Page 40 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
The next gust sheeted rain across the windows. The plinks became a drum, and the windows darkened like midnight. I tried to look out, but water sluiced over the glass. I could not even make out the road. “Can the driver see?”
“Better than us. The lamp blinds us. But it is cold work driving in this weather. I told them to seek a farmhouse or other shelter if it grows bad.”
That was also unlike Mr. Elton. On that winter night, he had ordered his driver to halt for an eternity while soft snow fell on us like ash.
The wind strengthened, tugging at the walls. The wheels skidded sideways, then steadied. The rain fell in sheets, rhythmic as ocean waves, and the drumming sharpened to the clatter of hail. Mr. Knightley frowned.
The driver banged twice on the roof: almost there. The coach slowed and turned, rocking precariously as we left the main road, then gravel crunched beneath the wheels, and we stopped. Mr. Knightley opened the door a few inches. “This is the inn. Wait. I will return.” Holding his hat, he ducked into the squalling rain and pushed the door closed behind him.
Alone, I listened to the storm. The wind was inconstant, first from one corner, then another. Peculiar, distant thunder thrummed in slow beats.
Then I understood.
I had no person to touch, no illness to focus my skill, but the storm itself was like a raging wound. Pretending that, I stretched my awareness and found, very distant, the aged awareness of Fènnù prowling the sky.
Had she followed me? No; there was no sense of her attention, merely her tireless hunt, disgruntled and frustrated. The storm was seeded by her mood and chased her path.
Lamps approached, golden blurs through the streaming windows. Mr. Knightley opened the door, hung a lamp on the hook, and handed in a gentleman’s great coat. “Wear it,” he shouted over the moaning gusts. Water poured from his hat brim. “It is a river out here.”
While the driver and footman carried in our travel chests and boxes, I pulled on the oversized coat, an awkward process without room to stand. Mr. Knightley offered his hand, and I held it tight, balanced in the doorway and squinting to find the step in the freezing rain. Then I was swept off my feet and carried over the squelching mud and through the inn door.
Mr. Knightley eased my feet to the floor in the receiving hall. The great coatwas drenched, my bonnet dripping. Warmth tingled where my side had pressed him, my hip, my thigh, my breast.
“Pardon my not asking permission,” he said.
I nodded, unable to think of a clever reply.
Our poor coachmen shed layers of soaked coats by the fire while the innkeeper greeted Mr. Knightley as an old friend. The innkeeper’s wife fussed over me, a habit of all innkeeps when a lady is damp, and showed me to my room.
“Right beside mine and my husband’s,” she said, “and my two daughters are across the hall, so you call if there’s a need during the night. The lads have a room in the servant quarters. Mr. Knightley we put upstairs. Not so far away…” She drew that out, curious why a single lady and gentleman were traveling together. I simply thanked her and let her wonder.
I did have a question though. “Did you receive a letter for me?”
“No, madam. Not a thing.”
No reply at all from Harriet. That was the one outcome so outlandish I had not considered it.
The inn’sbreakfast was very nice, thick slices of toasted oat bread, fresh churned butter sprinkled with salt, soft boiled eggs, and thick rashers of bacon. There was an earthenware pot of good strong tea and another of hot water. The sun shone cheerily after yesterday’s storm.
“This is what Papa and I called country breakfast,” I said to Mr. Knightley. I dipped my toast in the egg yolk and took a bite. “It is a relief after Pemberley. One should not have to decide things on an empty stomach. Tea or coffee? Rolls or toast? And four types of preserves. It made my mind spin.”
“A woman of simple tastes,” Mr. Knightley observed with a smile. His plate was emptied to crumbs. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, folding his arms and looking positively rakish after vertical Mr. Darcy.
I considered his comment. “I would not say ‘simple.’ Uncluttered? No, that is not right. Wait until you see the front hall at Hartfield! I just feel that one can choose the best things instead of everything.”
“Are these my instructions? The care and feeding of Miss Woodhouse?”
“Perhaps,” I said playfully. “I do not require feeding now, though. This has been very solid.”
The inn’s other table held an older married couple in country dress, the man’s graying whiskers surrounding an unfortunately red nose, his wyfe—I sensed her bound ferretworm outside—plump and apple-cheeked. They had been glancing at us and whispering all through breakfast.
Our comments prompted a fresh exchange of whispers. That erased Mr. Knightley’s smile, and he straightened, very much the proper gentleman. That felt a little dull after his rakish tilt.
I leaned closer and whispered, “Do not assume the worst of people.” He raised a skeptical brow, so to distract him, I made a show of considering the last bite of toast and of bacon. “If I eat the bacon, I shall not need luncheon.”
Mr. Knightley relaxed in his chair. “I imagine the Bingleys will convince you.”
I had forgotten that I mentioned my plan to him. I ate the bacon, dwelling on Harriet’s silence. “I do not think we should visit Netherfield. Harriet has her own life, now. She has not invited me. And I hardly even met Mr. Bingley and Jane.”
