Page 54 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Tom Rabb, ma’am.” He touched his ragged hat.
Thank goodness there were pronounceable Scottish names. “I am sure she will come down.”
“Down, ma’am?”
I pointed to the tree where the wyvern watched, perhaps a hundred yards away. I had become adept at spotting her.
Mr. Rabb folded his arms, apparently vexed I had seen her first.
I could not resist. I concentrated.Please come down.
Then, thinking better of what I was revealing, I waved and added some clucking noises. It sounded like I was inexpertly calling a flock of chickens.
The performance was too late anyway. The wyvern was winging toward us.
She landed on a fallen trunk a few feet away, the wood snapping and popping as she tightened her claws for balance.
“Good morning,” I said, delighted she had come so quickly. She hissed and stretched out her neck. I had discovered she liked to be scratched under her chin, which was a surprise. Although other draca did not object to being touched, they never seemed to enjoy it.
One did have to scratch hard, though, and in a single direction. The scales were knives if you went the wrong way.
“Are all wyverns so affectionate?” I asked, leaning in to get leverage. She was panting in pleasure, her nose by my cheek. Her fangs were impressive, lustrous ebony and much longer than a dog’s. And thin, like blades. I peered closer. They were serrated on the back edge.
When there was no reply, I gave her a pat and turned back, afraid I was being rude.
Mr. Rabb was slack-jawed. “Crivens!” he exclaimed, then added several unintelligible words. He seemed to have reverted to Scottish.
“These are her woods,” I said, a little self-conscious. “I meet her most days.”
“Do you, now.” He seemed flabbergasted.
I tried to think of a topic that would set him at ease. “I suppose wyverns are aquatic while growing?”
“Aquatic?”
“Or… is amphibian the correct word? I have no books on the subject, but I recall an article.” He stared. “An article on frogs.” Surely a gamekeeper would know about frogs and tadpoles.
He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Well, now I’m dead certain.”
“Certain of what?”
“Why we’re still here. Suspected it was you.”
“I beg your pardon?” I was confused.
He laughed and touched his hat with a half-bow, then turned and walked back the way he had come, whistling.
We walkedto Rosings for dinner that evening.
As we threaded the hedges, Charlotte said, “I should thank you, Lizzy, for yesterday’s visit. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
“I enjoyed meeting Colonel Fitzwilliam. Let us hope he attends dinner. That will liven things.” I had thought about the visit a few times. “Is it not peculiar that Mr. Darcy has friends?”
“What?” said Charlotte, laughing in shock.
“I do not mean that he hasanyfriends.” My cheeks were heating. That had come out ruder than I intended. “But Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam are charming. They seem very fond of him. Is that not unexpected?”
“I imagine they see another side of him. Mr. Darcy is different when you are not present.”
