Page 23 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I see no need to adjudicate a disagreement when one party obviously has the superior understanding,” Mr. Darcy said. His dark brown eyes never left mine. Because it was unexpected, it took me a moment to understand that he supported me. That only left me frustrated, for I would have loved a fresh provocation.
Mr. Hurst mumbled something gratified, assuming himself vindicated. But Mrs. Hurst turned to me.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Hurst said, “the room has become very warm. I was about to step outside. Will you join me?”
I did not trust that she was well intentioned, but I was all too happy to have an excuse to leave.
A maid followedus out the front door into the early evening. Mrs. Hurst stopped a few paces from the stone draca house. The Hursts’ lindworm emerged.
“Stay well back, Miss Eliza,” she said. “It is a powerful beast, quite unlike your little drake with its fluttering wings. Even I hesitate to approach closer than this.”
The maid passed her a bundle, a rabbit still in its fur and trussed with twine. It twitched, and I realized it was alive. And terrified.
Without a word, she tossed the poor animal to the lindworm, who killed it with a snap of her jaws and began to eat. It was quick enough, but an unnecessary and cruel ritual.
“The rabbit is quite overmatched, do you not think?” Mrs. Hurst said. “Itshould have remained in its little hole, rather than walking through miles of dirt to flaunt its courage.”
It took a moment to believe this was intended to be clever and to intimidate me.
“Unoriginal wit becomes dull,” I said. “I should vary the theme from dirt, to keep an edge. Perhaps… My lindworm is bored, forshe—your lindworm is a female, not an ‘it’—for she is accustomed to London’s society, and here she must amuse herself by rending some poor country mouse. Or… do not the scales on my lindworm shine? They remind me of Miss Bingley’s golden hair. The rabbit’s dark fur—what remains of it—is poor by comparison.”
I sank down on my heels, allowing my skirts to settle to the ground. The lindworm abandoned her meal to come over, and Mrs. Hurst stepped back hurriedly. That could have fueled amusing comments, but I had lost interest in sparring.
If a bound draca does not love its wyfe and master, why stay? This lindworm will devote decades to the Hursts. Is she a servant? A slave? Is it like marriage, enforced, whether happy or miserable, by the conventions of some unfathomable draca society?
The lindworm was sitting on her haunches, pondering me while I pondered her. Wondering, perhaps, why I stayed in this house filled with people whom, for the most part, I disliked.
Draca are not creatures to pet or cuddle, but I touched her head, curious to feel her scales again. They are each as hard as a diamond but form a yielding, smooth surface. And warm to my fingers, though no warmer than a dog or cat.
Mrs. Hurst finally spoke. “Naturally, you would be experienced in caring for animals.”
It was a brave attempt at sarcasm but, I decided, inferior to her sister’s innate skill.
“My family has bound draca for more generations than I can count,” I said, mostly to myself. I was thinking of my father’s journal. My journal.
The Bingleys, of course, had become gentry when their father earned a fortune in trade.
I stood, and the lindworm returned to her meal. “Please convey my regrets. I must retire to care for my sister.”
We departed in the morning,Mr. Darcy and the Bingleys gathering to see us off. I said farewell to our little maid, of whom I had become quite fond, and she bobbed a curtsy, looking forlorn herself. The Longbourn coach arrived, and Mr. Bingley attempted to bury Jane beneath four blankets and three pillows and a tray of warm toast until I laughingly dissuaded him.
While Mr. Bingley helped Jane into the coach, I noticed the Hursts’ lindworm lying beneath a shady tree. Her legs were folded and her head alert, reminding me of engravings of the Egyptian Sphinx.
Even with her bound wyfe a few steps away, her attention was fixed on me.
Thank you, I thought, concentrating on the words.
She rose instantly, as if awaiting orders. My vision shivered. I clamped my eyes closed and held a gasped breath. Afterimages of brilliant gold flickered and faded.
The binding of draca is not universally admired. But it is a custom of the powerful aristocracy. So, it is respected.
Widowed wyves who hold draca are rare, and like all women, their rights are circumscribed. They become targets of rage. Populist preachers denounce them, claiming they hold draca through pagan rites or coarse passion—even witchcraft, absurd as that is in the dawn of the nineteenth century. Only women of exceptional standing and wealth survive with their reputations intact. Or survive at all.
The condemnation of an unmarried woman who saw visions and communicated with other wyves’ bound draca would be far more fierce. Savage.
Mr. Darcy offered his hand to assist me into the coach, and I took it, only afterward finding that unexpected.
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