Page 75 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Oh, Lizzy.” Mary had the temerity to laugh. “I am certain Mr. Darcy would receiveyou.”
Had even Mary noticed what I had not? “I think not. While I was at Charlotte’s, Mr. Darcy and I… argued.”
“Over what?”
I discovered I was extremely impatient to tell someone. In normal circumstances, I would have shared this with Jane the first night. “You must keep it secret. Mr. Darcy proposed to me.” Mary’s mouth fell open, and I recounted the scene between us and parts of his letter, though nothing concerning his interference with Jane and Mr. Bingley.
“That is most remarkable,” Mary said. “What a pity he was so arrogant. I thought him more considerate than that. But arrogance is a symptom of wealth. I applaud that you condemned him vehemently and irreparably.”
“Thank you, Mary,” I said dryly.
Rereading the account of Mr. Wickham had convinced me to attempt another task, so I went inside to tap on my father’s library door.
“Come, Lizzy,” he called, holding out a hand as I entered, which I took with a smile. “And so, you depart again. We have barely subdued the chaos from your last absence.”
“Mary has done very well.”
“Indeed, she has. I fan a spark of hope that I have three sensible daughters, not two.” His smile fell away. “I was most happy to see Jane outside with you. Is she better today?”
“The same, I am afraid.” He nodded, wrinkles worn deep around his eyes. “Papa, we have another daughter absent. I worry about Lydia alone for so long. Is it time for her to return?”
“Lydia writes—when she writes at all—of her ecstasies in Brighton. She is a foolish girl. But why do you keep asking? Has her behavior frightened away some gentleman you fancy?”
Unwanted, a phrase from Mr. Darcy’s letter returned: “And then I was repulsed by your father’s cruel public shaming of your sister Mary.” How would Papa feel if he knew his own behavior, which he regretted horribly, had helped ruin Jane’s chance for happiness?
“Lizzy?”
I started, my fingers touching the letter in my pocket. Again, I considered telling my experience with Mr. Wickham. Again, I remained silent.
“I am endeavoring frank conversation today,”I said, “with mixed success. Now, it is your turn.”
Our firedrake was curled and brooding on his iron perch. His narrow, bronze head emerged from under a wing.
“I have spoken with a wyvern. She told me… advice, or knowledge. If you have that ability, I require it now. For I am desperately in need of help.”
Two gleaming black eyes watched. I relaxed, letting my awareness flow outward.
There was a wild squawk. The drake backwinged off his perch, half-falling to the ground. He hissed, twisting through agitated curves on the dirt.
“What is wrong?” I cried. “Other draca approach me, but you retreat. Do you hate me? I do not understand.”
Images flashed in my mind’s eye, sharp as night lit by lightning—sketches charged with meaning, like a dream where vision and insight are impossibly entangled. A heavy iron cage, closed by an immense force. A crushing boulder, its weight an inescapable trap.
The drake’s wings spread, and with two massive beats, he soared high above. I watched him vanish into the distance.
30
SEARCHING FOR A CURE
“What’s your business, sir?”asked the militia soldier outside our carriage window.
I recognized a Derby accent. After seven days traveling with my aunt and uncle, I could distinguish northern dialects.
The soldier’s tone was brusque, but Mr. Gardiner was polite. “Touring, for pleasure. We will stay in Taddington.”
The soldier, a skinny, sandy-haired man in his late twenties, leaned through the open window. The top button of his jacket was undone, and he had a slovenly attitude I disliked.
His gaze lingered on me. I hardened my expression, imagining Lady Catherine sternly counting uneaten tarts, and he looked away.
