Page 143 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I sensed the creation of their bond.”
Lord Wellington’s brows rose.
“The strange thing is why they came to the center of England,” I said. I looked at Mr. Darcy and braced to reveal a painful truth. “I regret that I believe Mr. Wickham and my sister were conspirators in the theft of books from your library.”
Mr. Darcy’s shoulders drew rigid. “That is how they knew the location of the library, and that it contained books on draca.”
His tone was coldly furious. Wickham’s actions were a betrayal. And I had not even shared my darkest suspicion that Wickham himself had shot Mr. Rabb.
“They came because Napoleon is obsessed with the legend of la Tarasque,” I said. “He believes it is in Pemberley lake.”
“The story of la Tarasque was more than a thousand years ago,” Mr. Darcy said. “In France.”
“What is la Tarasque?” asked Lord Wellington.
“A wyvern,” I said even as Mr. Darcy answered, “A dragon.” He clarified, “The Frenchcallit a dragon. The legends differ, but all describe a creature at least somewhat larger than a wyvern. If we are to name anything a dragon, why not that?”
Lord Wellington was musing. “That would answer another mystery: why attempt such an expensive and risky plot? One wyvern—or three—has no military significance. We proved draca will not fight in battle. And even if the French succeed where we failed, a wyvern would be a single weapon in a sprawling war. Formidable, but no worse than adding one more cannon.”
“A wyvern would be worse than a cannon.” I was remembering the destruction even our drake could deliver, and how men looked through draca eyes—clumsy, slow, and weak.
“Perhaps,” Lord Wellington conceded. “But something uniquely superior,like a dragon, has more than military value. It would be symbolic. A man who calls himself Emperor cares about symbols.”
Perhaps Napoleon actually would divorce his second, unloved wife to marry a wyfe who brought a dragon.
Lord Wellington spoke decisively. “None of this affects our military position. The sun is setting. We are secure until morning. Overwhelming reinforcements will arrive. As in many battles, victory is a matter of patience.”
48
BELTANE EVE
People were arrivingin twos and threes and fours, mostly Britons with blue woad patterns stained on their faces and arms. They were greeted with happy cries and hugs—friends and family spread between villages. The rescued servants from Pemberley had sheltered at a neighboring village, and they arrived together. I received a warm smile from Mrs. Reynolds, and I interrupted little Lucy’s curtsy with a tight embrace.
Mr. Darcy caught the eye of a gray-haired man with a spectacular flowing mustache. He joined us at the table, setting down a large canvas bag, and Mr. Darcy introduced him as Mr. Digweed, “headman of the Pemberley Briton clans, and a partner in management of the Pemberley estate.”
“I go by Ed, for the most part,” Mr. Digweed added as he shook hands with Lord Wellington, who introduced himself as Arthur.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” I said, feeling some formality was required when meeting a man, and extended my hand.
He took my fingers, studied me with eyes that reminded me of Papa’s penetrating gaze, and executed a tasteful bow over my hand. “Miss Bennet. We are honored that you join our Beltane eve celebration. I know you did not intend your visit, but you are welcome.” He nodded to the gentlemen. “As are you, Arthur. And you, Fitzwilliam. It has been some time.”
“Three summers,” answered Mr. Darcy. “I am pleased to return. It has been too long.”
Mr. Digweed dug in a pocket and consulted a hefty gold watch. “If you will excuse me, my duties call.” He rustled in his large bag and put on a leather headdress with a pair of spiraling ram’s horns affixed to the sides, then withdrew a two-foot-long bronze trumpet which flared into a roaring wyvern head. He nodded to me, “Miss Bennet,” the heavy horns flopping, then walked to the center of the clearing.
The sunset was lighting the edges of broken clouds with flaming orange, and the fire colors gleamed on bronze as Mr. Digweed lifted his trumpet. The instrument was shaped to rise vertically like a tall swan’s neck, and the wyvern-mouth bell faced forward high above his head.
He blew a long, tenor note, strident and brassy, and a shout rose from the scattered crowd. He blew again, and silence fell, then a third time. With that, a cloud caught the reddening sun, and dusk spread over the sky. The glade dimmed as if the blast was a breath of night.
“Druíwides!”he called. “Oak friends! Gather, for it is the eve of summer! Eostre ripens in lazy splendor. Bel stokes the heat of sun and earth. Drown the hearths. Brighten the world afresh for swelling fruits and glorious bounty!”
Around us, torches and fires hissed and sputtered as they were quenched. The gloaming deepened, as if woad had infused the world.
“What need we now?” cried Mr. Digweed.
Fire!came the shout from all around. Beside me, Mr. Darcy called it out in his baritone, as loud as anyone else. His face shone with the same unashamed celebration as the others. I was the outsider, observing and ignorant.
He saw my gaze and leaned close to speak. “Every year, my parents brought me, and later Georgiana as well, to the Beltane festival. Since my mother’s death, I have come less often, but it is a joy to return. The celebrations are ancient, older than England. They existed before the Romans came. Even before Christ.” He gave a reassuring smile. “And the Britons are generous hosts. You have been welcomed, and nothing is expected. You give no offense if you simply watch.”
