can do nearly anything you want—at least anything I am willing to help cover for you. Tell her what happened at Ware. That should dispose her to share her secrets with you. You need her help.”
“You said that at the militia camp, and I dare say it all came to naught.” Darcy turned his back and wandered toward the open window.
“Hardly naught. You learned a great deal in the time you spent searching with her.”
“Nothing that I have not heard before.”
Walker launched himself toward the window and landed on the sill. “Reading it in the tomes of the Order is not the same as hearing it from someone who has experienced it firsthand.”
“She keeps a wyvern, not a firedrake. And a most peculiar one at that. How does her experience apply? Not at all. Merely amusing anecdotes to pass the time. Nothing I would call a worthy education in dragon keeping.”
“She is pretty, and you like to look at her.”
“What has that to do with any of this?” Darcy clutched his temples. Walker was truly annoying—and right—which made him all the more annoying.
“I like her.”
“So much the better for you. Why do you not ask her what she is about? With your great affinity towards each other, I feel certain she would tell you.”
“That is a good idea. I will.” Walker chirruped and flew off.
Headstrong creature.
Perhaps he would be able to extract the puzzling truth from her and save Darcy the effort. It was not as if dinner or drawing room conversation would allow him much useful discourse with her in any case.
***
Dinner was a dreary affair with solicitude toward the absent Miss Bennet taking up the better part of the conversation. While Bingley sounded sincere, his sisters swung from fawning to indifferent, depending on whether the little fairy dragon was whispering from her perch behind the curtains or not.
After dinner, Miss Elizabeth returned to her sister rather than accompany them to the drawing room, ending any opportunity to ask her anything directly.
The drawing room furnishings and appointments were what were to be expected of a country house of this magnitude, showing enough taste to be comfortable, but not nearly so much as to be in any way personal. A large fire crackled on one side of the drawing room. A great many candles brought light to the rest of the room. More than truly necessary. Miss Bingley was no doubt making a demonstration, probably for his benefit.
Darcy settled into a marginally comfortable chair near a table bearing a few books.
Miss Bingley perched on the overstuffed settee across from him. “I cannot say that I am disappointed in the loss of Miss Elizabeth’s company. Her manners are quite intolerable, a mixture of pride and impertinence. She has no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild. Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!”
“Yes and her petticoat. I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain.” Mrs. Hurst raised her eyebrow, the corners of her lips crooking just so.
Bingley drew a chair near his sisters. “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa, but I thought Miss Elizabeth looked remarkably well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
“You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure.” Miss Bingley turned to him with a far too familiar gaze.
He dodged it before she could meet his eyes.
“I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
“Certainly not.”
“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.” Mrs. Hurst played with her bracelets.
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” Bingley said.
Miss Bingley batted her eyes. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy, that this adventure has rather affected your admiration
of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all, they were brightened by the exercise.” Darcy rose and paced the length of the room.
Silence descended.
Perhaps that would be the end of—
“I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet.” Miss Bingley wandered to the fireplace, close to his walking path. “She is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
“I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton,” Mrs. Hurst said, almost as if they had rehearsed the conversation.
“Yes, and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
The sisters laughed heartily, the same high pitched, tittering laughter that hinted of a little too much wine at dinner and a bit too little good sense at other times.
“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it would not make them one jot less agreeable.” Bingley slapped the arm of his chair as if that settled the veracity of his point.
“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world.” Darcy clasped his hands behind his back and continued pacing.
Silence again.
“Cards anyone?” Bingley waved at Hurst to help him set up the card table.
***
Half an hour later, with everyone playing at loo, Miss Elizabeth entered the drawing room.
“Pray join us, Miss Elizabeth.” Bingley rose and reached for another chair.
“Thank you for the invitation, but I may need to return to my sister should she call for me. I would not want to disrupt the game, so I shall amuse myself with a book.”
Mr. Hurst looked at her wide-eyed. “Do you prefer reading to cards? That is rather singular.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.” Miss Bingley laughed, but it had a bit of an edge.
