Pemberley- Mr Darcy's Dragon

by Maria Grace

  Though Papa would not appreciate Mr. Darcy’s interference—as he would call it—without it, she would hardly be able to search the manor in less than a se’nnight, probably more like a fortnight. Maddening as the man was, he was maniacally focused on whatever might help them locate Pemberley’s egg. The energy he brought to the task was truly remarkable.

  Dinner called a halt to their efforts, requiring them to dress and pretend they were merely guests thrown together largely by chance for an evening. At least she pretended. Mr. Darcy scarcely exerted the effort to be civil. He was nearly silent, bordering on taciturn throughout.

  Odd, Mr. Bingley hardly seemed to take note. Could it be possible this was Mr. Darcy’s normal mode in company?

  How insupportable.

  After dinner, she checked in on Jane, then joined the party in the drawing room.

  Shortly after, a servant appeared with a letter for Mr. Darcy and two for her. Papa and Mary had written.

  Thankfully, the loo table did not appear, allowing her to curl up in relative privacy with her missives. Little surprise that Papa would be inquiring about the success of her efforts. Aunt Gardiner had written it for him—how sweet of her to be his hands whilst she was away. No doubt Papa would not have considered that inconvenience when he sent her to Netherfield.

  Would it be better to write back to him or send April with the message? No, the dear little flit would inevitably get something wrong and cause him to worry. Perhaps she could call Rustle to her room later tonight. He could carry word straight to Papa, leaving no chance for Mama to get hold of the letter by mistake or machination. Yes, that would be best.

  Mary’s letter detailed her visit to Longbourn. Heather and Rumblkins had joined her. Together, they distracted him from his displeasure at Elizabeth’s absence. After a thorough oiling and brushing, he seemed quite content with Mary’s company. Perhaps there was some good in forcing Mary to visit alone. While Longbourn could be intimidating, he was hardly as fearsome as Mary made him out to be. Mayhap this was just what they needed to break the ice between them.

  Across the room, Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, distracting his attention by requests to include messages to his sister.

  Was he even writing to his sister? His uncharacteristic posture, hunching over his letter, suggested otherwise. As did the bits of blue sealing wax, from the letter he had received, strewn about the writing desk.

  “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a long letter!” Miss Bingley craned her neck, an obvious attempt to try and read over Mr. Darcy’s shoulder.

  He turned his back a bit more, blocking her view.

  “You write uncommonly fast.”

  “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

  Miss Bingley fluttered her fan in front of her face. “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

  “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”

  “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

  “I have already told her so, as you requested just a moment ago.”

  Mr. Darcy gritted his teeth loud enough to make Elizabeth wince.

  This was truly rich, almost enough to leave her feeling sorry for him. The woman was every bit as tenacious as Mama and as flirtatious as Lydia, though a touch more refined in her efforts. The poor man was being driven to distraction.

  Probably a fitting penance for his solemnity at dinner.

  “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and I think her playing infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's.”

  Elizabeth clenched her fists. She must not laugh aloud. Did he even know the Miss Grantley to whom Miss Bingley referred?

  “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures until I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.” He returned his pen to its box.

  “Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy? It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.” Miss Bingley stood and glanced about the room. “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words and blots the rest.”

  Mr. Bingley threw his head back and laughed heartily. “She is right, I fear. My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them, which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

  “I think it displays a pleasing desire to ensure no correspondence is left unfinished.” Elizabeth refolded her letters.

  “I appreciate your compliment, Miss Elizabeth. My friend is quite sure I am simply impetuous and my ideas ill-conceived.” Mr. Bingley’s smile grew even broader—something that hardly seemed possible.

  “I am by no means convinced you are heedlessly rash.” Mr. Darcy turned to face them. “I think it just as likely if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it—and, at another word, might stay a month.”

  “So your friend is not nearly so impetuous as he is obliging?” Elizabeth glanced from Mr. Bingley to Mr. Darcy. “To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.”

  Darcy blinked at the word.

  Did he suppose Mr. Bingley weak-willed for his susceptibility to dragon persuasion? Would he think the same of Jane? Did he truly understand what kind of will was required to withstand the determined inducement of a dragon? Barely one man in a hundred had it.

  “It appears you allow nothing for the nature of the influence itself. You must agree that there are some requests that veritably demand yielding to, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley, of course,” Elizabeth said.

  Mr. Darcy’s brow rose. “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the importance of the request, as well as the nature of the relationship subsisting between the parties?”

  She sat up a little straighter and pulled her shoulders back.

