by Maria Grace
She hurried home, April tucked up in her hood against the chilly wind that had increased in the waning sunshine. Hopefully, she would not forget anything Longbourn had taught her along the way. Just in case, she murmured reminders under her breath.
“You missed a step,” April twittered from deep in the green velvet hood.
“Which one?”
“I expect you will write this down when you get home. I will tell you then. Otherwise I will have to repeat myself, and I am in no mood for that.”
“Just do not step on the wet ink this time.” The little footprints she had left on the page were rather dear, but they did make some lines barely legible. April might not care about such things now, but if she ever learned to read, no doubt she would be offended if a page she had dictated proved difficult to make out.
Could fairy dragons learn to read? Every source she read considered them very stupid creatures. Had anyone ever tried to teach a fairy dragon to read?
“Give me a sheet of blotter paper to stand on then. Really, if you expect me to help you, you need to do a better job of making it easy for me to do so!”
She did have a point. A snippy, annoying little point, but a point nonetheless.
In the privacy—and warmth—of her room, Elizabeth placed her writing desk on the small table near the window and spread out her commonplace book. Did other dragon-hearing girls write of them in their commonplace books? Certainly, they must. What could be more important to write about? True, pretty quotations, receipts for lotions and balms, and advice from those learned in female conduct were important to record, but somehow that seemed to pale in comparison to far more important matters, such as the habits of tatzelwurms in the barns.
Perhaps one day, she might ask Emily what she wrote in her commonplace book now that she was Friends with Rose. But would such a question make it past Mama’s inspection of her letters? She always read them before they were posted to make sure Elizabeth said nothing improper that might offend a friend so well-connected as Miss Delves. On the one hand, she could understand Mama’s concern—especially in light of the need to keep up proper appearances—but on the other, it was a bit difficult, even offensive, to think that Mama believed her to have so little good sense as not to be able to write a letter to a particular friend without supervision. Perhaps a little help from April might ensure her question made it past Mama’s inspection.
That was for later. Right now, she needed to make certain she accurately recorded what she had learnt today. She set out a piece of blotter paper and prepared her pen.
With April’s help—or constant interference as it more often felt to be—she managed to record the last of Longbourn’s instructions just before Mama called her and Jane down for supper. Mary, Kitty, and Lydia were, of course, too young to sup at the family table, but she insisted Jane and Elizabeth did—for it was never too early to instill proper etiquette in a young lady. She did not insist that they dress for dinner, at least not yet. Little girls did not have dinner dresses, after all. That would not happen until they were out in society.
Elizabeth capped the ink bottle, stood, and stretched. How long had she been at her writing desk? Long enough to make her shoulders ache and for nearly all of the sunlight to have disappeared behind the trees, making her squint at her paper. Perhaps it was a good time to stop, after all. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and made her way downstairs to the dining room just a few steps behind Jane.
How Mama loved her dining room! Two large mirrors, one above the fireplace and one on the opposite wall, multiplied the candlelight making the room appear much brighter than the few candles would have ordinarily allowed. The table, dressed in bright white linen, was already laden with shiny serving dishes wafting inviting smells her way. Mama was known for setting an excellent table.
What did it mean to set an excellent table? Elizabeth had too little experience to know for certain. However, one thing was sure: the food served at the “big people’s table” was far more palatable than the very bland stuff found at the nursery table, making dinner with Mama and Papa far and away more satisfying. Still though, dining in the nursery held one great appeal: one was free to engage in conversation during meals. In the dining room, one only spoke at Mama’s bidding.
Today Mama was particularly talkative. She had seen Lady Lucas in town today and had a great deal to comment upon: her gown, her manners, how her eldest daughter, Charlotte, who was out in society, fared at the last assembly. Was it too early to hire a dance master to ensure that Jane—oh yes, and Lizzie, too, of course—were prepared to show themselves creditably when they began to dance in public.
Jane smiled pleasantly at the suggestion, and when asked, offered a sweet and thoughtful remark on how well Charlotte must dance and how pleasant it must be to dance well. So very typical of Jane. How was it possible that anyone could be so sweet? Even April occasionally found Jane too sweet, which considering April’s love of honey and preserves, was saying something. But Jane’s answer pleased Mama, and was very proper according to all the conduct writers, so Elizabeth held her tongue.
It felt as if she did that a very great deal, not that Mama ever realized it. She still thought Elizabeth too opinionated for a girl of just twelve years.
Perhaps that was why it was so much more pleasant to talk to dragons. They were forthright creatures with little patience for words that might obfuscate –she had just learned that word and it was fun to say in her mind—the truth. It might be best, after all, that Mama did not hear dragons. She would probably find them very, very rude.
After dinner, Mama and Jane repaired to the parlor to continue Jane’s work on Mama’s silhouette. One more skill Jane was very good at that Elizabeth had little interest in. Now if one could draw silhouettes of dragons, that would be far more interesting. But how would one get a tatzelwurm to hold still that long, or persuade Longbourn to sit in front of a screen? How would he even fit in the parlor? She bit her lips not to giggle.
