There was a breath before Lizzy said, “Of course. But I think ladies should not refuse to teach. I may teach, myself. Perhaps mechanized production… I am intrigued by the disagreement on threading for bolts. Only the pettiness of men could prolong such confusion. I certainly need an activity. Darcy has such competent estate managers that our household requires far less attention than Longbourn. There is only so much one can care about how well the silver is polished.”
“Oh, teaching would be so exciting!” Harriet said. “I help the young children at Mrs. Goddard’s with their reading! That is the school. Mrs. Goddard’s, that is. Where I live!”
“Harriet!” I exclaimed, laughing at her enthusiasm.
“Does your school have a name?” Harriet said. “Where is it?”
“It is the Martin School,” Lizzy said. “Only two miles from here.”
This was becoming alarmingly specific. “Harriet!” I said more firmly. “You must not lead Mrs. Darcy on. She requires serious applicants. You are marrying a gentleman.”
Lizzy beamed. “Goodness! What wonderful news.”
“If one will have me,” Harriet said in a distressed tone. Lizzy’s smile became confused.
A nudge on my toe made me look down. The tykeworm sat on his haunches by my feet. Most draca are disinterested in people, but tykes are an exception, affectionate with their bound wyves and, because they do not throw fire, safe indoors. A bound tyke was a prize in high society.
This tyke’s nutmeg-brown head lolled while he considered me, pantinghappily through black teeth edged like knives. The lamps reflected pinpricks in his inky eyes.
“He has followed you since he arrived,” Mary said. She was eyeing me narrowly. I had irritated her, but I was not sure how.
“We have only three bound draca in Highbury,” I said, testing a smile. “Perhaps he sees I am curious.”
“You may have an affinity for draca,” Georgiana said enthusiastically. “Mary has researched binding. Affinity varies among wyves, you know.”
“It varies greatly,” came Mr. Darcy’s voice behind me. He and Mr. Knightley had rejoined us. Mr. Knightley, though, had arrived only to make apologies for departing and say his farewells. He bowed elegantly to each lady. I raised an eyebrow, so he laughed and shook my hand.
Mr. Darcy saw him off with sincere courtesy but a noticeable sense of impatience. Then he turned to me and gave his own stiff bow.
“May we resume your tour of Chathford? I wish your opinion on a work of art.”
5
THE GREAT WYVES
EMMA
We passed through several rooms,halting once so Lizzy could ask questions about a boathouse she spotted through a window. Then we entered a hall with a half-dozen paintings on the undecorated, white walls.
Mr. Darcy led us to a faded triptych, a painting with three wooden panels hinged so they could close like shutters. The center panel was about fifteen inches square, the two side panels half that width. It looked very old. The wooden frame had splits and stains, and the paint was damaged.
The left panel was unevenly faded and crazed with cracks. It depicted a queen in the fashions of two or three centuries ago—a voluminous black gown trimmed with gold and a pearl-edged French hood that covered the back of her hair. Her hand was outstretched to a golden wyvern as large as a hunting dog. A bearded king stood behind her. Around them, courtiers and ladies had fallen to their knees in awe.
“This was commissioned by Queen Mary the first,” Mr. Darcy said. “She was the sole surviving child of Katherine of Aragon, who was herself a powerful wyfe. Katherine bound a firedrake when she wed Henry the eighth. But Queen Mary surpassed her mother. In 1554, she married and bound a ‘tremendous wyvern of shining gold.’ Mary was the first queen regnant—a female monarch ruling England and Ireland. Her binding secured her claim to the throne, for atime. It proved her divine right to rule.” His formality softened, and he smiled at Lizzy. “Historians thought the gold color was embellishment until your sister bound a gold wyvern.”
They werethatBennet family. The binding of a golden wyvern by Mrs. Jane Bingley, née Bennet, had been the talk of society.
Mr. Darcy turned to me. He seemed to expect a response. I nodded, and he gestured to the center panel.
This image was better preserved. The queen was seated on a throne, resting her hands on the sides of a kneeling child’s neck. The child was bent and sickly, his cheeks flushed.
The rendering of the queen’s robes was extraordinary, far more detailed than any other part of the panel. Every fold of cloth, every embroidered accent, every fastening was flawless. Yet it had the realism of life, not the flat perfection of a dressmaker’s illustration.
I took a step. I bent close. Each sewn pearl was a miracle. There were hundreds, faultlessly distinct. I could count the center decorations of her gown… eighteen. And—
“Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Darcy said. “Do you admire the queen’s clothes?”
I started, unnerved by the precision of his question. “They are painted very finely.”