  “By all means, let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting the comparative height and size of those involved, for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of.” Mr. Bingley snickered. “I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy.”

  He had certainly not met a dragon, especially an angry one. Even an irate fairy dragon could be far more awful than Mr. Darcy, even in high dudgeon. No wonder Mr. Bingley could not oppose any dragon suggestions.

  “I see your design, Bingley. You dislike an argument, and want to silence this,” Mr. Darcy said.

  “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours until I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful.”

  “What you ask is no sacrifice on my side. I am sure Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter,” Elizabeth said.

  He took her advice, folding and sealing his letter—with blue wax.

  Was it possible he had found something that he did not share with her? What would be worth reporting to the Order—or his uncle, which in some ways were one and the same? Dare she ask him?

  Miss Bingley moved to the pianoforte, and Mrs. Hurst joined her there to sing.

  Why was Mr. Darcy staring at her, with that odd inscrutable gaze of his? What fault did he find with her now?

  After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley launched into a lively Scottish air.

  Mr. Darcy drew near. “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

  She stared at him. No, nothing could be farther from her mind, bu
t...

  Dance. A reel would be pleasant. You should dance with him.

  The voice was not familiar. She closed her eyes and listened carefully. Silence. Had there been anything there but her own thoughts?

  “Would you care to dance?”

  She opened her eyes to Mr. Darcy staring into her face. “I am not certain I wish to dance a reel at all. But I think perhaps I will, despite my inclinations. And now despise me for my ductility if you dare.”

  “Indeed I do not dare.” He bowed to her and escorted her to the center of the room.

  Mr. Darcy proved himself a good dancer, and their two dances in the Netherfield drawing room were exceedingly pleasant.

  But disquieting.

  No doubt he was simply being contrary, finding a subtle way to demonstrate his powers of persuasion over lesser beings like herself and Bingley.

  Bah and botheration! Dragons she understood, but men she did not. And Mr. Darcy was even more puzzling than most.

  ***

  The following day, with April and Walker’s help, they completed their search of the attics and servant’s rooms. The dragons turned up several maps, but they seemed to be freshman efforts in a study of cartography. Blotted and wobbly-lines crisscrossed the maps, illustrating Netherfield’s grounds, and not very well at that. But they did suggest the detail with which the map-maker imbued his creations. If they could find countryside maps—if they even existed—they could prove invaluable.

  Instead of easing her mind, though, the teasing find only left her irritable and prickly. Not a good frame of mind with which to endure the superior sisters’ company. At least she had the excuse of Jane’s illness to make an early retreat from the drawing room. Especially welcome as Mr. Darcy was looking at her so peculiarly.

  She rose with the sun the next morning. There were several promising rooms she might be able to search before the Bingley party rose.

  April led her, via a servants’ corridor, to a small room at the end of the hall in the family wing of the house. What a very convenient way for their companion dragons to traverse the house without worry of drawing the attention of its occupants. Too bad Longbourn house was not grand enough for such architecture.

  Scuff marks along the floor resembled tatzelwurm tracks and marks along the beams resembled claw marks. Not all estates had dragons attached, especially those not part of a titled seat. Had Netherfield once been occupied by a Dragon Mate who kept multiple small, companion dragons? Neither Papa nor Longbourn had ever mentioned it. It seemed as though they would have. Usually a county’s Dragon Friends always knew one another fairly well.

  April hovered in front of the door. “There is no one within, Walker is waiting for us.”

  Elizabeth pushed the door open with her shoulder and peered inside.

  A smaller, masculine style bedroom, paneled, not papered. The burgundy drapes, heavy and plain, were made of a very fine wool. Sunlight crept around the edges, casting just enough light to make out Walker’s form perched on the foot of the bed. She entered and shut the door behind her.

  “So where is this treasure you wish me to see?”

  April zipped across the room and perched on a dull, brass door handle. “In here, in here, hurry, you must see!”

  Walker’s face contorted into a draconic version of mirth. “I do not read human script, but I agree, it does look promising.” He hopped along beside her toward the door.

  It led to a smaller room with a large window, covered by a white sheet. With no fabrics or wall coverings, only a large desk, chair and trunk, there was little to protect from the fading powers of the sun. Sunlight filtered through, leaving the room pleasingly bright. Her footsteps echoed off the walls, hinting that perhaps she was not welcome.

  Walker stood on the edge of the desk and tapped a large book with his beak. “Here.”

  Underneath the book lay a large, half drawn map depicting the road from London to Meryton. The paper beneath it was blank.

  She yanked the desk drawer open, revealing several more half-finished maps. Her heart thundered. This must be the room in which the map-maker pursued his craft. Surely it would be here!

