Page 166 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Of course. I am Emma.”
I introduced Harriet Smith, who had returned to report on the styles of the London ladies. Lizzy listened with great amusement, and I was pleased to see Harriet at ease in city society.
While they spoke, I studied the tykeworm, who had padded close to investigate the lace trim of my petticoat. Lizzy’s scarlet binding could not be with this tyke. The color I sensed from a binding was the color of the draca themselves, and the tyke was brown and orange. To my knowledge, no draca were scarlet.
I addressed the tyke, mock serious. “Which wyfe is yours?” Gleaming black eyes turned up to consider me. I felt the stirring of his binding, but weak. Distant.
“He is bound to my aunt,” Lizzy answered, and the tyke switched his attention to her. “Today he is my companion. My aunt’s legs tire, and he is high-spirited, so when I come to London, I take him out.” She bent to him. “You are my loyal guardian.” He sat back on his haunches, chest flung out and for all the world appearing proud. All three ladies laughed.
Although the event was for ladies, two gentlemen entered. One was dark skinned, and my gaze caught on him. Black men were common in port cities like London, often sailors from the Caribbean who had settled, and Black gentlemen were mentioned in the society papers, but I had never met one. Our small Surrey village of Highbury had only a Black farmer and Harriet.
This man was elegant and poised, his charcoal coat fitted to a strong, tapered torso. He wore no gloves and gestured while he spoke. His hands were strikingly expressive. I wondered if he had passed the men shouting that England should resume the slave trade.
“Who is that?” I asked Lizzy as the man bowed to a pair of fashionable young ladies.
“Mr. Knightley. He is prominent in the London musical establishment. I have been looking forward to meeting him.”
A cough echoed through the room.
I spun, unsure where it had been. Lizzy gave me a surprised look. I grasped for an excuse. “Such a pretty salon.”
Who coughed? The compulsion bit like a demon, curling my fingers.
I dragged a smile onto my lips. “Harriet, if I may…” I smoothed the ribbon on her collar, explaining, “Harriet will warn you. It is my favorite project to keep my friends’ clothes neat.”
The ladies laughed. But the ribbon had not been enough. Pestilent, colorless miasma curled around our feet. My fingers crooked.
“I have a challenge for your clothing project,” Lizzy said. Her friendly smile became intimate as she took the hand of an approaching gentleman—the fair skinned one, although he also had dark hair. He was very tall. “Mr. Darcy, may I introduce my new acquaintances, Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith.”
I shook hands, relieved by the distraction. When Mr. Darcy’s glove touched mine, the Darcys’ scarlet binding flashed. It was rare to sense anything from a husband, and this was strong, like touching a wyfe, although nothing to the raw power when I had touched Lizzy.
Beside me, Harriet managed a wordless bob, her eyes wide at Mr. Darcy’s bearing and social consequence, or perhaps his broad shoulders.
“Do you see your challenge, Emma?” Lizzy said, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.
At first, I hardly heard her. My eyes were searching his clothes, my fingers itching. Men’s clothes were better—concealing, snugly buttoned—but also worse because touching required elaborate contrivance.
But the compulsion faded. I recalled now: the miasma was a fancy of my mind. It was not real.
“He is perfect,” I said, then laughed and corrected myself, “Your clothes, Mr. Darcy, are quite perfect.” Relief left me giddy.
“It is his most annoying habit,” Lizzy said. “I am overmatched in any dressing contest.”
“My habit is in remembrance of my mother,” Mr. Darcy said. He had a resonant baritone that suited his height.
“What?” Lizzy said, turning to him. “I did not know that.”
“My mother was distressed by imperfect clothing,” Mr. Darcy said. His eyes had not left me. Attention from gentlemen was familiar, but this felt odd. Was he suspicious? Impossible. I was too practiced at concealment.
The other draca in the room were a roseworm and a broccworm. To sense the Darcys’ binding so strongly, one draca must be theirs. Bindings were stronger when the bound draca was near. Could a roseworm feel scarlet? That seemed unlikely.
“Which is your bound draca?” I asked.
Silence.
Mr. Darcy replied, “Regrettably, my wyfe and I were unable to bind.”
He had lied. I felt their binding.
