Pemberley- Mr Darcy's Dragon

by Maria Grace

  “I can believe he would be so judgmental. His opinions seem entirely fixed as to what constitutes acceptable deportment.” She glanced at Lydia and Kitty.

  Oh, the things Mr. Darcy would say of them!

  “We are very different sorts of men. I have a warm, unguarded temper. I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. What is certain is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man.”

  “Shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

  “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.” He smiled, though the sadness of the expression threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

  “What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

  “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better. But his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”

  “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this. Though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him—descending to such malicious revenge! Then again, I do remember his boasting at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful. You grew up together, did you not? Has it been so all his life?”

  “The greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father began life as a solicitor, as your uncle, Mr. Philips, but he gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy as his steward. He devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. Mr. Darcy often credited my father with much of Pemberley’s greatness. I believe the elder Mr. Darcy’s promise to provide for me came as much from a debt of gratitude to my father, as from affection to myself.”

  Elizabeth chewed her lip. Delightful as he was to listen to, it would be pleasing if he would actually answer her question.

  “The current Mr. Darcy has always been a prideful man, but out of that pride I think, if you will excuse the speculation—good has come. He has a reputation of being liberal and generous, giving his money freely, displaying hospitality, assisting his tenants, and relieving the poor. Not to appear to disgrace his family or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, are powerful motives for his Christian charities. He has also brotherly pride, which with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister. You will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

  “What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”

  He winced. “I wish I could call her amiable. But she is too much like her brother, very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and extremely fond of me. I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But I never see her now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a companion lives with her, and sees to her continued education.”

  “How can Mr. Bingley, who seems the embodiment of good humor itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.”

  “Probably not. Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want in those abilities of disguise. Among those who are his equals in consequence, he is a very different man: liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honorable, and perhaps even agreeable.”

  The whist game broke up and the players dispersed to another card table. Mr. Collins used the break to return to his favorite topic, Lady Catherine, in tones so loud the whole room took note.

  Mr. Wickham leaned a little closer. “Is your cousin very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh?”

  “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”

  “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters. She is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth grimaced. One more addition to the list of Mr. Collins’ many appeals. “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.”

  “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

  “Mr. Collins speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter. But from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”

  “I believe her to be both in a great degree.” He chuckled behind his hand. “I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her. Her manners were dictatorial and insolent despite her reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever.”

  Aunt Philips called them all to supper, putting an end to their conversation.

  ***

  Elizabeth went away with her head full of Mr. Wickham, though in the carriage on the way home she could hardly think. Neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent for even a moment. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won. Mr. Collins described the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins. He had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.

  Jane followed Elizabeth upstairs and to her room, under the guise of helping Elizabeth with her hair. As she removed pins, brushed and plaited, she waxed on about the superiority of Mr. Bingley to all the officers and all other men in general.

  At last Jane paused, and Elizabeth related what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself.

  “I do not know how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard. Yet, how might I question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham? Mr. Bingley and Mr. Wickham, they have both been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other. It seems to me, interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.” Jane set aside the hairbrush.

  “Very true, indeed. Now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do we clear them too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”

  “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating one whom his father had promised to provide for in such a manner. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? I am sure not.”

  “I can much more easily believe in Mr. Bingley being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me. Names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”

  “It is difficult indeed. Perhaps I should consult Mr. Bingley’s experiences. One does not know what to think.”

  “I beg your pardon. One knows exactly what to think.” Especially if one were to add consideration of a stolen dragon’s egg to their understanding.

  After three days spent in the company of the militia Darcy was certain of two things. He detested Colonel Forster’s society only second t
o Mrs. Forster’s society, and the egg was not hidden amongst the encampment.

  He had seen Wickham not less than half a dozen times. The man must have sought him out for the opportunity to gloat. Each time he looked more smug than the last, knowing where the egg was hidden and knowing that Darcy did not. There was little that seemed to please Wickham better than getting the best of Darcy.

  But he would not win this time. He could not.

