Page 70 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I finished my farewells. Then I paused at the door to the carriage. The interior was stifling and dark, with narrow beams of light through the barred window slots.
“Do you need a hand up, ma’am?” the driver called from his perch.
His seat looked wide enough for two. “May I ride up there?”
“Here, ma’am?” He laughed.
“I have seen passengers ride atop.”
“Yes, ma’am. Them as can’t pay for the coach. Even had a woman sit up here, once. Not a lady, though.”
“A woman and a lady sit the same way.”
“Not sure I agree, ma’am.” I folded my arms and waited. “All right, then. Best I pull you up.” He reached down a hand.
It was a high step, and Mr. Collins turned red, then turned his back. But I reached the seat. The driver hopped down and locked the carriage so my luggage would survive if a pack of draca ate us.
We set off with a whistle and the clop of hooves. Loose bolts jingled festively. The view was wonderful, much higher than a usual carriage seat.
With a rustle of parted air, the wyvern flashed over us.
“Devil take me!” The driver cried. “It’s a dragon!”
That was, by far, the most vulgar language ever uttered in my presence. I tensed, waiting for an apology.
The driver twisted to watch the wyvern, his mouth hanging. He exclaimed again. Clearly, no apology was forthcoming.
I could sit with my mouth pruned like Lady Catherine. Or not.
“She is a wyvern,” I said. “A breed of draca. Dragons are only myth.”
“Is that so?” Our heads turned as she arced and swept over again. “What’s she doing?”
“Saying goodbye.”
“Blind me. She’s beautiful. A clever girl, too. See how she comes from behind and turns? Not spooking the horses.”
“I had not realized. I suppose she learned that from hunting.”
The driver explained how horses see the world, and the good and bad of blinders, and I chatted about draca, and we clattered along the road to London.
What curesan unwed woman who must bind? Mary would search the journal for answers. Our Scottish maid could quote lore and legend. The wyvern advised an unnamed lake.
Common sense offered a simpler path. Jane should marry Mr. Bingley. But if wishing produced weddings, my mother would have five married daughters by now. So, I would do more than wish.
I was willing to call alone on Mr. Bingley. But that was brazen, and a scandal would destroy any hope of reconnection. Also, I had no idea where he lived.
But Jane had corresponded with Miss Bingley, and I remembered the street name from the envelope, and that her sister, Mrs. Hurst, lived on the same street.
Mrs. Hurst approved of Jane, according to Colonel Fitzwilliam. And nothing prevented me from calling on Mrs. Hurst. Other than our mutual hatred.
When the driver stopped for directions, I climbed down to sit in the carriage. This was a time for decorum. We rolled on, questions were shouted, then we stopped. The carriage door opened.
“Ma’am. The Hurst residence.” The driver was all formality now, but he winked as I stepped down.
The Hursts lived in a narrow four-story terrace home on an elegant block. The entrance had huge white columns framing a wide, black door. The effect was modern and severe, but, judging from the rest of the street, in fashion.
I was nervous. Who has made a social call where the life of their sister depended on the outcome?
