A Touch of Night

by Sarah Hoyt

  Mr. Bennet came into the drawing room at that moment, a letter in his hand, and frowned at his wife. "How are you disposing of our daughters' hands now, Mrs. Bennet?"

  "Oh. I said that with the were -hunter regiment coming to town, they can all get themselves good husbands."

  Mr. Bennet frowned at his wife. "Good marksmen, certainly, although I hear that those regiments accept all manner of men who would be turned down elsewhere."

  "I think," Elizabeth said, to distract attention from Jane who had gone suddenly pale, "that it must take a very heartless kind of person to shoot down, in cold blood, a human being who, to their knowledge, has never done anything to deserve it."

  "Human being?" Mrs. Bennet said. "Oh, don't be tedious, Elizabeth. These are weres . They are NOT human. That is the whole point."

  Mr. Bennet nodded. "If it comes to that, my dear, there are many people who are not fully human." He waved a paper. "However, while you're giving your daughters' hands away, you must save one of them for my cousin, Mr. Collins."

  "Your cousin?" Mrs. Bennet asked alarmed. "Oh, not the wretch who is to inherit Longbourn once you're gone."

  "I'm afraid that very same wretch, my dear. But he says he wishes to make amends by marrying one of his fair cousins." He beamed around the room with an absent minded kind of smile. "His term, not mine. I wonder what he will think when he finds we're the parents of a couple -- or might I say three -- of the silliest girls in all of England?"

  "I cannot understand why you disparage your own daughters so," Mrs. Bennet said. "When is this Collins to arrive?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Oh, I must see if there's some fish to be got. Kitty, ring the bell for Hill."

  * * * *

  "I'm not scared," Jane said. She sat in front of the mirror, combing out her long locks. "Truly, Elizabeth you must not worry about me."

  "Not worry about you?" Elizabeth asked. She sat on Jane's bed, cross-legged. The thought of not worrying about Jane was alien. Ever since she was twelve and Jane thirteen, when Jane had first changed shape, she had done nothing but worry about Jane. "You've perhaps not heard that there is a regiment of were -hunters headed for fair Meryton. And that our sisters," she slapped the bed next to her to show the indignation she didn't dare display by raising her voice. "Our own sisters, are setting their sights on those murderers."

  Jane looked over her shoulder at her sister. "Elizabeth, they don't know they're murderers," she said. "They think they're only defending civilization from bestial creatures."

  "They're the bestial creatures," Elizabeth snarled.

  "Elizabeth, truly, if you didn't know me and my secret, what would you think of weres ? What do the books tell us?"

  Elizabeth shook her head. "Our father doesn't believe weres are bad."

  "He didn't say that. He merely said that he doesn't like were -hunters. But, Elizabeth, it must be allowed our father doesn't like most people. Some amuse him and some he simply can't stand."

  Elizabeth sighed. "You must go to London," she said. "Aunt Gardiner will keep you safe."

  The Gardiners were the only other members of the family who knew of Jane's problem. It had happened quite by chance that they'd witnessed her change one night and, unwilling to believe Jane anything less than the sweetest, kindest girl in the world, had agreed to hide her defect from everyone. Shortly after that, the sisters had hit upon the arrangement of sending Jane to London when Elizabeth was unable to care for her. The Gardiner's house was one of the older London homes and had passages and rooms that everyone, even the help, had forgotten. There was a convenient secret room adjacent to the bedroom Jane occupied. It could only be accessed via a certain manipulation of bricks upon the wall. And it could not be opened from the inside. Mrs. Gardiner had set it up very comfortably and Jane slept there on full moon nights, unable to get out and hurt herself or others.

  Jane toyed with the tip of her golden hair and sighed. "Yes, I know I must. But, Elizabeth, can we not wait until the twenty-ninth? For you know that Mr. Bingley has promised to give a ball and, Elizabeth, I would very much like to attend."

