Page 140 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“She wielded the golden wyvern. I thought she wasune grande dame, a great wyfe.” The perfumer shrugged. “Et c’était enfumé.” And it was smoky. She worked her lips, clearing the dust. “But you are the great wyfe.”
Mary burst to her feet, her black-clad arms splayed. A storm of song draca erupted from all sides, filling the air, beating time with their wings, and above them the sky itself folded and turned sapphire. Then the tiny draca settled on branches and bushes, some peering curiously at the silky cocoons, and the great wings withdrew. The clearing quieted.
Mary’s shoulders rose and fell. From her reticule, she took a small knife used to lance wounds. She knelt behind the tree and sawed through the tightly knotted silk holding the perfumer’s hands.
The perfumer brought her arms forward, grunting and rubbing them.
Mary removed her black spencer and dropped it on the perfumer’s satin-clad lap. “Do not flee south. The occupied territories have risen up. A French accent will not serve you well. London is twenty miles north and east. Lose yourself there, if you can.”
The perfumer, stiffly, got to her feet. “Why do you free me?”
“It is a time of rebirth.”
40
APSLEY HOUSE
MARY
Georgianaand I rode down Piccadilly, our heavy town coach swaying as we stopped and started in the crowd. It was March, ten months since what they now called the Battle of Highbury. The afternoon sky was blue and the air crisp. The pleasant weather had packed the road, and horses and people cut between the stalled carriages.
“I think I shall walk the rest of the way,” I decided. “Meet me at Chathford House for dinner?”
“Wonderful,” Georgiana said. She wore, if not the latest fashion, the latest fashion she considered tasteful, a coat cut like a militia officer’s uniform, double-breasted and scarlet with prominent angled lapels and shining brass buttons. Some ladies even paired the coat with white pantaloons, but Georgiana had chosen a white wool skirt and a sapphire knitted bonnet that matched her eyes.
“Do hurry,” she added. “I missed you during your trip.”
“You could have come with me.”
“I have had enough ofthat, thank you very much.” She examined me with her critical artist’s eye. “You look beautiful. Every bit the Bar—”
“Donot,” I warned. She sealed her lips innocently.
I rapped on the coach’s ceiling. We stopped, and the footman let down the step. Georgiana came for a farewell embrace. I buried my nose in her hair, herwool bonnet scratching my temple, and we held each other rather long for a public street. So long, a passing pair of working men, strolling openly hand-in-hand, tipped their hats with a wink.
When the song blossomed, more than draca had changed. London’s prejudices were fading in the brilliant spring.
The carriage rolled off, and I picked my way through the Piccadilly crowd, Green Park on my left, mansions on my right. The crowd was abustle with good cheer and normalcy. I attracted few looks; my black gown and scarlet petticoats were no longer noteworthy. Young ladies who wished to shock had moved to a fashion borrowed from Paris fifteen years ago. Then, it was calledcroisures à la victime—victim crosses, red ribbons crisscrossed on a dress to mimic the bloody guillotined executions of the Terror. The English revival, illogically, was also named in French:cicatrices à la dame, or wyfe scars. The dresses were black as blight, the back low-cut to expose the shoulder blades, and horizontal red ribbons were strung to mimic the scars of wyves whipped by slavers.
I thought it purposeless, a pursuit of shock, not a call to action. The war was past, and those wounds were healed. Newer causes called.
A pair of young ladiesà la dameglanced at me as we passed, looked again, then gasped and curtsied. I hurried faster.
Apsley House was one of the larger manses, another notch in the tally of wealth stretching west as London prospered. The front door was standing open and the house under noisy renovation, so I ignored the bell and went in, dodging a spray of dust from workers messily banging bricks out of a wall. I tried my usual path but had to detour around an obstructed door and then a floor torn to bits.
A maid spotted me just before I reached my destination. She rushed to the door before me and announced, “Your Grace, the Baroness Bennet.” I must have scowled, as she departed even more swiftly.
The Duke of Wellington rose from his comfortable chair and rubbed his hands happily. “What a ring that has! A duke and a baroness meeting for luncheon.”
“At least you sought your title,” I muttered. “A peerage is a nuisance. People look at me.” There was a freshly opened wooden crate on one side of the study. I brushed aside the straw and found a pair of andirons shaped like dragons. I dragged one out to check the sculpting, straining as it was heavy. “Did you ask for these to begilded?”
“No. That must have been Wyatt. He claims to be an architect, but really hedesigns furnaces that burn money. I am grateful for your help in reining him in.”
“If I am to visit, I need to defend myself from his taste.” I frowned at the golden dragon. Why put gilt on something that would be covered with soot? At least this time they had the right number of limbs. The first shipment had been four-legged.
The duke watched with a hint of smile. “I appreciate your help. You are a good friend, Mary.” I was considering how to answer when he continued, “If you detest your peerage, why not refuse?”
“Refusal was… discouraged.” This led to a topic on my list. “And it presented an opportunity.”