Papa bade her come to his study with him to help him write a letter. Mama muttered something about him needing to hire a proper secretary. At least she did not insist Elizabeth come to the parlor. Something about Papa’s expression suggested the letter might be something very important, indeed.
But it was all very odd, though. While she wrote a great many things for him, very important correspondence, especially with the Blue Order, he still managed to write for himself—slowly, painfully and nearly illegibly, but on his own.
He pulled the study door shut behind her and pointed her towards the small stool she usually used. Though it matched none of the other furniture in the room, it tucked neatly up under the small writing desk she wrote at so as to be out of the way.
Gracious, there was a new clutter in the room! Maps, both laid out and rolled up in carrying tubes, and some paintings of dragons that had surely not been there before, leaned against the base of the carved dragon perch that matched the dining room chairs. When had he added those to the collection?
Did he maintain the chaos because he was not a particularly tidy person, or was it because Mama detested disorder and refrained from visiting him there because of it? It was difficult to tell, and most days, both felt equally true.
He sat at his big desk, littered with piles of the detritus of his studies, and lifted his glasses. Sighing, he set them aside and scrubbed his face with his palms.
She perched on the stool and bit her tongue. Asking him what was wrong would probably not receive a direct answer anyway.
He balanced his glasses on his nose and riffled through stacks of papers on his desk, sliding them to and fro until he caught sight of the one he wanted. Did he realize three or four papers had fallen to the floor in the process? She would pick them up and return them to the desk on her way out. He plucked a folded missive from the center of a pile, a bit of blue sealing wax still clinging to the paper.
Blue sealing wax? Only the Blue Order sealed their letters that way. Why would he want to tell
her what they had written?
Oh, no! It must be about April! Could they forbid their friendship? Might they insist that April leave Longbourn House? Her eyes prickled, and her face and hands turned very cold.
“As you can see, the Blue Order has written to me concerning the matters that transpired at Pembroke.”
She sat very still, hands tucked under her thighs, and nodded.
“As I expected, they are not pleased.” He peered over the letter and glowered at her.
Elizabeth shrank into a hunch which Mama would certainly call unattractive. Posture was most important in being considered an attractive young lady. To slouch so openly was unacceptable. But what did one do whilst anticipating something very dreadful indeed? Surely one could not be expected to sit straight and proper then—could one?
Probably. Etiquette did not seem to be a very understanding master.
“The Order is not especially fond of flitterbit fairy dragons and the problems that they bring on.”
Elizabeth ground her jaws until they hurt.
“I can see you mustering your defense of them, but we will have none of that tonight. No, those creatures have alarmingly poor judgement and even poorer control of their impulses, as we see here on a daily basis.” He grumbled under his breath. That was probably not in the letter, but rather a statement of his own opinion. Perhaps then, the Order did not find them so very objectionable? “They are very concerned that April has settled upon you as a Friend.”
The knot in her stomach tightened until she could barely breathe. Was she really so unsuitable a companion? Miss Eva and Miss Elaine Delves were hardly more than flitterbits themselves, and they were deemed acceptable companions for fairy dragons, even though their reaction to the hatching proved them otherwise. Why would she herself not be when she did far better than they?
“You are far too young—barely twelve years old now.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, slow and out of rhythm. Just a few months ago, he had been able to keep a slow, steady tapping whilst lecturing her.
Her age was hardly something she could change, but if they were just patient with her, her age would remedy itself soon enough. Certainly they could see that. If only he might vouch for her.
“The Order does not welcome members until they are at least fifteen years of age. Tending dragons is serious business and not something for children.” There it was, the glare he often used to punctuate such a declaration.
She rocked back and forth, just slightly, but enough to relieve some of the building pressure in her chest. Had he forgotten? He was the one who brought her along to Pembroke in the first place. He insisted she attend the hatching to help him. That was not her fault, no more than it was her fault that April chose her as a Friend. What had he expected her to do? She clenched her fists against the hard wood of the stool seat.
“But what is done is done. Even though she is only a fairy dragon, April was duly imprinted upon humans at her hatching and is therefore governed and protected by the Blue Order. They will not take away her free choice of Friend.” He wrinkled his nose and snorted. Had he learnt that habit from Longbourn? They looked rather similar when they did so. “You may begin breathing again. They will not be asking for her removal from Longbourn House.”
Blood rushed back into her cheeks, leaving her a little dizzy as she sucked in a deep breath. As long as they did not forcibly wrestle her and April apart, she could tolerate anything the Order demanded.
“Under ordinary circumstances, the Order would insist you both be sent to a dedicated girls’ school to be taught the ways of the Order and managed until such time as you might come out to the Order and be placed upon the Dragon Keepers' marriage mart—something you hardly need.”
A school, away from home and Longbourn?
“But,” something about the way he said the word was comforting and ominous at the same time. “Because I am under consideration to be named Historian of the Order, they have granted me an exception.”
Historian of the Order? Papa was to be made an officer of the Order? How wonderful! If only Mama might know, she would be so proud.
When had that happened? Who had recommended him, or had he put himself forth for it? How did the Order manage such things? Was that what Sir Rowley had been talking about at Pembroke?
“They have assigned me your tutelage as the final test to my installment to that office. They have given me until the spring to teach you everything you need to know to be accepted into the Order.”
Her punishment was to be taught about dragons? Surely she did not hear that correctly.
He looked at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “I can see what you are thinking, Lizzy. Even with all your enthusiasm, there is far more to learn than you realize.”
She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I promise, Papa, I will learn. I will be the best pupil you have ever had. I will make you proud of me.” Hopefully she did not sound too pleading. He did not appreciate that tone from her.
“I know you will do your best, but you will have to apply yourself with more diligence than you realize. It will not be easy. And it is not only you. April, too, must be taught the ways of the Order and of proper behavior. She will be tested along with you.”
“She is very smart and far more obliging than you realize. When I explain to her what is at stake, then I am sure she will be a very apt pupil.” While Papa was right, April could be obstinate; however, she rarely determined to be so over matters of real significance. And if they disagreed on the significance, there were always extra helpings of honey that could be brought to bear to encourage her compliance.
“Do you even know what is at stake?”
“I must imagine we will not be permitted to stay at Longbourn or perhaps even stay together if we do not meet the Order’s standards.”
Papa grunted, eyebrows rising as though surprised. “Close enough.”
“We will study very hard. The Order will find no fault with you,” she whispered. She and April must not be the reason that Papa was not named Historian of the Order.
“There is something else, perhaps even as important as what you are to learn. The Order insists that you must not interact with any unfamiliar dragons until such time as you are inducted into the Order. I cannot take you on any further Order business, and you must stay away from any wild dragons—absolutely no communication with dragons you do not already know until you are granted formal permission to do so.”
That was sobering indeed, but for the promise of officially joining the Order? “Yes, sir. I will do exactly as you ask.”
“I expect you to mean that. Now, there is no time to waste. Help me gather the books you will need to study.”
Chapter 8
January 1803
Dreary January winds whistled through a tiny gap beside the far window in Papa’s chaotic study. Despite the fire in the fireplace, the room never really felt very warm, which meant his joints ached, and his disposition remained decidedly sour for the entire cold season. That was nothing new, but it did seem to be getting worse, instead of better, no matter what the apothecary suggested.
If only they might find a way to keep him warm during this dreadful weather. But did any place in the house—or all of England— really feel warm during the grey and gloomy winter months? Before April had chosen her as a Friend, Elizabeth had only given a nod to the cold as an inevitable nuisance one endured since there was little choice. But now, she was ever aware of it, even a little afraid of it for April’s sake. Tiny, cold-blooded creatures did not fare well against the ravages of a winter’s day any more than Papa’s temper did.
Elizabeth stood up from behind the writing desk and stretched. Hours had passed since she had last done that. She turned her back on the pile of books on the desk that threatened to topple if she jostled the desktop, or perhaps even if she sneezed. Papa’s study boasted enough dust to make sneezing a very real threat.
How long had she been at her books today? Given the strident tones Mama and
Papa used just outside the study door, it had probably been most of the day. Mama was not the only one who would rather see her doing something else, at least some of the time, but how else was she to learn the enormous amount Papa deemed necessary for her to meet the demands of the Order?
“I do not see why you keep Lizzy locked up amongst your books all the time. She is a girl. So much studying and reading cannot be good for her. Consider her health! Why I just read—” Mama’s strident tones pierced the heavy oak door as though it were merely paper.
“Madam, it is not your concern. I am her father—” Papa’s feet shuffled, and the soft thump likely meant he was leaning heavily against the study wall, aching knees and feet probably demanding he sit down soon.
“Precisely! A daughter is of no concern to a father. She should be left to her mother’s care!” How could Mama say such a thing? It seemed like the only time she took notice of Elizabeth was to find fault.
“You have Jane—and Mary, Kitty, and Lydia—all under your care. What bother is it to you to leave Lizzy to me?”
“You will leave her unfit to marry. A bluestocking of some sort whom no man will ever want. And then where will she be? She has no fortune. You would condemn her to be dependent upon her sisters?”
Elizabeth pressed her fist to her mouth and dropped back onto her stool. Mama did not think very kind things about her at all.
“Since you have not provided me with a son—” What an unusual tone of voice for Papa.
Mama’s slippers scuffed along the floorboards. It was difficult to imagine her expression.
“The estate is entailed away to a young man who is destined for the clergy. I have it on good information that he is a bookish sort and motivated to please those in authority. I am preparing Lizzy to marry him.”