  Surely Longbourn would send word soon. How long could it take a highly motivated dragon to find an egg in the hillsides when accompanied by a cockatrice who could actually smell it?

  Darcy called for a breakfast tray and paced his room. Joining the company in the breakfast parlor was out of the question. With the ball to be held the next night, the household’s frenzy was more than his fragile composure could tolerate. Perhaps he could escape the house entirely for the day and fortify himself for the dread event with a generous dose of solitude.

  A squawk at the window!

  He jumped.

  Walker, at last!

  “Come in, come in. I had begun to despair that something untoward had happened to you.” He swept the curtains out of Walker’s way.

  “I should have anticipated a se’nnight delay at least. The Order is not known for moving quickly, even when urgent matters are at hand.” Walker hopped from the window sill to the back of the nearest chair, flipping his wings neatly to his back.

  “I am sure you have seen the militia with their supply trains as you came. Unfortunately, Wickham discovered my presence here before I could search the encampment without his knowledge. Nonetheless, I have spent the last three days determining that it is not among them.”

  “And the hillsides?” Walker picked at one of the buckles holding a small satchel to his chest.

  Darcy released the straps. “Longbourn and Rustle are combing them.”

  “Longbourn? Something has moved that dusty, crusty creature to activity?”

  Darcy snorted. “He was tremendously disturbed at Miss Elizabeth’s injury. He forbade her from any more searching for the egg and volunteered to take her place.”

  “I can understand his being upset.”

  “Why so?”

  “According to the description I gave the Order, it was wyvern venom you encountered in the map room.”

  “Wyvern?” Darcy set the satchel aside.

  “Yes. But how it got there no one can say. Wyverns do not give up their venom easily, only to their Keepers—and victims—if at all. There has been no other wyvern in this region in a century.”

  “There was black trade in venom at one time. It is possible it was a family heirloom, passed down to some Netherfield resident.”

  “That has been suggested. But it is mere conjecture and not at all useful. Unless Bennet has come up with something, no one in the Order has the means by which the venom, once airborne can be neutralized. Once it settles again, the room may be entered, with certain precautions taken. But it will take months for that to happen.”

  Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “So those maps can be of no use to us. Have you any welcome news?”

  “I brought some papers from the Order. You will be pleased, but your aunt will not.”

  Darcy opened the satchel and pulled out a bundle of blue taped papers, sealed with the Order’s blue wax. “They have tackled the marriage issues?”

  Walker bobbed his head. “It seems that the unthinkable has happened. Dragons have changed their minds. I have been charged to help spread the word.”

  Darcy sank into the nearest chair. “Pray, tell me you are not joking. This is not the kind of jest I can tolerate.”

  “As it means I may well not have to endure the company of Anne de Bourgh for all of her natural life, I do not consider it a matter of jest, either.”

  “There is recourse to the marriage the old Pemberley and Rosings arranged?” Darcy held his breath.

  “I am not sure I would go that far, but the signs are very favorable that that will soon be the case. You have only to defer the unhappy event for perhaps another year, maybe just a few months. I believe the Conclave will have a final mandate drafted by then. Given their current attitudes, it seems likely the Conclave will no longer insist that dragon dictated marriages must be honored.”

  “Second to finding Pemberley’s egg, this is the most heartening news I can imagine. I had no idea the Conclave would consider such an issue important enough to discuss.”

  “Do you think we regard our relationships to our Dragons Friends so lightly as to be insensible to their feelings?” Walker had that offended look in his eye and his hackles rose.

  “Hardly. It is just that dragons do not mate as we do, and there has been little basis of understanding on that matter since the penning of the Pendragon Treaty.”

  The feather-scales on the back of his neck smoothed. “Buckingham is quite future-sighted. He has been studying the writings of your philosophers and examining the unrest that has been plaguing the continent. It is his conclusion that a significant social shift is happening, one that could threaten the Pendragon Treaty. I think this is the first of many changes, changes that will help the Accords to remain strong. It would not do to have them break down after eight hundred years.”

