Page 170 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Miss Woodhouse,” Darcy said, bending stiffly to address her on the floor. “Are you well?”
“She is hurt. She is hurt.” Emma whispered the words to her knees. Her fingers hugged her shins so tightly that her arms quivered.
“She is very worried about the maid, sir,” Harriet said. “The one who hit her head.”
“I am sure she will be well,” I said.
That was the accepted response in matters of health, but it seemed the wrong thing to say.
“No!” Emma gasped, twisting. “She is hurt!” She began panting with distress.
I opened my mouth to offer more reassurances but stopped when Darcy crouched beside Emma, the tails of his coat brushing the floor.
“Miss Woodhouse,” he said. “The maid has been taken to a physician. If her injury is serious, she will be treated. Whether that succeeds or not, her health is out of your hands. There is nothing for you to do.”
That seemed a strange sort of comfort, but Emma looked at him and nodded, her eyes wide. One hand released her knees and reached out. Her fingers fumbled at his waistcoat buttons.
“What?” I said. Darcy caught my eye and gave a reassuring nod.
Mystified, I watched as her shaking fingers touched each of his buttons in turn.
Mary’s head cocked. She knelt by Emma’s other side and laid two fingers on Emma’s wrist, then untied Emma’s gold bonnet, touched her temples, and probed gently in her hair. All that time, Emma’s fingertips traced Darcy’s waistcoat buttons.
“There is no evident injury,” Mary said. “I wondered if she struck her head.” Mary had been studying medicine for several months, as much as was possible for a lady. She assisted a prominent and suitably radical London physician.
Emma’s fingers had reached Darcy’s bottom button. She began again from the top. “A scarlet draca,” she murmured. That was strange. Yuánchi was scarlet, but regular draca were not.
The room’s door had been left open for the constables. From the stairway beyond, voices rose in disagreement. I heard a shouted question.
“That is a reporter forThe Morning Post,” Mary said in an aggrieved tone. She must know from the protests she organized. “He will gain admittance.”
Darcy said to Harriet, “Miss Woodhouse would not wish her presence reported in the papers. I am sure you share her concern.”
“If you say so, sir,” Harriet answered uncertainly. Despite her friendship with elegant Emma, she seemed unaware of how damaging it was for a lady’s name to appear in print. Perhaps Harriet was not gentry.
“The constables are finishing,” Darcy said. “I suggest we depart. Where are you staying in London?”
“Miss Woodhouse did not say,” Harriet said, sounding stricken. “We talked of returning to Surrey this evening.”
“That is hours in a coach,” Mary protested. “That would be unwise.”
The voices outside were becoming more distinct.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Darcy said to Emma. “We must leave this place. Would you honor us by accepting an invitation to Chathford House?”
“Chathford?” I said, surprised. “Is it ready?” Chathford House was the Darcys’ London home. I had never seen it, as it had been shuttered since the death of Darcy’s parents. Darcy had spoken vaguely of reopening it now that Georgiana and I were spending time in London.
“Mrs. Reynolds has some rooms open.” His smile was rueful. “I had planned to surprise you.”
Emma had not answered him. Her fingers continued their ritual pattern. Muscles worked along Darcy’s jaw, then he turned to Harriet. “May I have your permission to assist your friend?”
“Of course, sir,” Harriet said, awestruck. Darcy glanced for my nod before he gathered Emma in his arms and stood.
“Oh. He does that so easily,” Harriet whispered to me as Darcy strode to the door, Emma’s skirts hanging gracefully. They looked like an illustration in a scandalous novel.
“He does,” I said, vaguely proud that I felt not a flicker of jealousy.
My curiosity, however, was raging. I knew my husband. He would not sweep a strange woman into his arms unless she was in graver danger than an encounter with a reporter.
