Page 142 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
He glared at his plate. “You are more stubborn than your sister. I shall think on it.” He took a bite of the faux pork chop and made a face. “This is like jelly. Between this and politics I have lost my appetite.”
I was unconvinced by the Chinese bean pudding myself, but I took a hearty bite.
The duke pushed his plate away, folded his arms, and settled irritably in his chair. Finally, he said, “How are your sisters?”
“Kitty wishesshewere a baroness,” I said, picturing her flabbergasted expression. “Jane’s new twins are wonderfully healthy, and Jane is back to her sunny self. The binding sickness after her wyvern’s death frightened me, but Emma’s skills cured it. It was a near thing, though. Emma had to invoke… remarkable power.” My skin prickled at the recollection. “I suspect it was worse because Jane had been afflicted before.”
The duke nodded, sipping his wine.
I knew which sister actually interested him, but we had arrived at another topic on my list, so he would have to be patient. I tested possible phrasings, then proceeded. “Jane had a difficult few weeks after the twins were born, a type of sadness not uncommon with mothers, so Jemma came to live with Georgiana and me. Jane is past that now, but Charles and Jane have suggested we make that a regular event. Jemma will foster at Pemberley for a few months each year, then longer when she is older. Georgiana and I intend to establish her as heir.”
The duke burst out in laughter. “Mary Bennet! You have secured your succession. How aristocratic. Find a spare while you are at it.”
“It is not a succession,” I said, annoyed. “The peerage is only for life, or I would certainly have refused. Hereditary privilege is a crime.”
“Do announce that in the House of Lords. I shall enjoy the show.” He considered me, rather like he was appraising a battlefield. “What do you intend to achieve with this new political influence?”
“Voting reform for parliamentary elections, to start.”
“Tostart?”
“And an end to the laws that persecute those who love unconventionally.”
The duke looked less surprised by that, and more concerned. “You would have better odds in the courts. Have you even observed the House of Lords? I would not have much hope.”
“Hope is not something that you have. Hope is something that you create.” I pulled out a folded sheet of cheaply printed newspaper, a galley proof before publication. “The editor ofThe Morning Heraldsent this to me. He demanded five hundred pounds not to print it.”
I handed it across the table, and the duke unfolded it. The title was visible: “The Unnatural Intimacy of Two Famous Ladies.”
He read it silently, every word, flattening the creases with businesslike efficiency. When finished, he tossed the page to me. “Tell them to publish and be damned.”
After discussing the renovation—we decided to add sculpted dragons to the already elaborate Gallery doorcases—the duke escorted me to the front door. A burst cocoon had been mounted inside the doorpost, the empty puff of silk neatly sliced open from within. It was a common decoration. Many cocoons had opened on a warm day last month, and London, briefly, had been resplendent with glorious creatures. Londoners called it the Day of Song as everyone had heard the music. Only a lucky few perceived the true wonder, a palace etched beyond the tallest steeples, a symphony composed of the emotions that make life precious—and a shining ideal that guided us to greater things than pettiness and strife.
“And Mrs. Darcy?” the duke asked at the door.
It must have required tremendous self-control to wait so long before asking.
The best I could answer was, “Lizzy intends to proceed with her plan.”
41
DONWELL ABBEY
EMMA
Mr. Knightleyand I crossed the dewy lawn of Highbury square. It was morning, not yet ten o’clock. A few locals were about on errands, but most were still at home, busy with the chores that keep a farm or a home pleasant and productive. Soon, they would set out to call on friends or visit the shops, and we would be recognized.
“Take a look at this,” Mr. Knightley called. He was bent over the large boulder at the rear of the park, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back, the elegant topper on his head at a rakish angle.
I walked over. On one face of the boulder, there was a fresh engraving:
On May 9, 1813, the Battle of Highbury raged in these hills. Commanded by Lord Wellington, the Militia mounted an onslaught of unparalleled valor, and Britain’s enemies were put to rout.
“No mention of great wyves,” Mr. Knightley noted.
“That pleases me. Anonymity is welcome.”
Mr. Knightley brushed a wayward blonde curl off my forehead. “I fear we are notthatanonymous.” We shared a whimsical smile.
