Page 21 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
SPARRING
Why is a bound draca loyal?
I knew now that my strange episodes and visions were sensing a draca’s thoughts. My memories of the dying roseworm were too vivid to deny. And even while that poor creature was overcome by animal confusion and pain, the strongest emotion was almost human: the shame of a failed loyalty.
Do draca love their wyves and masters?
I think dogs serve a master for love. A dog is raised from a puppy, and he dotes on his master, wagging and wriggling with adoration. But a bound draca arrives fully grown. They are found the morning after the wedding, often asleep as if binding were entirely mundane. The wyfe feeds them, and they wander off to amuse themselves until hungry again. This is not the behavior of a besotted creature.
It is like Charlotte’s view of marriage. Do not learn too much about your companion. Attend your wedding, have breakfast together in the morning, then go about your life.
Why does Charlotte’s practical philosophy make something ache under my breastbone?
I was staring through a tall six-pane window in the Netherfield sitting room. Outside the wavery glass, it was almost sunset.
Mr. Darcy was seated at a gilt-edged writing table, composing a letter. MissBingley hovered at his elbow. She was astonishingly overdressed in gathered yellow silk, her hair piled in ringlets.
“Tell your sister I am quite in raptures over her performance of a new sonata,” Miss Bingley said, “and that I think it infinitely superior to Herr Beethoven’s last effort, or I will, once I hear it.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures until I write again?” Mr. Darcy said. “At present, I have not room to do them justice.”
His dry reply reminded me of my father’s wit. I watched his lips compress while he wrote. Perhaps I was beginning to decipher the hidden moods of the man.
The other mystery of the day returned—Mr. Darcy’s rude cut to Mr. Wickham. It was all the more remarkable because Mr. Darcy was undemonstrative, to say the least.
Mr. Darcy’s hints were lost on Miss Bingley. She rattled on until, at last, Mr. Darcy put down his pen and began a scathing response. Miss Bingley nodded along, wide-eyed, coquettish, and oblivious.
Oh. She was inpursuitof Mr. Darcy.
I laughed aloud. It was so obvious. How had I not noticed before? A minor mystery of Miss Bingley was solved. That left only the puzzle of her dislike for me.
At my laugh, Mr. Darcy shot up like an overwound spring had unfolded his long limbs. He strode over to me.
I looked up at his tense frame. Abandoned beside the writing table, Miss Bingley stared openmouthed at his back.
When nothing more happened, I said cautiously, “Yes?”
“In town today, you approached the dead draca,” he said.
This was not a topic I wished to pursue. “I was affected by his death. It was very sad.” That was honest, if unrevealing.
The tension in his frame cranked tighter. “Your companion was unaffected.”
So, this was about Mr. Wickham. I folded my arms. “That is a remarkable insight, as you departed so hastily.”
A muscle tensed along his jaw. “That was a matter of honor.”
My lingering frustration from Mr. Wickham’s unexplained departure returned. “How fortunate, then, that you left me in the company of an honorable officer.”
“You attach high regard to the militia,” Mr. Darcy said angrily.
I stepped closer. We were now face-to-face, abandoning any pretense of social conversation. “They serve our country in time of war.”
“Honor is measured in the man, not the uniform.”
Miss Bingley fluffed to an awkward stop beside Mr. Darcy. “What has the militia to do with anything?”
Mr. Hurst was tilting a glass of port back and forth. He spoke up. “The militia are a ragged group, but it is an economical method to train soldiers. Still, the way they parade about and bring their own guns is very amateur. It is sufficient for cannon fodder, but not for officers. No gentlemen could tolerate such company.”
