Page 11 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Almost a year ago, on last Beltane eve, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy married in the old Briton ceremony. Their impending anniversary and the transformation of Lizzy’s memorial merged in my thoughts, a pair of linked symbols. I do not believe supernatural machinery ordains the future, but the Britons’ rituals werederived from the druid calendar and rooted in the natural world. The Britons understood mysteries of draca unknown by any modern naturalist. Their veneration of Lizzy’s statue, even if I did not share their faith, was charged with meaning.
“Do you sense the spring?” I whispered to the lake. A breeze gusted like breath. The distant waves lapped a drowsy pulse.
A pair of people had exited the house. Now they arrived: Emma, elegantly dressed in canary yellows, and, unexpectedly, Lord Wellington. Neither was my favorite person, although Emma, at least, was loyal to the Darcys. Lord Wellington’s presence simply made me suspicious.
I greeted him by pointing accusingly to the lake. “Is this a Council project? Are you dredging up Lizzy and her dragon for your war?” I was tired, and I could not imagine why else he would be so far from the fighting.
He smiled politely. “I advised Darcy against it. And no, the War Council has not decided to drag the lake for Mrs. Darcy. The government—and I—thought she was dead. That was an unusual misstep for you, Miss Bennet.”
I shuffled, frustrated with myself.
Emma said quietly, “You did not reveal anything. Mr. Darcy told him yesterday.”
Told him what? That Lizzy lived, but not that Emma had sensed her survival—Mr. Darcy was too protective of Emma for that.
Lord Wellington’s gaze shifted to the lake. He stood with feet apart and hands clasped behind his back, a commander’s pose, as if lurking portraitists might sketch him on the sly. Perhaps they did.
“I am glad he told me,” he said. “It explains his moods in these last months. Mourning, then giddy relief, then a slip to despair.” He nodded to the barge. “That is the onset of desperation. Despair is passive. Desperate men are courageous fools.”
I expected respectful silence after such a weighty pronouncement, but after the barest pause, Emma asked me, “Has Mr. Knightley returned to London?” There was a quiver in her voice. Emma was capable of artful concealment, but on this topic, her guard failed.
“He was not yet in London,” I said, “but he has left the occupied south. When I last heard, he was in Surrey.”
“Oh,” Emma said and blushed as if a gentleman’s presence in one’s home countywas profoundly intimate.
I rubbed my stiffening shoulder, remembering our trip. “I am glad he is returning. Travel is perilous, even north of London. Our road from Hertfordshire was blocked by Blackcoats. We had to gallop across a field to escape.”
Lord Wellington scowled at the south as if he could see the miscreants from our lofty perch. “Rabble,” he pronounced.
“Rabble with a purpose, even if the purpose is vile,” I replied. “They cry their slogan of Britain Awake. Whole neighborhoods of London support their propaganda: that Napoleon will cast down the effete aristocracy in a new Reign of Terror; that slavery is a God-granted boon; that supreme male authority will be restored by the Napoleonic Code. It is like hatred was stewing and needed only the thinnest flame of rhetoric to boil.”
Lord Wellington studied me. Perhaps he thought I was a hypocrite; the conservative newspapers that praised his military policies also accused me of leading mobs, if a dozen women blocking traffic to demand a political voice was a mob. But he said only, “Gather yourself. When Darcy dries off, he will wish to speak with you. You will want your wits about you for that.”
I walkedthe corridors to our bedroom, a salon-like space on the third floor with a view of the eastern hills. Properly, it was Georgiana’s room, but Lucy, the endlessly energetic lady’s maid, met me and chattered while we unpacked my things into the armoire Georgiana and I shared. Perhaps it was our room after all.
The bed was untouched. Georgiana’s fatigue had been more musical than physical; she had been away from her instruments for days. Soft clavichord notes sounded from the adjacent parlor. She had chosen Elizabethan music rich in thirds and sixths, a Dowland composition for lute. Her clavichord matched it well, having a luteish timbre, and the keyboard action let her ornament with vibrato, a technique far beyond my skill.
Soon she would move to the grand pianoforte and storm through page after page, playing for three hours, or five, or ten.
“I gather my sister is returned,” Mr. Darcy observed dryly, and in dry clothes, from outside our open door. He had been listening.
I had not seen him for a week, and without Georgiana, I was unsure how to greet him. I settled for a curtsy and “Mr. Darcy.”
His bow was informal, at least by household standards. “Are you recovered from your trip?” I said yes, and he continued, “Would you join me for a discussion? Lord Wellington will attend as well.”
This was the predicted, or threatened, conversation. Should I be apprehensive? “Without Georgiana?”
“I prefer that. We can speak more directly without her.” That was unnerving, but then he smiled, tired and friendly, and I was even less certain what to expect.
We walked to his study in the west wing of the house, tromping yet more halls and stairs. I pondered what his purpose might be and forgot to invent a social topic, but he was silent as well.
His study was a gentleman’s space, filled with heavy oak furnishings and thick cut-glass decanters brimming with ancient ports and whiskies. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy abhorred smoking, so there was no tinge of tobacco. Engineering drawings were pinned on one wall, cranks and pulleys and metal bells. I spun them in my mind to match aspects of the barge and its diving bell.
Lord Wellington was present and gravely formal, and my puzzlement grew. It seemed unlikely this was an intervention to save Georgiana’s honor, or her soul, or whatever punishment the Church threatened when their rules were flouted. Georgiana was very open with her brother, and Mr. Darcy had embraced us both after our barely disguised declaration before the royal court.
Re-sorting my list of possible topics, I took the proffered seat at a small table with three leather-upholstered chairs.
“Do you wish to speak aboutla Demoiselle des Parfums?” I asked. That would explain Lord Wellington’s attendance.