  Darcy scrubbed his face with his palms. “When our life-spans are so much shorter than dragonkind’s, it is sometimes difficult to remember the full scope of considerations that must be dealt with.”

  A knock at the door drew him away. He took the breakfast tray and dismissed the maid.

  “Kippers?” Walker sniffed the air. “You hate them.”

  “But you do not. I requested them just in case you might arrive in time to partake.” Darcy placed the tray near Walker.

  He grabbed a kipper in his beak, flipped it into the air and caught it, swallowing it whole.

  “You could stop to chew, you know.”

  “Later. The last se’nnight has been such that it is best to swallow and bring it up later when there is time to savor it.”

  Darcy swallowed and smacked his lips. Some dragon manners he would never become comfortable with. He buttered a piece of toast and looked aside as Walker downed the remainder of the kippers.

  A loud squawk and another cockatrice flapped at the windowsill.

  Walker reared up defensively, but quickly settled.

  Rustle.

  “You may enter.” Walker extended his wing toward the window.

  Rustle hopped to Walker and bowed his head. Walker touched his beak to the back of Rustle’s neck.

  They did so enjoy their shows of dominance.

  “I come on behalf of Longbourn. He requires your presence.” Rustle’s feather scales were covered in dust and his wings drooped.

  Darcy leapt to his feet. “He has found it? The egg? It is recovered?”

  “I am to say nothing in that regard. You are to come.” Rustle’s voice was weary, far deeper weariness than mere physical exertion.

  Had the urgency of the situation affected the dragons as well? They so rarely evidenced anything resembling anxiety.

  “We will leave immediately.” Walker tossed a piece of ham toward Rustle who wolfed it gratefully.

  Darcy shoved a plate of cold ham toward Rustle. “Please, consider yourself my guest.”

  Rustle jumped to the table’s edge and gobbled the meat so fast Darcy was hardly certain it was ever there.

  “My deepest thanks, to both of you. I will inform Longbourn you are coming.” Rustle bobbed one more bow and dove through the window.

  A quarter of an hour later, Darcy approached Longbourn’s cavern, Walker flying just ahead of him. Though it was still early, shadows enveloped the little copse. Rustle stood at the opening in the hillside talking to the darkness just within. They spoke dragon tongue. Perhaps Walker would offer some insight into their conversation later.

  “Laird Longbourn,” Darcy called, still in the bushes. “You summoned us to an audience.”

  “Approach.” Longb
ourn stomped out of the shadows.

  His hide was dull and grimy, face creased in an expression of draconic displeasure. That did not likely bode well for any of them. Neither did his lashing tail that swept the ground and bounced off the cavern mouth with painful thuds.

  Walker landed. He and Darcy approached, bowing deeply.

  “Where have you been?” Longbourn bent low and glared at Walker.

  “To see the Order for information on wyvern venom—”

  Longbourn roared hard enough to set Darcy’s ribs trembling.

  Walker flapped for balance. “I offer my services, now I have returned. Merely tell me how I may be useful.”

  Longbourn huffed and snorted, clawing at the exposed rock. “The only use I have for you now is to leave my territory, and take all your troublesome companions with you.”

  “Pray, Laird Longbourn, does that mean you have—” Darcy steeled himself for another roar.

  “The egg has been recovered.”

  Darcy’s knees failed and the world wavered around him. He sank to one knee, his breath coming in labored pants.

  It was found! It was found. The Dragon Slayer could be returned to the Order, and the egg to its Keep. All would be well.

  “We are deeply in your debt, Laird Longbourn.” Walker said, nudging Darcy with his wing.

  “Indeed we are. Since you want us gone, I will make arrangements. We will depart this very afternoon.”

  “No, you will not.”

  What? No, he could not have heard that correctly.

  Darcy pushed to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Pray excuse me. I do not take your meaning.”

  “You shall not have the egg ... not yet.” Longbourn pulled himself to his full height.

  “The egg is too near hatching, you cannot risk keeping it. Preparations for hatching must be made. Rosings is ready to receive the egg and provide all that is necessary for the hatching and time of great hunger afterwards,” Walker said.