  Elizabeth looked suspiciously at her sister. She was sure the gothic dream at Netherfield had been just that, a dream, and that Mr. Bingley's predilections ran towards ladies, Jane in particular, and not Mr. Darcy. And yet, she could not in any way condone Jane's getting closer to a man whose friend hated weres so much. She could imagine Mr. Darcy convincing Bingley to turn his wife in to the authorities. "Do you love Mr. Bingley?"

  Jane shook her head, then shrugged. "I don't think so, Elizabeth. I do enjoy his company very much. But, being as I am, I've always known that I could never... you know, live a normal life. So I don't think I could fall in love. But I would very much enjoy a ball. And I'll always think him the most amiable man of my acquaintance. Please, Elizabeth. It's not very long till the ball, and the full moon isn't till after. And you know I can control myself except for the three days at the peak of the moon."

  Elizabeth nodded. "If you're sure. I shall write aunt Gardiner then."

  "Yes." Jane looked worried. "What concerns me, Elizabeth, is the dragon. If the stories are true, gentlemen weres always have less control than lady weres . And this one... He's out there, flying almost every night as if looking for something. He's going to get caught and killed, Elizabeth, and I don't know if I can endure that..."

  Elizabeth found it amusing that her sister often referred to weres as ladies and gentlemen, but given Jane's sweet character it did not surprise her. This time, however, her amusement was short lived. The idea of the were -dragon being executed chilled her heart, not only because of what such a spectacle as a public execution in Meryton would mean, but because she hated to think of such a magnificent creature being beheaded. After that first night she had searched the skies for it, but though she caught fleeting glimpses of its shimmering scales as it slid away through the night sky, she had not again seen up close the deep, clear green of those huge reptilian eyes. But the intensity of that gaze lingered within and returned to her mind's eye again and again. "If only we knew who he was we could send a message," she said.

  That night she stood by her window, hoping the dragon would come, hoping she could give him a warning. But he never came.

  * * * *

  The next day Mr. Collins arrived. Elizabeth wasn't sure what she expected, but what came through their door was a powerfully built creature, ginger haired, incongruously attired as a man of the cloth. He was not very well informed or, truth be owned, very intelligent. His conversation seemed to gravitate solely around his patroness, whom he referred to as the noble Lady Catherine de Bourgh . Upon hearing that the lady was Mr. Darcy's aunt, Elizabeth was immediately convinced that the woman must be as proud as her nephew and all the condescension of which her cousin spoke must be a fabrication of her cousin's imagination.

  He first fixed his attentions on Jane and it took some doing, on Elizabeth's part, to get them transferred to herself. Oh, she wanted neither part nor parcel of the fool, but she was very determined he should never guess Jane's secret. In this she was aided by her mother's certainty that Jane would very soon be engaged to Bingley.

  In the evenings, Mr. Bennet sat with Mr. Collins and conversed over a glass of sherry. Elizabeth often did some needlework in a corner by the fire, and her father invariably glanced her way, a sardonic grin upon his face. He loved to make sport of oddities in human nature, and Mr. Collins took the term oddity to new heights. Elizabeth did notice, though, that as the evenings progressed, his usual volubility became monosyllabic. Mr. Collins also had a tendency to pick little things out of his scalp and then study them before absently popping them into his mouth. Elizabeth's stomach turned, but her father only grinned all the more.

  One morning Mr. Collins walked into Meryton with Elizabeth and her sisters. He expounded the entire way about the staircases, chimneypieces, and myriad windows to be found in the home of his patroness. She had to admit that his late night grunts were by far preferabl
e. She felt sorry for the woman upon whom his name would eventually be bestowed, but vowed it would never be her.

  In the main street of the village they chanced to see one of the officers of the Royal Were -Hunters, accompanied by another gentleman.

  "It is Captain Denny!" cried Lydia, waving across the road and calling out his name in a manner her mother thought cheerful and friendly, but to Elizabeth's mind was nothing short of forward. Elizabeth glanced quickly at Jane, but her expression was serene, with no hint of the panic she surely must feel coming face to face with an officer trained to discover weres.

  "This is Mr. Wickham," Captain Denny said. "He had just joined our regiment and I dare say that once he is dressed up in his gold uniform he will out swagger us all."

