The Dragons of Kellynch (Jane Austen's Dragons Book 5)
Page 1
by
Maria Grace
Published by: White Soup Press
The Dragons of Kellynch
Copyright © March 2020 Maria Grace
Print ISBN: 978-0-9997984-2-3
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,
in any format whatsoever.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information address
author.MariaGrace@gmail.com
Author’s Website: http://RandomBitsofFascination.com
Email address: Author.MariaGrace@gmail.com
"This lady does know how to tell a story and how to invent an incredible new world.” From Pemberley to Milton
The Dragons of Kellynch
In order to secure her future, a young lady must marry well.
One would think Anne Elliot, a baronet’s daughter, would find the marriage mart far easier to navigate than a more ordinary woman. One would be wrong.
After refusing a poor, but otherwise perfect sailor, on the advice of her friend Lady Russell, Anne finds an unhappy choice before her: marry deathly dull Charles Musgrove or hope against hope that another suitable proposal might come her way before she becomes a spinster on the shelf.
Anne’s disgracefully independent choice to refuse Charles’ offer turns her world entirely arsey-varsey and not in the expected sort of turned upside down way. She begins to see things … hear things … things like dragons.
And once one sees dragons, one talks to them. And when one talks to them, nothing is ever the same again.
Must a young lady marry well if she hears dragons?
Looking for the more books in the series? Find them here:
Pemberley: Mr. Darcy’s Dragon
Longbourn: Dragon Entail
Netherfield: Rogue Dragon
A Proper Introduction to Dragons
The Dragons of Kellynch
Kellynch: Dragon Persuasion
Don’t miss a dragon update! Sign up for the Blue Order Dragon Newsletter HERE and get a free copy of The Blue Order Dragon Index
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Intermezzo 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Intermezzo 2
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Intermezzo 3
Epilogue
Other books by Maria Grace:
Free ebooks
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
May 1809
The sounds of animated conversation filtered into the corridor as Anne slowly approached the morning room. One did not rush about, even if she were quite hungry, or so Father insisted. Pleasing and graceful movements and a columnar posture were always necessary and appropriate. Morning light poured through the doorways, painting the navy and burgundy hall carpeting and the edge of her white muslin skirts in pale gold. Tempting aromas wafted through the door: fresh buns and jam, tea and coffee, and perhaps, yes, a plate of cold ham. Her stomach rumbled.
She peeked in. Warm sunshine filled the room exactly as Mama had anticipated when she had the room papered in sky-blue paper hangings with small birds and clouds. She had loved the notion of bringing a bit of the garden inside whenever she could.
Father occupied his usual seat at the table, near the door, scanning the newspaper, probably the society pages, his favorite and perhaps only reading material—aside from the Baronetage, of course. Mary, in a plain, rumpled morning dress, and Elizabeth, in a fine half-dress gown, ready to received callers, sat on opposite sides of the small, round, dark oak table, too far from the window for the light to be agreeable for needlework. They both hated sewing.
Elizabeth stared at the wall over Mary’s head, ignoring the journal and several sheets of foolscap on the table before her. Elizabeth’s latest watercolor, which Father had lately framed, hung between Mama’s landscapes on the sky-blue wall. Elizabeth’s work was nothing to Mama’s, but that was not the sort of thing one mentioned.
“How well it looks, now it is properly hung—do you not agree, Anne?” Elizabeth arched her eyebrow and directed her gaze to the empty chair near the window. The one she expected Anne to hurry and occupy.
“I am glad you are so pleased with it,” Anne muttered as she sidled between Mary and the sideboard, pausing to serve herself toast and tea on Mama’s breakfast china—ivory with a band of vine roses around the edges.
Elizabeth glowered, never one to appreciate a neglected compliment, while Mary’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips probably suppressed a snicker. She often complained that Elizabeth was too used to compliments.
Anne sat down and dabbed a bit of blackberry jam on her toast.
“I have been meaning to talk to you Anne.” Elizabeth sat up very straight and pulled back her shoulders. Lovely, she was trying to look like Mama, a bad sign indeed. “About dinner last night.”
“Surely you are not going to find fault with the Musgroves? Perhaps it was a little unseemly for Mrs. Musgrove to go on about their concerns for Dick—”
“I am not concerned for Mrs. Musgrove’s behavior. That is her husband’s problem. I am referring to yours.” Elizabeth slapped the edge of the table.
Mary stared at her plate, her lips pressed hard, no doubt trying to hide traces of amusement.
“All I did was listen to her.”
“And that is the problem. What right, what expectation does that woman have to bend your ear with such talk? Truly, it is unseemly in the best of lights and far worse if one gives it any consideration.”
Anne blinked and sipped her tea—a mite bitter this morning. “What is unseemly about having a modicum of compassion on the poor woman’s nerves? They are our friends.”
“Our friends, but not our rank. Our rank, Anne! Remember that.” Elizabeth glanced at Father.
