Page 80 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I stopped at the shore. Ripples licked the gravel by my toes. No strange crests raced across the surface. No draca popped out at my feet.
I crouched and touched the water. Ice cold. I scooped a little and tasted it. Clean and pure. But just water.
“What am I supposed todo?” I said aloud. I swirled my fingers through the surface, hoping for inspiration.
“Did you have an expectation, Lizzy?” my uncle asked.
I had shared almost every detail of my encounter with the Rosings wyvern. My aunt and uncle had listened, expressed their concern for Jane, and supported my desire to help. They had also been delicately skeptical.
“I had no idea what would happen,” I replied.
“Could the water be medicinal?” asked my aunt.
Curing waters were fashionable. The resorts at Bath were famous for them.
But, whyhere?It was too strange that the lake should be at Pemberley.
I considered the one statement by the wyvern I had not shared: “you are leaving him,” with images of Mr. Darcy.
Could I have misunderstood? But the wyvern said, “for your sister.”
Frustrated, I stood up and shouted, “What should Ido?” The words echoed back across the lake. I felt slightly better.
I turned to my aunt and uncle, who were taken aback.
“Did either of you, by chance, bring a jar or bottle?” I asked.
They shook their heads.
“Perhaps the housekeeper is out?”I suggested. “I am sure we can purchase a jar in Lambton.”
My uncle had rung the bell a few seconds ago.
“Give them a chance, Lizzy.” He leaned back to gaze upward. Far upward. “They have only begun walking. Or they may be summoning a carriage. It is a large house.”
It was, indeed, a large house. The door alone was intimidating.
The latch clicked, and the door swung wide to reveal a respectable-looking older woman, dressed simply for such a grand setting. She gave a friendly smile and introduced herself as Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper. When my uncle expressed his admiration for the building, she invited us to tour the open rooms.
I trailed as she guided us. At first, the perspective at each window halted me—a stand of trees or a still pool of water. Then, I saw the intimate interior. Exquisite, minimal furniture and open, uncluttered surfaces. Serious works of painting and sculpture, never more than one in a room—classicalGrecian busts, modern portraits in bold oils, red silk frames displaying paper brushed with strange symbols of the Far East.
I had seen this style before, in a way. A few rooms at Netherfield emulated this in aspiration, if not in perfection. At least until Mr. Bingley’s sisters had hung excessive gilded frames on the mirrors and splashed garishly painted china over every tabletop.
I heard my uncle ask, “Is your master away?” and I perked up to hear the answer.
Mrs. Reynolds replied that Mr. Darcy was traveling, adding, “But we expect him tomorrow, with Miss Darcy.”
Tomorrow! One day from disaster. That meant we needed to finish our errand today. I began inventing a pretense to borrow a jug.
We entered a long hallway hung with paintings. Five marble statues, larger than life, were spaced far apart. Two were heroic men. Two, wise older women. The last was a young wyfe, her arm raised in defiance, a wyvern rearing at her feet.
I was arrested. This made the extravagance of Rosings seem gaudy and useless.
The wyvern was superb—the set of the scales, the razor claws. Sculpted from life. The woman was beautiful and powerful. The hand at her side dangled a doubled red cord, perhaps two feet long, the only part not carved from stone.
“Who is this?” I asked.
Mrs. Reynolds’s fingertips traced the base. “It is titled,The Wyfe of Pemberley. The woman is my master’s mother, Lady Anne Darcy. She stood for the artist after she married and bound.”
