Page 132 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Unholy is she who drinketh of crawler and wyrm, for she is the most foul wytch and a great clerk of necromancy. The clawes of devils stain her skin. Beware her mischiefe, for she is cruel and vile.”
Still twenty miles from Pemberley, we stopped at an inn outside Derby. The innkeeper and his wife kept a flock of long-haired Herdwick and were astounded to find a lady interested in their sheep, which were quite different from Longbourn’s half-dozen Suffolk. We talked long after the candles were lit before I retired.
In the morning, I joined them for a simple breakfast of sheep’s cheese, oat bread, and tea. But the table decorations were anything but simple: elaborate weavings of flowers and leafy branches, and hollowed eggs dyed red.
“Your decorations are beautiful,” I said, touching a red egg.
“?’Tis eve of Beltane,” the wife explained. “The eggs are colored for the bonfires. Green for the summer god Bel, and red forteinewhich is fire. At least, that’s what we say hereabouts.” She gave me an appraising look. “Are you staying for the bonfire?”
“I am afraid not. I am bound for Pemberley.”
“Pemberley? You’ll see dances, then. The Peaks keep the old ways, and the hills of Pemberley more than most. You’re a bonnie lassie, if you don’t mind my saying. A lad might ask you to dance.”
In a few hours, I would ring at Pemberley House. I had thought on what to say but not gotten much beyond imagining Mr. Darcy’s surprise.
“The lad I am visiting does not care for dancing,” I replied. “But if he asks, I will say yes.”
We climbed into the Peaks,and I saw decorations beside the road: a wreath of yellow cowslip hung in a tree, then a figure of a man, woven fromhawthorn branches with shining green leaves and blossoms that dripped white petals. We drove through the town of Lambton. A maypole ten feet high stood in the small square, surrounded by a few awestruck children.
I did not watch our approach to the house—I was nervous enough—but as we passed Pemberley lake, my eyes were drawn to the waters, as darkly burnished as draca claws under the overcast sky.
The coach climbed the other hill, then the driver knocked on the roof to announce arrival. I stepped out, and the massive visage of Pemberley House was before me.
There was a taint of acrid smoke in the air. Something unpleasant had burned. Wool, perhaps. In the distance, a horse whinnied and another answered.
“Please take my things to the stable,” I told the driver. “I am sure someone will meet you there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said. He gawked at the manor’s stone edifice before returning to the coach.
The huge windows reflected the cold steel of the afternoon sky. I caught a flicker of movement behind one, gone before I recognized a face. Dark and cold seemed to brush the nape of my neck, and I shivered.
“It is only a house,” I said to myself, annoyed for being foolish. I marched up the steps and rang. The stone around my feet was muddy with boot prints as if a hunting party had tromped in and the staff had forgotten to clean.
The door opened.
I looked up into the unshaven face of Mr. Wickham, framed by the desultory collar of his scarlet uniform.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a broad smile.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me, stumbling and stunned, through room after room: past a handful of scruffy men in army uniforms lounging and smoking, their filthy boots resting on embroidered pillows; through an empty parlor, the floor sprayed with shards of a white porcelain vase that lay in pieces; down a grand hall where smoky remnants of broken picture frames and burned canvas overflowed a huge fireplace.
He threw open a door and pushed me into a luxurious chair in a well-furnished man’s bedroom. Then he sat on the bed, watching me with predatory interest.
His hand traced an arc, showing the room. “My humble abode,” he said. “I grew up here. Steward’s quarters. Comfortable enough, if inferior to the familyresidences. They never let my father forget his place. Then Darcy ascended. He enjoyed depriving me of what I deserve.”
Explanations were spinning through my mind. The best was that militia had been quartered at Pemberley and had grossly abused their status. The worst was robbery, a massive raid on the manor.
A sudden fear caught me. “Where is Mr. Darcy?”
“I wish I knew,” Wickham said with soft menace. “Here is my question. Why areyouhere?”
Relief fanned my first spark of outrage. “Whatever you are doing, you cannot succeed. The townsfolk will notice. You will have constables at the door. Let me go. Or run and leave me here.”
He walked to the window. “Come see.” After a moment, I got up.
The window overlooked a yard behind the stables. Dozens of horses were tethered. Men were unpacking bags and carrying equipment. Some wore uniforms, others common clothes, but they all carried muskets or pistols. A few had swords as well.
“If constables come, we will take them also,” he said. “I have fifty men. For this day, I am master of Pemberley.”
