Page 19 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
That was a silly invitation amid a war, but Lucy only said, “Yes, madam. Once Mrs. Darcy can spare me.”
“That will be wonderful,” I said with a smile.
Nessy was brave, but her eyes filled, so I hugged her too. “We will see each other before long. Think of all your new friends at school.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “They do not have magic.”
Then it was goodbye to the servants and staff, and questions about what box could be balanced atop what other. The driver and footman climbed to their seats, and Mr. Knightley presented his hand by the open door. “Miss Woodhouse.”
When I departed Hartfield for London, the darkness inside the coach had frozen me until Harriet gently helped me forward.
Now, I placed my gloved fingers in Mr. Knightley’s and stepped easily into the carriage, beginning our three-day, two-hundred-mile trek to find the amuletand win back my life.
Fifty feet down the road,Mr. Knightley asked, “May we make a stop? A family we helped escape Sussex is near Lambton. I would like to look in before leaving.”
I agreed, of course, so we passed through Lambton and followed a road into the uncleared forest that covered much of Pemberley’s land. We arrived at a wattle-and-daub house, the house a little ill kept, the garden a disaster. A man was inexpertly mowing the overgrown weeds with a scythe, his hat, coat, and waistcoat removed.
Mr. Knightley greeted him, then introduced us while his young daughter watched solemnly a few steps behind.
“I’m sorry to be in such a state,” the man said, wiping a handkerchief over his sweaty brow. He was brown skinned, like many who had fled the south. “Carpentry’s my trade.” He put his hands on his hips, breathing hard and surveying the half-cut weeds. “I am developing a healthy respect for farmers, I can tell you that.”
“Are you going to sow it?” I asked. In places, the mown weeds were six inches tall. They would grow back in a week. “You will need to plow it, too.”
“I just thought to tidy it. Not right to have a house look shaggy. We’ll be gone afore it matters much.”
Mr. Knightley waved gallantly to the expanse of Pemberley. “Mr. Darcy was able to provide several unused homes. We placed four families that escaped the south. I have written letters to businesses in Sheffield inquiring about employment for the men.”
“You just scattered families through Pemberley?” I exclaimed. Mr. Knightley nodded, suddenly wary. Rightfully so. “Well, that is no good. What if they are here for a time? We must get them settled.” I smiled at the daughter, who was listening with an overly mature, intent focus. “Have you attended the school yet?”
Caught off guard, she bobbed a crooked curtsy. “No, ma’am.”
“It is just in Lambton. You can walk there easily. My friend Nessy attends, and she is about your age. She adores her lessons.” Well, she adored her friends at least, even if she was pleased when a class was unexpectedly canceled.
“Tell Momma about it,” the girl said. She took my hand and led me toward the side of the house.
I glimpsed the men’s surprised reactions. Her father half-reached to stop his daughter, and concern creased Mr. Knightley’s face. Was the mother ill? Old fears slipped into my thoughts, scratching away at my careful exercises and practice. I clenched my free hand to suppress a reflexive check of my collar.
The corner of the house was a few quick steps. We rounded it and startled a thin woman with braided hair. She seemed to have been hiding. She gasped, “Madam,” and curtsied amid the knee-high ragwort, bowing her head.
“Please do not,” I protested. “I am only another guest of Pemberley. I was telling your daughter about the school…”
She straightened, and I saw the burn on her face. It was recent and partly healed, a pink streak as if a hot poker had been laid on her temple and eyebrow. She saw me notice—I was too slow to shift my gaze—and her hand covered it with an awkward, over-practiced gesture.
Her husband rushed past me and wrapped an arm around her waist, half hiding her against his side.
“Did that happen in the south?” I asked, as simply as I could. It would be worse to pretend I had not seen.
“The slavers had us for a time,” the husband said, his voice shaking with anger. That smoothed as he told his wife tenderly, “You are as beautiful as ever.”
The child piped up, “It’s true, Momma.”
The woman was handsome, with huge dark eyes and a sculpted face, although too thin. Food must have been scarce during their flight.
An impulse took me, and I removed my glove and offered my hand. After a moment, she stepped away from her husband and took it, her touch long-fingered and smooth.
Her injury seared my awareness, an echo of the original hurt, worse because it had been violent. That faded, muted by her partial healing. My sense of her health deepened, and I saw how the shiny skin would smooth and darken in the months ahead.
“Burns are slow to heal,” I said, “but it is not deep. I am sure it will fade. Your family is right. It does not diminish your beauty.” I smiled. Hesitantly, she smiled back. “These hills have good people. Do not hide yourself. They will welcome you.”