  She sorted through, leaf by leaf.

  Blast and botheration! Nothing more than half-hearted efforts.

  Perhaps the bedroom!

  She ran to the bedroom shelves.

  “Walker, April, I cannot reach those. Can you—”

  Walker squawked and flapped up to the top shelf, dust flying in his wake.

  “Under the bed!” April shrieked.

  Elizabeth dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. The maids had been taking short cuts for certain. Some of those dust clods might be alive.

  There were myths of dust-dragons ...

  A portfolio! She shoved forward on her toes and caught the corner with her fingertips.

  Dragging it out raised another cloud of dust that sent them all into sneezing fits. Between spasms, she forced the buckle open and peeled up the flap. A quire of foolscap at least!

  She sat back on her heels, blood pounding in her temples, and pulled the portfolio into her lap. April landed on her shoulder, Walker on the floor beside her. The paper fought her, but finally relented and slipped from the case.

  Maps! Two dozen of them. Amazingly detailed, but impossible to read. The hand was unlike anything she had seen before.

  Walker walked from one side to the other, peering and chittering. “By my brood mother’s blood, that is dragon script!”

  Elizabeth’s limbs prickled and ran cold. “So the writer was a Dragon Friend of some kind? Perhaps even a Keeper?”

  “No other human might know dragon script. But the signet mark, there,” Walker pointed with his wing to an odd character on the bottom left of the map, “I do not recognize it. Darcy must see this.”

  “Yes, yes of course. Do you think I would keep it to myself? It is far too important.” She rose and dusted her hands on her skirt.

  “Of course, I meant no offense, Lady.” Walker bobbed his head.

  “I am no Lady, and you know that. Why flatter me? You should know if there is something you need you have only to ask it of me.”

  “I do not flatter you, I only please myself. I see a Lairda and a Lady. I shall call you both such, regardless of what anyone else might say.”

  Who—what had Mr. Darcy been saying about April and herself?

  “You are most gracious.” She curtsied to Walker. At least he deserved the courtesy. “Pray keep watch here in the unlikely event anyone else should approach. I shall find Mr. Darcy.”

  She hurried away, her chest a mass of conflict and tensions.

  What was on those maps? What did they say? Were the maps they needed yet among the artifacts in that room?

  What sort of calumny was Mr. Darcy speaking against her in the privacy of his rooms, or even with his friends?

  Downstairs, Nicholls directed her to the northern gardens to where she had seen Mr. Darcy depart with Miss Bingley.

  The northern garden contained a labyrinth; tall boxwoods, trimmed into a formidable hedge reaching well over the top of her head. Of course, there were multiple entrances. At least she could hear low conversational tones filtering from within the hedges. Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley were within.

  Perhaps it would be better to simply call out to them.

  Miss Bingley would surely mock her for such brash behavior, though, and then it would be hard to extricate themselves from her company.

  It could not take long to find them properly. She trotted through the nearest entrance. After a few steps she paused and listened. They were close.

  She followed the narrow path through the shrubbery. Close, but not close enough. The voices grew louder, but they did not appear around the next corner.

  “I hope you will give your future mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue.”

  Dragon’s blood! That was Miss Bingley.

  “If you can compas
s it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavor to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

  His lady? His lady! The presumption! How dare she?

  “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” Mr. Darcy asked, flat-toned and acerbic.

  “Do let the portraits of your soon-to-be Uncle and Aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle, the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

  “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their color and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.” No doubt what sounded like a compliment must be made a cut by the facial expressions she could not see.

  Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley burst through an opening in the hedges.

  “I did not know that you intended to walk.” Miss Bingley had the good graces to look shocked, even a little horrified. “You used us abominably ill, not telling us that you were coming out. We would have been happy for your company with us here.”

  She was not a good liar.

  “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.” Mr. Darcy brushed past them both and out of the maze.

  Miss Bingley hurried after him, leaving Elizabeth to trail them both.

  A few steps into the open, Miss Bingley stopped and fiddled with her bonnet. “I thank you for the walk, Mr. Darcy. I pray you both will excuse me, though, I must meet with Nicholls over the menus.” With a quick curtsey, she dashed away, cheeks flushed.

  Perhaps it was something in her favor that she could feel shame—or at least appeared to. Still it made little material difference.

  Darcy turned to Elizabeth, looking ready to say something, but she cut him off.

  “While you have been keeping our hostess occupied, we have found something worth looking at. Pray come.” She turned sharply and dashed away. He could follow if he wished, but if he did not, her duty was amply discharged.