Page 103 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“If I can get in, I know a way out the back,” Harriet said. “Waiting and watching will only make it worse. Soldiers keep coming.”
Mr. Knightley shook his head, his lips pressed bloodless. “It is exceedingly dangerous.”
“Harriet is right,” I decided. “It will only get worse. And I must go with her.”
Mr. Knightley turned to me, the foliage dabbing light on his black hair. I expected him to protest, perhaps even attempt to impose husbandly authority. Instead, his features were tight with worry. That damaged my resolve far more than any argument.
“Why you as well?” he asked finally.
“The students travel in pairs,” I said firmly to hide my misgivings. “And the slavers will harass Harriet if she is alone.”
“You cannot pass for a student. Not even a boarder. You are too—” His mouth started to shape “old” but he switched to “elegant” instead.
Oddly, that little kindness restored my confidence. “My advanced ‘elegance’ aside,” I said dryly, “the soldiers, the French at least, are professionals. They seem to be gentlemen, or whatever a French gentleman is called. If Harriet and I walk with assurance and say we are returning home, they will let us pass. What else could they do? Send us away? Shoot us?” I could not help adding, “And I am only four years older than Harriet.”
He held out his hand. I took it, and his thumb stroked my skin. I felt the muscles work in his palm and fought a blush. The physical aspects of marriage had been bursting into my thoughts at inopportune times.
“Our quest for the amulet is supposition,” he said. “We have no idea if itstill matters. But we do know the enemy has gathered here. That is an opportunity. If they have deserted the countryside, we can slip away.”
“We came for the amulet. What if it helps end the war? Endsthis?” I gestured to the foreign troops occupying lovely Highbury. “Besides, I promised I would find it. Wyves have duties and honor, just like husbands.”
Reluctantly, he smiled. “Then be cautious. Do not tarry. I will keep watch.” He picked up the long wooden case he had retrieved when he went for his violin, the Baker rifle given to him by Mr. Darcy. I could not imagine what good it would do. “If you cannot safely return here…”
“Meet us at the Westons,” I suggested. “The others are there. Their estate is Randalls, on the way to Hartfield.” He nodded.
Harriet and I checked each other to ensure we were presentable. I fixed her bonnet with a flick of a finger; it only needed a few stray willow leaves removed. For some reason my efficiency amused her, and she made an elaborate show of shaping every crease on mine before grinning her most buoyant grin. “It is a fine afternoon, Mrs. Knightley. Shall we call on Mrs. Goddard?”
We set out along the street as if returning from an afternoon lark. Soldiers’ faces turned, whiskered and bearded in foreign fashions. The Confederate troops eyed us, their gazes on Harriet.
“Swiftly,” I whispered to her through a smile. We were halfway already.
Twenty steps from the door, a French soldier stepped into our path. In a thick accent, he said, “Halt. Who are you?”
“Miss Smith,” Harriet blinked at him with immense innocence. “We are returning to the school, and I am sorry to say, we are very late. Are you having a parade?” I thought that was overplayed, but he looked us over and wordlessly gestured to proceed. He followed us to the door and rapped sharply.
It was opened by an Overseer, one I had never seen, a compact, scrabble-faced man with pronounced cheekbones. Brusquely, he directed us inside. That was frightening, but Harriet, unflinching, curtsied and turned to the staircase to the boarding rooms.
The Overseer held out his arm, blocking her. He pointed down the hall to the teaching room. “That way.”
That was one too many complications. Harriet cast me a frightened glance that loudly announced—wrong direction.
“We have been walking for hours,” I said. His unshaven chin swung to scowl at me. Not knowing how decorous American ladies communicated this, I bounced on my toes with a slightly desperate expression.
He rolled his eyes. “Hurry up.”
We fairly raced up the stairs, which I suppose aided the pretense. At the top, we ducked around the corner, and Harriet thumped back against the wall. “I thought we were done,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” I said.
She shook herself and set off, passing the boarding rooms, attractively decorated despite tiny windows and the folding partitions that crowded the beds. We climbed more stairs to the top floor. Harriet touched a door as we passed—“My old room”—then stopped at a bigger door at the end of the hall. It had a simple painted sign,School Mistress.
Harriet knocked. Stillness. Behind us, a man’s voice was dimly audible, rising through the stairwells from the bottom floor. Or so I hoped. The cadence of the voice seemed familiar.
Harriet’s knuckles hovered over the door, unsure whether to knock again.
“Just go in,” I said.
She gave me a scandalized look. “It is Mrs. Goddard’s room!”
