Page 12 of Transforming Mr. Darcy
But once Jane had planted the words in her head, they were not so easily banished.
“Why could I not have had Priscilla for my fairy godmother, Jane?” Elizabeth rested her forehead on the bedclothes. She spoke too quietly for the distracted fairy to hear.
“We are given the fairy we need, you know that,” Jane said. She bent down to whisper in Elizabeth’s ear, “Truthfully, I have always envied you Mildread. Priscilla means well, poor thing, but she is hard of hearing and refuses to admit it—it causes ever so many problems. At least Mildread is trying to protect you. And I do not think Mildread has ever madeyouill from too much fairy dust.”
Elizabeth stared, and Jane just nodded her head once, very slowly.
“I thought it was being caught in the rain that made you ill,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Lizzy, really,” Jane scolded quietly, still aware of Priscilla’s proximity. “Who has ever been made ill by a few raindrops?”
Elizabeth glanced over at Priscilla, who was, even now, blowing more of the golden dust from her flattened palm into the air. Most of it caught the draft from the window and wafted towards the bed. It did not affect her, but Jane sneezed several times.
“Why have you not said anything?”
Jane shook her head. “I cannot bear to hurt her feelings. She does notmeanto make me ill. And it is not so bad, really, only I am always so sleepy.”
“Oh Jane,” Elizabeth said with a moan, “we really are the most ridiculous girls.”
Jane stroked Elizabeth’s hair. “Speak for yourself, dearest,” she said archly. “At least Mr. Bingley is not offending Priscilla to the point of retaliation.”
Elizabeth could only laugh. It was better than crying.
“I do not knowwhat you mean.” Mildread sniffed, then held her embroidery closer to the light. “I only do what is right and necessary.”
“That is true,” Elizabeth said in a placating tone. “Still . . .”
“Still nothing,” the fairy replied. “Your Mr. Darcy is an insufferable man, and he will have his answer. Your poor mother was distraught.”
Mamma had not been distraught. She had been offended. Mr. Darcy was terribly good at that. “He is not my Mr. Darcy, and he was affronted on my behalf.”
Mildread chuckled. “If he is not your Mr. Darcy, was it hisplaceto be affronted for you?”
“No, of course not. Still . . .”
“Elizabeth,” Mildread inquired calmly, “why are you defending his behaviour?”
“I am not,” she insisted, frustrated. “It is only that he is not so very bad. Is he?”
“As you are well aware, he cannot open his mouth without saying something unseemly.”
“But I have spoken with him. He will be polite, Mildread, truly he will.”
This was met with a disdainful wheeze. “Did he say as much?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
Mildread hummed a little tune. “I believe what he said was that he did not believe in fairy godmothers.” The needle went in and out, creating a border, then impossibly small figures. “We are, in his words, nothing more than nonsense. Is that not the information he relayed to you?”
The panic began to swell inside her. “He does not know. Howcouldhe? You have told us often enough that once we are no longer Bennets, even we will not be able to see you anymore.”
Mildread shrugged. “Once you leave a family, you leave your fairies, too. If you are very fortunate, your new family will have their own.” Her hands dropped into her lap while she considered. “He said he does not believe in fairies.”
“Then how can you hold him to account for it?”
“Is it not enough that he has been rude? He rolled his eyes at your mother.” Mildread began to hum again.
“For me, Mildread. He was upset for me.” She worried her bottom lip. “What will you do to him?” Elizabeth asked, a coldness stealing over her despite Mildread’s soothing song.
