PART I
LONDON
The wedding ritual that binds draca, an offering of marriage gold blessed by the Church, is central to aristocratic Englishness. Yet, in this Enlightened era, we cannot deny the evidence of binding in cultures different from our own.
— DEBRETT'S DRACAL LINEAGE. 8THED, 1812
The empowerment of binding is a female right, independent of religion, class, or love.
— MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT BENNET. ARGYLL STREET PROTEST, JULY 1812
I shall not give you any advice.
— EMMA WOODHOUSE
1
EMMA WOODHOUSE
EMMA
I am Emma Woodhouse.I have three secrets.
Our coach rattled over the cobblestones of London. The city’s unfamiliar clamor had grown: shouts and whistles, thudding hooves, and traces straining above the clatter of wheels. The coach windows were shut, tightly latched and curtains drawn, but the sound crept through.
“Miss Woodhouse…” Harriet’s voice had a concerned wobble.
My gaze was trapped by the pearl button that snugged the wrist of my glove. Twelve loops of perfect thread wrapped the button shank—my defense against the miasma. It took all my courage to look up.
Even pinched with worry, Harriet’s black eyes were pretty, framed by slightly plump cheeks, charcoal brows, and umber skin. I told her often that was more attractive than my winter-pale face and blonde ringlets.
“Are you certain I should bind a draca?” Harriet said.
I reached across the carriage to take her hand, the crook of my wrist almost blue beside the warmth of her brown fingers. “Dear Harriet. I am certain you are a lady, and ladies bind when they marry.” She shook her head nervously, so I added, “Let me show you London.”
Emma Woodhouse, comfortable and clever, does not fear a city.
I trapped a breath in my lungs, summoned the memory of my glove’s pearl button, then drew the curtain from the coach window.
“Oh my.” Harriet gawked out the window. “It is grand. You must look, too!”
My eyes were locked on the coach’s pleated red cushions. “I have seen London before.”
After Papa’s death, I met his lawyer here. The lawyer clutched my hand as I left, reciting condolences and advice. Then a strange man staggered against me and sprawled in the gutter, wracked with cough.
That fear, vivid as life, seized my mind.
Harriet turned from the window, and her smiling lips moved as if speaking, but her skin became ashen and mottled. The colorless miasma of illness swirled around her, and she gasped and choked for air—
No.That is false. Harriet is not ill. It is an evil fancy.
I found my glove’s button and counted perfect loops of thread. Harriet’s cheerful voice resumed, describing a milliner’s window.
Here is my first secret. False thoughts slip into my mind. These evil images of sickness are so terrible that I visited a famous physician for a private opinion. The doctor wore fine tweed, but his watch chain dangled, unfastened. I do not remember what he said.
I summoned a smile for Harriet, unfoldedTheTimes, and reread the announcement:
For Ladies:
