Page 147 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I do not know the steps.”
“Nor do I.” He stood and offered his hand. “Perhaps the cotillion?”
I took his hand and we walked among the dancers.
The cotillion is a dance for four couples in a square. One spends half the dance with other partners. It cannot be danced by two people alone. And yet, we began, crossing the imaginary square hand-in-hand to start the pattern. When I turned by habit to change partners, Mr. Darcy was there to take my hand and continue. Around us, couples inked in woad spun past, somehow never colliding as we traced our elegant shapes in the firelight. I began to smile, then I laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
We met in the center of our imaginary square and took each other’s hands.
“Do you enjoy the cotillion?” I asked—the same words that broke the silence of our first dance—as we stepped to one side, then the other.
“With you, I do,” he replied, and my heart skipped as we turned, then took each other’s hands again.
The song ended at an awkward point of the pattern, standing side-by-side with my right hand in his left. We turned to each other, then let go. In a way, we had been doing this since that first assembly ball in Meryton—a step closer, and then a retreat. But closer each time, pressing toward some irrevocable threshold.
Happy shouts rose from the other side of the clearing. Mr. Digweed had donned his horned hat, and a couple was kneeling in front of him while children waved branches of yellow flowers and sang lilting words.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“They are handfasting,” Mr. Darcy answered. “A Beltane betrothal for a year and a day. At the end, the couple chooses to marry or to go their own way without recrimination. Most decide sooner, one way or the other.”
The couple held out their clasped hands. Mr. Digweed began winding a red cord around their wrists in a complex knot.
“The statue of your mother has a red cord in her hand,” I said.
“My mother and father were betrothed at Beltane.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “That is romantic.”
“My father asked my mother to dance. After they danced, he asked her to marry him.” My heart took flight like a scared rabbit at that, and my pretended courage for speaking my mind vanished with it. I was staring at my feet when he continued, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were at Rosings, tell me so. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
“My feelings are altered,” I managed. That did not really make the point. Iforced my gaze up to meet his, and it became easy to speak. “My feelings are profoundly changed and most favorable.”
Wordlessly, he held out his hand. I took it, thrilling as our palms met again. We walked to where Mr. Digweed stood, chatting with his wyfe while the couple he had betrothed swirled into the dance. He turned to us with a wide grin, then became serious.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said with a formal bow.
Mr. Darcy said in solemn recitation, “On this eve of Beltane, we would tie our hands.” Mr. Digweed’s wyfe drew a surprised breath, her eyes shining. Whispers and nudges spread through the crowd, turning heads and quieting the clearing.
Mr. Digweed’s wise eyes were on me. “Miss Bennet. Honored guest and blessed of Bel. This man would be your betrothed. This is a solemn choice of great import. Knowing this, would you handfast with him?”
“I would,” I said.
A murmur was growing in the crowd, but not due to my words. Brilliant pinpricks of light were streaking in swooping paths through the forest, mauve and violet and blue like cool sparks among the trees. These were not the dim flickers of glowworms on a summer evening. The branches and leaves were illuminated in moving patterns, as if by hundreds of bright candles.
Mr. Digweed raised a red cord in his hand. “Offer your hands, and I shall bind you.” We held out our clasped hands, my right in Mr. Darcy’s left, and Mr. Digweed began to wind the cord in an elaborate pattern that joined our wrists. He said:
“This knot is your solemn troth beneath star and sky, a promise to join your lives like two green shoots that are braided by their summer’s growth. For a year and a day, flourish with one another. Then wed, and your joined love will ripen to eternal heartwood.”
Our hands were now tied in an elaborate figure eight of doubled cord. Mr. Digweed lifted his hands to the sky. “Or, without remonstration or reproof, you may unfasten and let the winds lift you like seeds of maple, carrying you apart to land afresh and grow again. By undoing this cord, I declare you free to leave betrothal without harm or broken promise.”
He reached for the knot, but with my free hand, I caught his fingers. “What if the cord is left?”
He cleared his throat. “If the sacred knot remains tied, by our ways, betrothal becomes marriage. Although English law wouldnot—”
Our clasped hands had tightened around each other while he spoke. I was staring into Mr. Darcy’s eyes. I did not care about English law.
I said, “I would keep this knot tied.”
