Page 165 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
She leaned close. “They are pro-slavers.”
“Oh.” I recognized the sign now, a Bible verse that slavers cited as divine proof of their cause.
Slavery was outlawed in England, but the slave industry and its horrors still flourished in the colonies. The pro-slavers sought to repeal the government embargo on transporting slaves aboard English ships. They claimed it cost jobs.
Unexpectedly, the opposition to slavery was led by women. Ladies Societies throughout England had organized the movement for full abolition. Of course, the encroachment of ladies into politics only fanned the fury of the pro-slavers. That made a lady with Harriet’s coloring twice a target.
The man’s coarse grin was now an angry sneer at Harriet.
I linked my arm through Harriet’s and clasped my hand on her puffy muslin sleeve. “Come, Harriet. You are a lady, and ladies are above such people.”
I strode forward, and Harriet fell into stride with me, although stiffly. Two paces short of the men, I stopped and stared at the stubbly man. He shuffled aside with a mutter and a glare. The group parted, most of the rest touching a hat or forelock. When the path was clear, we proceeded, and I felt Harriet’s arm relax.
“I have seen their kind twenty times,” I said to her. “They cannot impede proper ladies.”
“You have seen their kind.” Harriet’s voice was somber. “You have not seen what they do.” Fiercely, she added, “I am glad you have not.”
We entered a quiet, elegant lobby. A note in a lady’s hand gave directions to a salon on the next floor. There, a dour maid asked to see our invitation and admitted us.
The salon was a good-sized room, about twenty by forty feet, with windows overlooking the street. It was furnished like a lady’s sitting room but excessively bland, with beige fringed curtains, plain cushioned chairs around small tables, and undersized, dull watercolors hung on the walls. This was a space for hire, not one decorated to an owner’s taste. The sole unusual item was a tremendous grand pianoforte of gleaming mahogany.
At one side of the room, the hostesses were buried in a bustle of chattering ladies. Around them were draca.
A broccworm, wingless and quadruped like most draca breeds, sat at the edge of the crowd. Broccworms are one of the larger draca, and this was no exception, at least fifteen pounds and solidly muscled under armored brown scales. In a farther corner a pretty roseworm lazed, no bigger than a rabbit, her belly scales streaked with pink.
The invitation had suggested that wyves bring their bound draca, but seeing them in the room was remarkable. Draca are rarely together. A gentry couple bind a single draca on their wedding night, and the beasts themselves lead solitary lives. Even seeing a broccworm or roseworm indoors was exceptional, as they can throw fire. Flamers were usually kept outside in stone draca houses, away from wooden structures.
A third draca, a tykeworm, waited by a lady observing from the far wall. I encouraged Harriet to mingle with the crowd—it would be good practice—then crossed the room. The lady watched me with lively eyes, her curly chestnut hair barely restrained in a chignon and an amused quirk on her lips. She wore light blue muslin, simple but finely tailored, and practical, slightly scuffed shoes. The tykeworm sat alertly at her feet, a few pounds of puppyish energy sheathed in nutmeg-brown scales that became carrot orange at his toes.
“Have you attended the salon before?” I said.
“This is my first visit.” She offered her hand. “Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Miss Emma Woodhouse.” We shook hands.
The binding to her draca crackled up my arm and flooded my mind, a blinding flash of scarlet, numbingly potent even through gloves.
Shaken, I missed Mrs. Darcy’s next words. Her dark brown eyes became puzzled—waiting for a reply.
I guessed, a talent I had mastered to hide my distractions. “One of the hosts is your sister?”
She smiled, relieved our conversation was on track. “Both hosts are my sisters. Georgiana Darcy by marriage, and I was Elizabeth Bennet before.”
“How delightful that your sisters share their project with you.”
“Share?” Her eyebrows narrowed.
I unfolded the program included with my invitation and touched her name on the list of speakers:Mrs. Darcy, against social prohibitions to binding. This was why I had brought Harriet to London—to ensure she would be allowed to bind. No gentleman would marry a woman forbidden to bind draca.
Mrs. Darcy folded her arms and glared at the knot of ladies. “Mary neglected to inform me that I shared her project. I may spend our afternoon delighted by one fewer sister.”
I laughed at that and found I quite enjoyed Mrs. Darcy. “Please forgive your sister. I have learned that sisters are precious.”
She became still. She did not look away, but a pair of glistening tears pooled on her lower lashes.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I have upset you.”
“You could not know. I lost a sister this year.” She touched my hand. I was prepared this time, but the scarlet of her binding hammered my wrist like a giant pulse. “Please call me Lizzy.”