“To what end shall I remember it?” That was probably not the right remark to offer if she wanted the conversation to end.
“Let her find an old aunt or cousin to whine and whinge upon, not one of a station above her own. I should not have to tell you this. I will not have you being an embarrassment to us when we are invited out. Father agrees.”
Father peeked above his newspaper and grunted.
“You see.” Elizabeth looked down her sharp nose as she rifled through the papers before her. “Here, I have a list of things I need for you to do today.” She handed Anne a carefully penned list. Perfect penmanship was another of Elizabeth’s many accomplishments.
“Calls to the tenants?” Anne traced down the list with her finger. “Visits to the shops?”
“They need to be done, and you are the proper person to do it.”
“But these are tasks for the mistress of the house.”
“I have other things to do today.” Elizabeth was ever so forceful about insisting that assuming Mama’s role was her privilege and duty. Clearly, she preferred the privilege to the duty.
“What is more important than acting in your role?”
Mary sniffed, not looking up from her plate. “She expects the modiste to come around and fit her new gown.”
“Here? Why would she come here? The cost—”
Elizabeth snorted and tossed her head. “Why should I be bothered about that? It is c
ustomary for her to come to me. I do not wish to be seen—”
“You were happy enough to go to her shop to order the gown.”
“That is enough, Anne.” Elizabeth spoke her name as a reprimand. “Truly it is. I do not know why you are so disagreeable today. Just do as I have asked.”
“But I have things to do as well.”
“What have you to do?”
Anne braced her elbow on the table and her forehead in her hand. Did she really want to defend the calls she intended to make to Elizabeth and likely Father as well? Even if she did, what were the chances that she might actually win the argument? She swallowed back her sigh. “I will make the calls.”
“Be sure and check with Mrs. Trent. She and Cook are packing a basket for you to take whilst paying those calls. It would not do to pay a call from the manor empty-handed.”
“I imagine you have already given orders for the carriage to be readied for me?” Anne closed her eyes and took a long sip of bitter tea.
“You want the carriage? You are so fond of a good walk.” There was that down-her-nose look again.
Anne stood. It would be satisfying to leave without further remark, but that would probably spark even more conversation. “I will see to it myself.”
She held her breath as she made her way to the door. If she were quiet enough, perhaps there would be no more conversation.
“Oh, Anne!” Mary waved at her. “When you return, I need your help mending a gown. You know how clumsy I am with a needle.”
That meant she wanted Anne to do it for her.
Anne ducked her head and scurried out.
Three, no, it was four hours later, Anne stood in the doorway of Kellynch’s oldest cottage. It was a quaint little wattle and daub, thatched roof structure, two stories tall, but they were very short stories—Anne’s head nearly brushed the ceiling in the claustrophobic main room. Clean and tidy within but hardly well-appointed.
Whilst the tenant—a widow with three young children—did not complain, the roof and front door clearly needed repair. It was right to expect these structures would keep wind and rain out. Perhaps a visit to Mr. Shepherd, who often managed such affairs for Father, would be in order.
Tomorrow.
No more calls today. No more forced conversations. No more offering gifts from the kitchen that were less than Anne would have wanted to give. What was more mortifying: the tenants’ gratitude or her embarrassment at Elizabeth’s meagre offerings? What did it matter? Mortification was exhausting, and she needed air.
She dismissed the driver and carriage, watching it trundle away down the narrow lane—if Elizabeth found out, she would hear about it for weeks—but she needed to walk, and walk she would.
A late spring breeze—cool and refreshing with hints of green scents—caressed her face, welcoming her onto the slim road. Dust rose up at each footstep, painting the white hem of her skirt gray; it was barely noticeable in the dappled sun that slipped between the arching hardwood branches overhead, clothed with new green leaves. She drew in a large breath of fresh air, bracing and restoring. Much better.
No more succumbing to the bidding of others. She would be in command of her life, at least for the next few minutes.
“Good afternoon, Miss Anne.”
Or not.
She jumped and turned toward the voice. “Oh, Mr. Musgrove, it is you! I did not hear you approaching.”
“Pray forgive me for startling you.” He bowed from his shoulders, a round-faced, ruddy young man, with chubby cheeks that made him appear more boyish than the heir to Uppercross, the second most consequential property of the county, should have appeared. His blowsy, tousled hair, in some sort of a haircut with owl in its name that stuck out wildly beneath his hat only added to the effect, making him difficult to take seriously at times.
“I suppose I was lost in thought. Father has often warned me to pay better attention whilst I am out.”
“I am going to the village. Might you be going in a similar direction?” He gestured toward the road ahead.
“Indeed, Elizabeth has several errands for me.”
He rolled his eyes just a mite, just enough to suggest he understood without her saying anything more. “Might I walk with you then?”
Saying no would have been impolite, but it was tempting nonetheless. “Of course.”
