42
ARIA
LIZZY
In the last year,my young and complacent life was transformed by moments of lucid decision. When my father died, I chose to save Longbourn. When Jane was ill, I chose to cure her. When Lydia seized my husband, I chose to fight. Each time, my world shattered, and I answered:No.
Learning of my own illness was different. Even in little Meryton, lives regularly ended without rhyme or purpose. A fever spiked. A childbirth was hard. A scratch blackened and swelled. Why should I be immune to the scythe? If there were purpose to death, I was a sensible choice—either judged for the violence I had unleashed, or simply a fool, a country girl who traipsed through London’s slums as if fresh wealth and good intentions were proof against pestilence.
But when I cradled Darcy in the privacy of our gardens—when I listened to him moan and shout—I realized I must choose again. Not for myself. After all, I would be gone. But other lives continue. So, I decided: I would be strong for my husband.
“Wait here,” Darcy whispered to me when we entered Box Hall, then he rushed to Emma on the terrace. I knew he would seek her out—to ask her to cure me, or to demand it—but I did not expect him to return so… eviscerated. Riven to his core. Darcy believed in Emma. He was her prophet and her champion. His surrender extinguished a secret glimmer of hope I held as well, but it strengthened my choice.
I pulled him to the corner, away from the chattering bodies. “I am glad that is done. Now you will not be distracted while Mary performs.” When he did not answer, I said firmly, “This is important. You promised we would attend. That means in spirit, not staring through the walls like a blind wraith.”
He breathed deeply several times. “Yes.”
While he collected himself, I surveyed the room and considered the mysteries of illness. I felt quite good now, other than a buzzing glare around each window. This followed a pattern that had built in the last few days: a few hours of normalcy, then a surge of symptoms. Each surge was harder, but the timing worked well for this.
Georgiana joined us, happy, excited, and wearing her Chinese gown of red silk and golden, web-footed dragons.
“I have not seen that dress since Jane’s wedding,” I said.
“Mary has been composing like a madwoman. She was gone before I woke, and has hidden in the library all day. I am sure this will be special, so I have dressed to celebrate.”
Mary entered the hall while she spoke, and Georgiana summoned her with a wave. As she arrived, Georgiana announced, “Mary is adapting the third act of Purcell’sDido and Aeneas.”
“Not that!” Darcy burst out, so loudly that nearby conversations stopped.
Georgiana made a scolding noise at him, then gave Mary an apologetic smile. “Fitz is worried because the aria issosad. He is all stony nods in life, but he cries if there is the least drama on stage.”
Mary said seriously to Darcy, “Do not be apprehensive. I have altered the ending.” She was dressed in fastidious black, the most dour of her Mary-ish outfits, although the most dramatic as well. Across her shoulders, a roll of cloth was bunched and tied.
“Is that a costume?” I asked. Mary played the pianoforte endlessly while composing, but I had expected her to remain behind the scenes. She was not a confident performer like Georgiana.
“Belinda,” Mary answered, which meant nothing to me. She passed several pages of handwritten music to Georgiana. “Your part.”
Georgiana took it eagerly, then quieted as she scanned it. “I thought the courtiers would sing. You know I do not perform vocal work. Things… happen when I sing.”
“England is invaded,” Mary answered softly. “Every life is unsure. I wish to sing with you. This once, while we are all together.” Mary’s gaze touched Darcyand me as well. When Georgiana hesitantly nodded, Mary said to me, “After the performance, we must speak with Emma also. I have had only an hour to read since London. But those books reveal a greater danger than we knew.”
I was battling a swell of emotion from Mary’s brief speech, but Georgiana removed any need to reply by saying sharply, “London?”
“Later,” Mary repeated. “Where is Emma? We will need her, too.”
“She left,” Darcy said.
The royal family entered, and formal greetings rippled outward. The old king, pouting and mumbling, settled in a chair between his doctors, but the prince came to us. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. Thank you again for your accommodation. Lord Wellington did tell me this extreme secrecy will be brief. I hope we will not long require Pemberley’s unique defenses.” His smile at me was polite, but curious also.
Lord Wellington doubtless uttered whatever words soothed restless monarchs. But what would happen once I was gone? Draca bound through their wyfe, so when a wyfe died, the binding ended, and the draca left. Everything I knew suggested that Yuánchi would leave after my death. Pemberley would be a poor fortress without its dragon.
Lady Hertford, the prince’s acknowledged mistress, patted the prince’s arm. “Prinny, let them prepare. Miss Darcy must herd all these squawking geese into place.”
“I am sure Miss Bennet will assist,” the prince said. To Mary, he said, “Will I hear your music today?”
“In the last piece, sir.” Her tone was tight, which surprised me. Mary was no royalist, but she had been precise in observing court etiquette. Perhaps she was nervous about performing.
The prince watched her thoughtfully. He seemed intent to make some point. “I look forward to it. I have been curious since the ball. Wondering what woman could so captivate Miss Darcy.” Mary’s tension was now visible in her clutched fingers. Darcy, too, stiffened. More softly, the prince added, “Do not be concerned. A royal life fosters sympathies for impossible situations.” He took Lady Hertford’s arm, and they proceeded to chairs beside the king.