  Kitty and Lydia looked at him and giggled. Elizabeth introduced Mr. Collins and hoped that he, with his long-winded conversation, would keep the attention away from herself and Jane.

  Lydia was not to be outdone, however, and instantly invited both Denny and Wickham to their Aunt Phillips' card party that evening, "For you know she dearly loves a Gold Coat, and two will be even better."

  Just as the officers were accepting, Elizabeth noticed Mr. Bingley and his solemn friend approaching them. The former was all smiles as he addressed Jane, and Elizabeth thought again how silly she had been ever to entertain the outrageous idea that he and Mr. Darcy were . . . involved. In fact, Mr. Darcy appeared to be about to greet her when his eyes alighted upon Mr. Wickham, and his face drained of color. Mr. Wickham, for his part, became beet-red and then tipped his hat in Darcy's direction. Elizabeth was surprised to see that gentleman turn away without so much as a nod. She had known him to be proud and disagreeable but had not thought him quite so uncivil. The rich, she supposed, could give offense wherever they went.

  * * * *

  At Aunt Phillips' card party that night, Mr. Wickham appeared in his regimentals. He looked, truth be told, like one of the few men who could appear to advantage in a gold jacket, embroidered in gold and with gold braid on the shoulders. His hair was the exact color of the gold jacket, his skin a shade lighter and his eyes a tawny gold.

  If observed from a distance and with one's eyes half closed, Elizabeth thought, he could almost be taken for a golden statue. Though this reflection did not mean that she was smitten with him as her two youngest sisters were. She was determined not to like the man, for he was a were -hunter and represented everything she most feared and despised. She almost carried her purpose to the end of the evening. Almost that is, until, through the casual mingling that happens at such informal gatherings, she found herself sitting beside him on a sofa. Having made some politely casual remark about his new career as a were -hunter, she was surprised to hear him sigh.

  "I was not cut out for this line of work," he said. "I've never killed anyone and I'm not sure I could point my gun at a human being and kill him in cold blood."

  "You consider weres human beings, then?" Elizabeth asked, surprised.

  "Surely. Do you not? Like us, they're endowed with God given reason and understanding. They merely have a flaw in their makeup. And, truth be told, most of them never do anything wrong. I think the laws should be altered, and death sentences should only be imposed upon those weres capable of causing significant harm."

  With such an auspicious beginning, Elizabeth couldn't help but liking like the fellow. "Why is it then," she asked, "that you joined the Royal Were -Hunters? With such feelings as you have just expressed, I would not have expected it of you."

  "I had other hopes for my future, but alas, they were dashed, through no fault of my own."

  The sincere look of disappointment that he cast her was enough to melt the hardest of hearts, and upon one already disposed to liking him, it instilled an eagerness to discover the cause of all his woes. "Someone has served you ill?" she asked.

  Wickham glanced about him and then responded in a lowered voice. "I do not like to speak ill of anyone, you understand, especially someone who is already residing here and most probably well respected in the neighborhood."

  Elizabeth instantly recalled the unusual meeting between him and Mr. Darcy in the street. "I think I can venture to guess -- it is Mr. Darcy you refer to."

  "Indeed."

  "But he is not at all well liked here."

  "Is he not? In most circles, his fortune guarantees his popularity. I am happy to know that I may confide in you. At one time Mr. Darcy and I were very close -- we grew up almost like brothers, but he changed his ways when we were in Cambridge together. His father was my godfather, and cared for me deeply. I think Darcy always resented the love his father had for me. In his will there was a bequest that I receive a set of colors, but Darcy ignored his father's wishes. Instead he made it so no regiment in the King's army would have me. My only dream was to serve my country with pride and honor, but the only avenue left to me was the Were -Hunters."

  "But that is terrible! Not to respect his father's dying wishes? I had suspected Mr. Darcy of some sort of depravity, but I had not thought him devoid of all common decency."

