Page 113 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“They had to drag Augusta’s crawler toward me. It was terrified. It fought to stay away. And that was before I had this.” I touched my dress where the amulet lay. Mr. Knightley’s head tilted thoughtfully while I pressed on, “I cannot bear to have Mr. Elton do more terrible things. Please. We have succeeded so far. Trust to providence.”
“Trust to peculiar events,” he said wryly, “but yes, I agree. We had better hurry. The soldiers were scrambled by those shots, and herding frightened girls will slow them, but they will come.”
I told the others our plan and forbade Harriet’s offer to join us, but then Augusta stepped forward. Her cheeks were blotchy from crying, but her red-rimmed eyes had steadied and her expression was firm. “I will go with you. I know where the crawlers are.”
“That is not necessary,” I said. I was sure I could find them. Even before I had the amulet, I had seen their nascent black bindings flickering through the walls.
“I must do something,” she said, and her voice cracked. “Imust.”
I heard in her what I had felt: urgency, duty. And perhaps atonement, or retribution, would heal her scars. So, I nodded.
The three of us set out, Mr. Knightley carrying the long, slim box with the Baker rifle. Outside the house, he swung past the Westons’ wood pile and slung an ax over the other shoulder.
He patted the handle with a grim smile. “In case providence is busy elsewhere.”
We approachedHartfield from the rear along a wandering cow path. I would never have guessed my knowledge of odd routes would prove to be so useful for avoiding occupying armies.
Fifty yards short of the back gate, the groomed lawns of Hartfield’s park opened, giving an angled view of the house’s side and much of the front garden.
Mr. Knightley immediately drew me and Augusta into cover behind a dense sweet briar. There were soldiers in the front courtyard. Only three, though: the French captain we had met at Hartfield and two of his men.
“So much for providence,” I whispered to Mr. Knightley.
His eyes were narrow, and his hand tensed around the rifle case. Then he shook his head. “They might flee without their commander, but I am no soldier. I cannot shoot a man because he wears the wrong uniform.”
“I would not want you to,” I assured him.
The soldiers appeared bored. They clearly had been there for some time. I remembered my last encounter with the captain, and an idea formed. My husband would object, but that was easily remedied…
“Wait here,” I said and set out across the park toward the front door. There was one muffled protest behind me, then silence.
The guards were watching the carriage drive and lane, so I crossed the lawn and passed our espaliered pear tree before I was noticed. Then the French officer’s head flew around. Belatedly, the other soldiers spun, their muskets ready.
“Capitaine Fournier,” I said with a curtsy. “I thought your duty required you to be elsewhere?” When the slavers were preparing to bind us to crawlers, I had appealed to him for help. That had been his excuse as he left.
There was an awkward silence before he replied, “Madame. We were ordered back after you escaped.” He studied me, perhaps wondering whether this one rather slight woman had wiped out the Confederate soldiers he left at the house. It was not a completely foolish thought. The deadliest people in this battle were women, the French perfumer and the slavers’ captive wyves.
I realized I was wearing the very amulet the captain had sought at Hartfield. That was not so clever. But it was well concealed.
His soldiers had the baffled expression of people hearing an unintelligible language, so I gave them a disarming smile and proceeded. “In a few minutes, more slavers will arrive. They are bringing twenty women to bind to the crawlers inside my home. Once they perform that brutality, they will force those women into battle. They will threaten them, drug them, and beat them.” The captain’s jaw clenched. I had no way to interpret that, so I trusted to instinct and continued, “Some of those women are only girls. You said you have a daughter. Imagine watching her marched into that house.”
“Why tell me this?” he said stiffly.
“I would like you to move your men away. A few minutes will be sufficient. I shall visit my house, and when the slavers arrive, there will be no crawlers to bind.”
While I spoke, he straightened with military pride, his chin high. In his beautiful uniform, he looked quite picturesque. In a friendlier time, he might have been a European visitor posing for a portrait—French Captain at English Manor.
Just as I began to doubt, he bowed, a courtly motion different from an English bow, then strode away, issuing orders in French. His soldiers shouldered their muskets and followed, including another I had not seen by the far corner of the house.
I watched them reach the lane and walk south, away from the village. When they were out of sight, I waved at the shrub, and Mr. Knightley and Augusta ran over. I thought they might congratulate me—I had been somewhat daring—but they were too uneasy, watching Hartfield’s front door as if monsters lurked. As they did.
Augusta was pale, lip pinched in her teeth, hands clenched.
“Are you sure you wish to come in?” I asked her. She nodded. Mr. Knightley looked extremely solemn as well, so I asked him, “Areyousure?”
He relaxed his shoulders and chuckled, sliding the ax to a jaunty angle. “I am eager. I hear it is a charming house.”
The door opened easily, and for a moment I was simply returned to my life. We kept a wall of mementos and keepsakes by the door, and the sight brought a flood of fond memories. Guests often added tokens—a dried flower, a place card from dinner with a little note. Perhaps Mr. Knightley would leave his ax.