For several minutes, they walked along in silent step with one another, gravel and leaves crunching underfoot.
“My mother wondered if Sir Walter found the roast pork to his liking last night.” Charles clasped his hands behind his back.
Dry, stringy and flavorless were definitely not to Father’s liking. “It was a most memorable meal, he told me. He was particularly fond of the sauce served with the roast.”
“Mama noticed he had quite a bit of it. Would you find it amusing to know that she wrote herself a note to make sure that it is available the next time Sir Walter joins us for dinner?” He flashed his brows in a knowing sort of way.
“That is very good of her. Your mother is an excellent hostess.” It was true—it was hardly her fault that her cook ruined the roast.
“May I tell her you said that? It would please her very much.”
“I would not suspend any pleasure of hers.”
Charles laughed softly. “Of course, you would not. You are all that is good and kind.”
“Do not resort to flattery. It does not become you.” She kicked a small clump of dirt. It bounced and danced until it came to rest on a patch of grass beside the lane. The sweet scent of hawthorn bushes wafted on the breeze. They were approaching Lady Russell’s garden.
“It is not idle flattery, certainly not. You ought to know I am not given to such things. No, you should have heard what my mother said about you after you left last night.”
Anne gulped. One rarely wanted to know what was said about oneself.
“She and my sisters both went on and on about how gracious you were to listen to Mother waffle on about Dick’s latest misadventure.”
Misadventure really was an understatement, a very kind, gentle one, much like Charles’ nature in general, but still an understatement. Mischief at school that involved the local constabulary was a very serious thing indeed. But it was hardly surprising. Dick was hardly disciplined enough for a student’s life.
“Mother, and Father as well, are at sixes and sevens with my brother, you know. They have heard so much criticism of him that it was ever so pleasing that you could just listen without rebuke or remark. Thank you for that.”
Anne blushed. What would Charles think to have heard Elizabeth this morning?
“Anne, is that you?” Lady Russell bustled toward them. Tall and slender, in blue muslin and a hat with bobbing feathers that almost bounced against her face, she curtsied as she stopped beside them. “Good day, Mr. Musgrove.”
“Good day, Lady Russell.” He peered at her intently as he bowed, an odd expression on his face.
“Why ever do you look at me as though you do not know me? I am the same woman you know quite well and see regularly in the neighborhood.” Lady Russell spoke softly, deliberately, looking directly into his eyes. She was a handsome woman with large bright eyes and pleasant regular features, who barely owned her age—traits which Father greatly approved.
“Yes, of course. Pray do forgive me. I was just not expecting to see you.” Charles eased back half a step.
“I do not understand why not when you are walking past my own garden.” She wrinkled her nose, a mite larger and longer than it ideally should have been. All agreed it was her least attractive feature. “Might I trouble you to come inside for a few moments, Anne? I have mislaid my glasses and have something I need you to read to me.”
What joy, another requirement.
Anne glanced at Charles, who tipped his hat. “I have monopolized your company long enough. I will not keep you from your friend. Good day.” He sauntered away.
Lady Russell tucked her arm in Anne’s as they turned toward K
ellynch Cottage, the largest and best-appointed tenant property on Kellynch. Far more than a typical two-up two-down, four room affair, it boasted several bedrooms, a morning room and dining room, as well as a parlor and drawing room, rivaling the dower house in its improvements. Lady Russell and her late husband, Sir Henry, who had occupied that cottage for as long as Anne could remember would have settled for no less. But it was good to see Mama’s great friend comfortable in her widowhood.
“I confess, I am a little surprised to see you walking with Charles Musgrove.” Lady Russell clucked her tongue in the way she often did when perplexed.
Anne struggled to keep up with Lady Russell’s very long steps along the stony garden path. “I had been calling upon tenants, and we were both walking to the village.”
“If he were any more clever, I would say that it was contrived on his part.”
“How can you say such a thing about him? The Musgroves are totally artless.”
“You think that a compliment?” Lady Russell snorted—rather unladylike of her really.
“In this case, yes I do. I thought you liked the Uppercross family. Why do you seem so displeased today?”
“I am not displeased, truly I am not, only a bit startled. I had thought it might take a little longer to happen, that is all.”
“For what to happen?” Anne stopped and pulled her arm away from Lady Russell. She drew in a deep breath of hawthorn-perfumed air. Perhaps the sweet scent would also sweeten her temper.
“The boy likes you; can you not see that?”
“Our families have been friends for a very long time.”
“Do not be a ninny! You know what I mean. It is time for him to settle down. You are pretty enough, well-connected, and convenient. What more could he ask for?”
Convenient? “That hardly sounds like a compliment.” Certainly, Wentworth had never thought her merely convenient. He had actually had feelings for her.
A familiar ache opened near her heart and wound its way through her chest. She gritted her teeth. Definitely not a subject to discuss with Lady Russell.