Page 34 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Changed to walking dress, we exited Longbourn. I took Mary’s hand, and her light brown eyes questioned me from under her black bonnet.
“I am aware of your visit to Papa,” I said. “You are too good a sister. And very brave.”
She squeezed my hand. “Lizzy, I so regret my words to you at the ball…”
“Hush. We should not be proper sisters without making each other cross on occasion.”
We set off arm-in-arm, and I broached the subject on which I wished her advice. We were in deep conversation when Mrs. Trew’s cottage came into view. Even so, I noticed a large gray horse with gentleman’s riding tack in the adjacent meadow.
“That is Mr. Darcy’s horse,” I said. Mary’s elbow whacked me, and I looked in the direction of her thrust. “That is Mr. Darcy,” I added, unnecessarily, as he strode toward us.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” His black hair was disheveled from riding and hung when he bowed. “MissMaryBennet,” he said next, with a deep bow. That was an excessively generous greeting for a younger sister, and I heard a surprised breath under Mary’s lowered bonnet while she curtsied.
“What brings you to Longbourn village, Mr. Darcy?” I asked warily, for my last words to him had been as I left the Netherfield ball, and they were exceptionally heated. I feared he would mention Mary’s humiliating performance.
“Riding,” he answered. “Pray do not let me keep you from your tour.”
It would have been awkward if he accompanied us. For all practical purposes, we were two ladies on business, which would certainly shock him. Fortunately, he bowed again and went to his horse. I took Mary’s arm, and we visited privately with Mrs. Trew.
We emerged and passed Mr. Darcy adjusting his riding tack in the meadow. He approached again, and we repeated our greetings. If he had not seemed so distracted, I would have suspected a satirical purpose.
This time, he asked, “What brings you to Longbourn village?”
Satirical or not, he was becoming inconvenient. If he would not leave us in peace, let him be shocked.
“A smithy,” I answered. That jarred his distracted attitude, and I savored my victory. “Or perhaps, a wheelwright. Would you care to see?” I took Mary’s arm, and we followed the path to the river that bordered Longbourn estate. Mr. Darcy accompanied us in silence.
“What do you say, Mr. Darcy? Is it a blacksmith or a wheelwright?” There was neither, of course, just a few boards where workers loaded harvests onto the barges that traversed this wide, sleepy stretch of water.
The wonderful thing about Mary is that, once she has begun a topic, she is relentless. As we had begun our discussion while walking, she resumed.
“Ishould say a smithy. Hertfordshire is predominantly rural, so has no concentrated market for a commodity such as wheels. Smiths, by contrast, fabricate custom products, so it is a skilled service.”
“The Meryton blacksmith is quite overwhelmed,” I explained to Mr. Darcy. “The fashion for iron-barred coaches, perhaps.”
“You intend to open a blacksmith?” He seemed stunned.
“Notmyself. That would not be proper. But it occurs to me that I amperfectly capable of having things built. Why not a smithy in Longbourn village?”
“Farming is hopeless for societal advancement,” Mary added, having quite forgotten her audience. “But skilled trade improves wages for the working class, and apprenticeship spreads productive wealth, which is superior to the stagnant wealth of the corrupt aristocracy. It is a virtuous cycle that alleviates generational poverty.” She frowned, then amended, “Absent government repression, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Mr. Darcy, sounding a little dazed. I assumed he spoke from polite habit, as he was himself a paragon of the corrupt aristocracy. As was our own family, in Mary’s eyes. She was cheerfully fair about such judgments.
“I am not surehowto proceed, though,” I said, drawn into the puzzle. “I suppose we should encourage an apprentice to locate here.”
I strolled to the grassy shoreline. Sun sparkled from ripples while the river murmured. A loan perhaps. It would be a form of investment, as Longbourn would receive tenant fees. Papa would have ideas. At least, after he recovered from his surprise.
A narrow, crested wave shot toward me across the width of the river, sinking into the surface a few feet away.
It left a wake of whitened, choppy waves. They spread in a frothy V with me at the point, then slid downstream, softening and bending around the occasional mossy rock.
A fish? I had no idea the local varieties were so vigorous. The bream we ate at dinner were not much longer than my hand.
I peered into the water. The dark murk swirled, impenetrable from the rains.
“Miss Elizabeth…” came Mr. Darcy’s cautioning voice behind me.
Waves shot toward me from a half-dozen positions, upstream and down, each so fast that they traveled with a sizzling, slicing sound, like a linen-draper’s knife cutting cloth. The water exploded in thrashing, frenzied spray.
