Page 6 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Open that, Lizzy.” He nodded to a polished mahogany lockbox. I turned the key, feeling the smooth working of a well-kept lock, and lifted the lid.
Inside was a journal. The cover was worn leather, faintly embossed with the Longbourn crest, although the markings seemed subtly different from our modern crest.
Papa moved carefully to stand beside me. His age-spotted fingers withdrew the book, weighing it in his hand while he spoke.
“It has been many generations since Longbourn was founded as an estate. The cornerstone of this manor was laid by my great-great-grandfather, and Bennet gentry have always held this house. Through that time, the master and wyfe of Longbourn have recorded private notes. My father passed this journal to me, and for many years, I hoped to pass it to my son before his marriage. Now, dear Elizabeth, I see more clearly, and with no reservation, I pass it to you. Like many tasks, I have ignored this too long. It is time I ordered such matters.”
I was both moved and upset by his words, more when I saw him turn awayto hide his feelings. I swallowed and said something unintelligible as I accepted the book. It felt ancient, with rough-cut sheets and primitive leather binding. The scent of stale vellum touched my nose.
Papa’s usual humorous tone returned. “Make of it what you will, Lizzy. I found it obscure, a scattered record of household trivia and idle, amateur philosophy.” He settled into his chair with a sigh, waving his hand in dismissal.
4
IMPOLITIC INDEED
The next morning,I examined the journal.
The book was old and fragile, the vellum sheets punched with crude holes and bound to the leather cover by tied cords.
“The earliest date is more than a hundred years ago. 1709,” I said to Jane, who was peering out our window. I squinted at ink faded to rusty orange. “But there are dozens of pages before that. I cannot make them out.”
The script grew more old-fashioned on the early pages. I could decipher only a few words on the first, and those were ancient indeed, with spellings and letterforms older than Shakespeare’s.
“That is interesting,” Jane answered absently.
I turned a page. “Our ancestors bound three firedrakes in the last century alone. Mamma’s family originates in Surrey…” My mouth fell open. “Her great-aunt bound a wyvern!” When Papa said our family bound exceptional breeds, he did not exaggerate.
A grim, fantastic idea caught me. What if our mother held our drake after our father’s death?
But that was absurd. In all England, only a handful of widowed wyves held draca. All were formidable personages, and famous—or infamous. I loved Mamma, but an honest summary of her personage would be scatterbrained.
And even holding our drake was no guarantee of security. The world was not kind to a widowed wyfe who held draca. She was the target of jealous mendeprived of their inheritance, and of prejudice from extreme factions of the Church. Many bound widows simply vanished.
Jane’s nose grazed the window. “He appears nice.”
“Who?” I said.
“Mr. Bingley. He was visiting Papa. He has just left.”
I hmphed. “You should have called me. ‘Nice’ is singularly unhelpful. You declare everyone nice.”
Jane blushed, but I saw her hidden smile.
I would know soon enough. Mr. Bingley would attend the next ball.
The public assemblyhall in Meryton could host six dozen people beneath its plain shake roof and rough wooden beams. For balls, it was done up splendidly, with crisp linen covering the tables, trays of cold meats and winter fruits, punch for the ladies, and brandy for the men. Chairs were arranged for those who wished to rest from dancing, and for ladies tired of standing without being asked. Hundreds of candles illuminated a sea of silk and muslin gowns. The gentlemen’s collars and cravats were white crests on the waves.
Every head turned when the Bingley party arrived. Mr. Bingley had a disordered mop of light-brown curls and blue eyes that matched his blue coat. Within a minute, we learned he had brought his two sisters and the husband of the elder sister. However, his final companion, a gentleman, remained mysterious.
“Bingley hasone hundredguineas of marriage gold,” Lady Lucas announced to my mother. “It is piled in a strongbox, ready for a wyfe.”
“One hundred!” Mamma was astounded, as this exceeded her highest speculation at breakfast. “And to think Mr. Bennet and I bound a firedrake with only ten guineas of marriage gold. I have always said that, with another ten, we should have bound a wyvern.”
Lady Lucas frowned. Sir William Lucas had earned his knighthood from a career in trade, and Lady Lucas took great pride in her freshly elevated title. But the Lucases had bound a tunnelworm, the lowliest form of draca, so the prestige of our drake was a sore topic between our families.
“Who is the tall man with Mr. Bingley?” I asked. I had noticed him immediately, and many ladies were following him with their gaze. He was dark-haired and serious. I had yet to see him speak a word.
“Thatis Mr. Darcy,” reported Lady Lucas. “A fine figure of a man, with the largest estate in Derbyshire.” This provoked gasps from the ladies gathered to listen. “But he was most disagreeable when introduced to Sir William. And, it is said he keeps no marriage gold at all!”
