Page 128 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I walked over to look at the music. “There are words.”
“It is an old Greek poem titled ‘I have not had one word from her,’?” Mary said. “By Sappho.” The name meant nothing to me, but the admission left Mary flushed.
“Well, I have never been interested in those tiresome Greek men,” I said. “You two shall have to explore Sappho on your own.” Now they were both blushing furiously, so I left them to it and wandered on.
In front of the manor, the draca house was empty. I ran my fingers along the iron perch, trying not to feel sad. Our drake was free and starting a new life. Perhaps hundreds of years, cycling endlessly between water and land.
Jane and Charles’s fabulous golden wyvern had also begun a new life, bound to them.
Would I want to bind draca when I married?
“No,” I decided aloud. Even though draca did not chafe at being bound, it bothered me. Once bound, they were trapped. Like Miss Darcy, I felt it was too much like slavery. And for what purpose? Prestige? Our drake may have saved our lives, but most draca were idle fixtures for social display.
Far away, I saw Jane’s wyvern soaring in the sky.
No, it was a different wyvern. The wings were shining bronze, not gold.
I shaded my eyes. An ostentatious iron-barred chaise and six was approaching. The horses were post, changed for speed, but the livery on the carriage was familiar. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, mistress of Rosings, was coming to Longbourn.
Doubtless I should dash inside to assume a ladylike pose, perhaps with embroidery.
Instead, I whacked some dust off my skirts and waited. I could not imagine why she would visit.
The carriage pulled up. The door was thrown open, and Lady Catherine descended with an air even more ungracious than usual.
“Good morning, Lady Catherine,” I said.
She seemed disconcerted to meet me without the pomp of announcement. Her reply was a slight inclination of the head. Then she jabbed her scowling jowls toward the manor. “Thatwould be Longbourn House, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I said, concisely as I did not like her tone.
“You have a decent looking doorknob.” Her gaze followed the swath of ash burned through our front garden. “Your park is very odd.”
“We enjoy it. I am afraid we have breakfasted already. May I offer you tea?”
“You have had a wedding,” Lady Catherine said in an accusing tone.
I was becoming irritated. “We have had two weddings. My youngest sister, several weeks ago, and my eldest, yesterday.”
“Your eldest sister made a very advantageous match.” That was coarse, so I did not answer. Lady Catherine continued with a deeper scowl, “You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason for my journey. Your own heart—your conscience—must tell you why I come.”
“You are mistaken, madam,” I said coolly. “I cannot account for the honor of your visit.”
“I will not be trifled with,” she snapped. “However insincere you may be,mycharacter is celebrated for sincerity and frankness.” She drew a commanding breath. “A report of a most alarming nature has reached me.”
I folded my arms. “I am all attentiveness.”
“I was told that my own nephew Mr. Darcy seeks to give up Pemberley.”
“What?” Finally, she had shocked me with something other than rudeness.
“Do not pretend surprise. Is this not your doing?”
“Mydoing? How could I do this?”
“By industriously circulating rumors that you will soon be married to mynephew and that you will demand he surrender his ancestral home. Though I know it is a scandalous falsehood.”
That was an astounding accusation in many ways. After a moment, I asked, “Which part?”
