Page 58 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
John fell silent. Then, with surprising dignity, he rose. He retrieved his pocket watch and tucked it into his waistcoat. “Do not think you have achieved a victory.”
He strode out of Papa’s study. Mr. Knightley and I exchanged a look and hurried after him.
We caught up at the front door, where John turned and said, “I promised you frankness, so here it is. Isabella had one merit. She was born a Woodhouse. When she refused to come, I had to barter whatever value I could find in your precious Hartfield. That was yet another disappointment. The search turned upnothing.” He smirked. “However, there will be no ‘confessions.’ Because you came. TheotherWoodhouse.”
Again, an inky rope slipped through my vision, twining like the questing tentacle of a sea creature. This time, I recognized it. It was a binding, like those pent up within unbound draca, but perverted. Diseased. The untethered tip crept close to my breast, then shied away as if burned.
The twitching root led toward the kitchen.
“What did you search for?” Mr. Knightley asked. His voice was deadly soft.
“Theysearched for an amulet.” John opened the front door.
Armed soldiers had filled the carriage drive—French troops with their elaborate white crossbelts and tall plumed hats, and, standing to one side and scowling in gray uniforms, American soldiers from the newly formed Southern Confederate Alliance.
19
CAPTIVE
EMMA
The French soldierherding us said, “Attendez ici,” and tapped his bayonet on a polished corner of Hartfield’s front parlor floor. I moved there, tugging Mr. Knightley when he stopped stubbornly short. He had been deadly quiet since John’s betrayal, his gaze flickering aggressively among the soldiers. I did not want him to try something foolish, so I stood close, ready to take his arm at the first hint of bravado.
This was one of Hartfield’s larger rooms. There were two fireplaces, each with chairs and a comfortable sofa. Tea tables and decorative screens partitioned the rest. When we still had parties, our cleverer guests had used those to chart paths around the more tedious conversationalists.
Mr. Knightley jerked his jaw to indicate one of the Southern Confederate soldiers. “That is an Overseer, an officer in their army. His title is copied from the men who drive and punish slaves on plantations. In Brighton, the army Overseers are forcing slaves to build fortifications.”
“Where did they get slaves?” I whispered back. Slavery was illegal in England.
“They purchase kidnapped Africans from slave traders. And they have captured Black Englishmen—free Englishmen.”
Fear chilled me, but I tried to reason it away. They would not have sent soldiers to Highbury hunting for Black gentlemen.
The Confederate uniforms were familiar from the newspapers: gray coats with two rows of buttons and upturned collars, butternut trousers, and peculiar small caps with a front brim. The Overseer’s coat was longer, stopping just above the knee and made of expensive charcoal-gray wool. His lower sleeves had elaborately knotted patterns of gold braid, an insignia of rank. He was solidly built with a bushy black beard and mustache, and when he left the parlor, his eyes studied me and Mr. Knightley.
Mr. and Mrs. Otway, a gentry couple in their mid-forties from east Highbury, were escorted in by a French soldier and positioned in the adjacent corner. That was too far to speak with, but they watched us with terrified, questioning expressions. I wondered where their daughter was. Then Mr. and Mrs. Weston were marched in, and my heart fell further. They were very dear friends; I had rather cleverly encouraged their marriage. Mr. Weston was an older husband who had been widowed, and he glowered at the soldiers through his graying whiskers. Anne Weston was red-eyed and teary. She clutched their two-year-old daughter who, thankfully, seemed to be asleep.
Carefully, I nodded to Anne. She dipped her head feebly. She had been my governess, starting when I was five and ending when I turned twenty. By then, we were like sisters.
“Why are they collecting gentlemen and ladies?” I whispered to Mr. Knightley. Even if it was the most horrible explanation, seeking slaves, these were hardly the most able-bodied workers.
Mr. Knightley shook his head, unsure.
The French officer appeared in the doorway, assessing Mr. Knightley and me from a distance. The Overseer stood beside him, and John hovered behind.
The Overseer pointed at me. “Is that the Woodhouse?”
“Thatis French business,” the officer answered in superb, barely accented English, but with a scornful French curl to his lip. His gaze remained on me. Like all French officers, his uniform was magnificent. His coat and hat were layered with heavy gold braid and his sword hilt gilded.
“She is or she isn’t,” the Overseer persisted. “These others are useless.”
“They arela petite noblesse, the gentry,” the French officer replied stiffly. He did not seem to enjoy the conversation.
“Old and married. Useless. Are you French too stupid to understand orders?” He waved toward me. “If she’s notyourWoodhouse, she’s what we want. Young. Fancy. Those are the ones who bind.” His gaze shifted from me to Mr. Knightley. “We’ll take him, too, while we’re at it.”
The chill of fear in my belly boiled into panic. “I should never have brought you here,” I whispered to Mr. Knightley.
“I was about to say the same to you,” he whispered back. “Do not worry. I have faced worse circumstances.”
