Page 55 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I had drifted to a stop on the path. Mr. Knightley halted at a proper distance, his posture as perfect as any Darcy although, seeing him framed by equally straight tree trunks and with the sunlight dappling his fitted coat, I had no complaint.
“May I ask how our knowing each other affected you?” he said.
A stone wall was visible through the trees. Long years had led my feet along a path that passed the vicarage, home of Mr. Elton. The thought of meeting him was like freezing hands had clamped my torso.
I willed that away, set my heels in the earth, and forded several yards of thistles to reach another path. I smiled back at Mr. Knightley. “We are almost at the village. This way is better.” He nodded slowly and followed.
I walked swiftly until the trees thinned into the small park of Highbury square. It was empty. That was unusual. Several hundred people lived in the village. The captain’s warning had an effect after all.
But the emptiness was an opportunity. “There is an old engraving here. The Witch of Woodhouse—”
Mr. Knightley, though, was looking north. “Did you hear guns?”
I listened but heard only birds. “Hunters?” Then it came, a peppering softened by distance. Many shots together.
“Not hunters,” Mr. Knightley said. “That is volley fire. Troops.”
“Could they be practicing?”
“Perhaps.” His tone saidNo. “We should take shelter.”
“Hartfield is not far. Another ten minutes.”
“What if we are not admitted?”
I did not like considering that, but he was only being cautious. “We could call on the neighbors. The greatest risk is that we shall be invited to dinner. But I do wish to try Hartfield first. I… I am a little nervous about it, you know.” Then I had a happy thought. “If the army warned people, John will have fled to London. I cannot imagine him facing a scrap of danger.”
We hurried south. Hartfield was always described as being within the village, which rather enhanced the reputation of both, but the southern parish was sparsely settled, all modest meadows and isolated cottages with rambling gardens. I led us along a remote footpath away from the road.
“There!” I cried triumphantly as the house came into view, forgetting that Mr. Knightley had seen it already.
The house had grown even prettier. The ivy was flourishing on the two-story walls—the gardener said it pockmarked the cladding, but Papa and I never had the heart to tear it down. The walls, faced with ancient Caen stone, glowed cream and gold in the sun. Hartfield might look modest beside a behemoth like Pemberley House, but it was the greatest manse in these parishes, with four-and-twenty rooms, a stylish courtyard, and acres of park and gardens.
It used to be more. The original estate was hundreds of acres, both park and farmland, but parcels had been sold, and the sum shrank to seventy in my grandfather’s time, then twelve in my father’s. Papa justified each sale by grumbling about how he despised managing land, but after his death, I discovered that the sales were financial necessity—necessity, but also a strategy. Papa did not fritter away the funds on gambling or poor investments. Instead, he pooled them for my inheritance, enough to maintain Hartfield for a generation or, with care, for two. Or if I married well, as he had hoped, forever.
Six months ago, I departed these doors, hiding my symptoms and determined to accomplish Papa’s deathbed request that Harriet, my dearest friend and his unacknowledged daughter, be elevated to gentry. That day seemed so remote. War had come to England. Fènnù rose. Lizzy fell. And Harriet was a teacher.
“Are you ready?” Mr. Knightley asked gently.
My shoulders were tight, but I gave him a bright smile. “I am just thinking how much has changed. Harriet might still marry a wealthy gentleman. She will be listed in the nextDebrett’s, you know.”
Mr. Knightley’s laugh was curt. “If there is a nextDebrett’s.”
“If you say things like that, I will have to scold you again about assuming the worst.” I took a bracing breath. “I am glad you are here, though. John hurt my elbow the last time we met.”
Mr. Knightley’s lip bent, but it was not a smile. He offered his arm, and we proceeded.
The front garden was nicely trimmed and weeded. I usually kept a few field flowers in the brass vase beside the front entry, but it was empty. The first difference.
I stopped at the door. The house was quiet. No one was visible through the windows.
When I returned from outings in our carriage, James, our coachman, would open the house for me. Or if I was simply out for a walk, I would stroll to the kitchen door and find it open, or wave to Serle through a window and she would let me in. Ladies did not carry a key to their own house.
Even if this door was unlocked, it was considered improper—or inadvisable, at least—to barge in on servants unannounced. They deserved a minute to prepare themselves. And what if John had replaced them? I might encounter strangers.
“I cannot believe I am unsure how to enter my own home,” I said.
“Permit me,” Mr. Knightley said as if my confusion were perfectly natural. He knocked.
