Page 59 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Worse than dangerous,” Mr. Darcy said. “Crawler venom is evil.”
“It is certainly poison,” I said. “But evil?” That seemed flamboyant.
“Old writings claim that crawler venom has power,” he said. “But they are superstitious scrawls. And revolting. I thought them repugnant fantasy. I should have paid more attention.”
Mr. Darcy and the colonel sent a report to the army. Then my routine resumed, albeit slowed. But I had wonderful news to cheer me while I healed. Jane was recovering.
Her first letter was encouraging. A week later, her second made me smile. She described a ball—the sparkling light from candles, the tunes that were played, and even her dance with a handsome man with tousled fair hair.
It was charming, although unusually rambling and fanciful. Jane has a warm soul, but she is concise.
I was a little disconcerted by her interest in a new gentleman, and by his resemblance to Mr. Bingley. But until I visited London to stuff Mr. Bingley in acrate and ship him to Netherfield, I would be grateful for any improvement over the wasting, silent sister I had left.
The second week passed, and my bruises faded. Spring burst forth. Charlotte and I became so casual it was like visiting a sister. Mr. Collins was unchanged, but his garden grew.
My walks resumed, but solitude was evasive. Gentlemen were constantly underfoot.
I met Mr. Darcy often. The first time was on my favorite path, in the exact spot where I had encountered his gamekeeper. It was like that patch was magnetic to men.
We exchanged somber greetings, and he offered to accompany me. I bit my lip and tried to think of an excuse. Calling the wyvern would not frighten him off; he grew up with one, after all.
While I considered that, we began walking in what could be mistaken for companionable silence. Mr. Darcy was, naturally, at the correct distance for a gentleman accompanying a lady.
But it did feel companionable. He was clearly a walker, comfortable with the rough trail and more relaxed than sitting at dinner.
“Rabb told me his view of the wyvern attack,” he said.
“And what is his opinion?” I said cautiously. I feared Mr. Rabb guessed more than I liked about my connection to the wyvern.
“That she intended to attack me, not you.”
I concealed a relieved sigh. That was harmless, the insight of a man experienced in observing animals. “The scent confused and frightened her. When you ran to help the colonel, she thought you a threat.”
“How could you know that?”
“Uh…” I should pay attention to my own words instead of worrying about Mr. Rabb. I invented an explanation. “She spread her wings, rather like our drake does before he… when he is angry.”
“And you threw yourself in front of an attacking wyvern?”
“I would have done it for anyone,” I said, quite truthfully.
“I was… I referred to your courage.”
“Oh. Quite.”
He fell silent in that way he often did, and we walked for a while.
“You must enjoy visiting Lady Catherine,” I said, for a topic.
“I observe that you do not.” His tone was amused, not accusing.
“Thatis a problematic response. I must either agree and offend you, or profess my enjoyment and risk more invitations.”
He did not smile, but perhaps his lips twitched. One needed a lens to analyze Darcy expressions.
I picked up a stick and tapped a few passing trunks. Since the experiment, the wyvern had been as affectionate as ever. Yesterday, I even tried throwing a stick for her. Her reaction had been far easier to read than Mr. Darcy’s. I would describe it as disappointed disdain.
It seemed I was required to do the talking, so I resumed. “Visiting your aunt would be unpleasant if one were intimidated. But I find her interesting. She is utterly certain of herself. In most people that would be tiresome vanity. But at Rosings, she is a queen. I have never observed royalty before.”