  Wickham was quick to jump on the one word he felt he could use to even greater advantage. He enjoyed the quick sympathy he could get from a pretty girl whenever he told his tale of woe, but besmirching Darcy's name pleased him even more. "Depravity?"

  Elizabeth blushed. "Well, when I first met Mr. Darcy I suspected something not quite . . . gentlemanly about his friendship with Mr. Bingley. I thought perhaps there was something . . . dark. Oh, I'm convinced I've dreamed it all."

  Mr. Whickam became very intent. "Dark? I don't have the pleasure of understanding your meaning. Did you suspect, perhaps, some secret between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley?"

  To Elizabeth it was like that moment in the night all over again. Her candle had blown out, and there was . . . She felt her cheeks heat. Could it be that it had really happened? "His friendship with Mr. Bingley . . ." She blurted. "Oh. I thought they might be involved in something nefarious, but, when I spent the night at Netherfield I . . . I thought I must have been dreaming . . . but why would I dream of something so very perverse in nature?"

  As Elizabeth spoke, Mr. Wickham's expression changed from apprehensive to smug to apprehensive again. "Exactly what are you inferring, Miss Bennet?" he asked, his color heightened.

  Elizabeth gasped. "Mr. Wickham," she said, "there are some things a lady cannot be explicit about. I have already said too much."

  Strangely, Mr. Wickham's assurance returned with this remark. "I do apologize most sincerely -- I misunderstood you completely. But now -- I have to admit that while in Cambridge I observed evidence of what you so delicately cannot speak. It shocked me to the marrow, and was part of the reason for our falling out. After all -- I had been very close to him growing up -- and looking back upon those years, I can only wonder whether it was brotherhood that was foremost in his thoughts."

  After this disclosure Lydia flounced up and plunked herself down upon the settee between them, effectively ending the conversation. Elizabeth was quite relieved -- what had passed between her and Mr. Wickham was of such a sordid nature she could not understand how she had actually come to disclose such indelicate concerns, or that he, if she understood him correctly, had actually indicated that she might not be far wrong in her assumptions. It was totally deplorable and gave her much to think on. It is hardly surprising that when she finally sought the relief of sleep, it forsook her. Head pounding, she sat at her open window and scanned the sky, hoping to see a sinuous, iridescent-green body, and a noble head with jewel-like eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Netherfield Hall was all lit up and footmen lined the stairs as guests alighted from their carriages and made their way up into the ballroom of the stately mansion. Darcy was uncomfortable with the crowds. He left the receiving line and made his way to the landing where a window looked out upon the sweep and new arrivals.

  What had Bingley been thinking, planning this ball so close to the full moon? True, it was a convent
ion to hold balls at the time when the moon was at its fullest to have a bright night for travel, especially in the country, but for himself and Bingley it increased the danger of discovery one hundredfold.

  Miss Bingley had been adamant that her choice of date remain unchanged, and Charles always conceded to his sister's demands. Darcy could well understand this. She was a vixen when crossed -- well not in the sense that he was a dragon, or Bingley a hunting dog. If that were the case they would have less to worry about. No -- she became enraged and spiteful. He was afraid that if Caroline ever discovered the truth about her brother, she would not hesitate to turn him in to the authorities. As for himself . . . he held back a smirk at the thought of Caroline's reaction if she found out his closely guarded secret. In Miss Bingley's eyes weres were the worst abomination, and yet she seemed to have dedicated her life to entrapping Darcy into matrimony.

  Darcy had more to worry about than the ill-timing of the ball. He knew that there was now an encampment of Royal Were-Hunters in Meryton. In fact, Bingley had been bound to invite all of the officers to the ball. Not that he usually had a great fear of the RWH -- he knew them to be undisciplined and poorly trained. It was usually only the most foolhardy of weres that were captured by the royal brigade. Unless they had been turned in, as he did not doubt had happened to his dear friend Sevrin. Darcy clenched his fists. He would make it his business to know. Surely, Fitzwilliam knew someone in the Were Control Ministry. Fitzwilliam knew half of London. And Darcy would know who had as good as murdered Sevrin.