A Musical Salon and Social Discourse upon Feminine Power, the Right of All Women to Bind, and other Topics.
By invitation.
Misses Mary Bennet and Georgiana Darcy.
Miss Bennet’s reply to my letter was folded in my reticule. Emma Woodhouse, handsome and rich, was welcome at their London salon.
The miasma slipped putrid tendrils under the seams of the carriage door.No. That is false.
My gloved fingers were trembling. I willed them still. Since the illness and death of my dear father, these false thoughts have pressed harder and harder. But I have a tool to master them.
“Come, Harriet,” I said. “Let us have you looking nice.” I smoothed her collar, like I had smoothed her life, perfecting her rise into society.
Perfection is proof against illness.
I aligned a point of lace on her shoulder, and serenity filled me. The miasma skulked and hid below our seats.
London’s vaporof coal smoke stung my eyes as I stepped down from the carriage. The street swarmed with gentlemen, ladies, energetic children, and an astonishing range of carriages and cabs.
One passing coach had an iron travel cage strapped atop. A small, sleek draca was inside—a dark brown ferretworm as long as my forearm, and not much thicker. Her black eyes met mine before the coach vanished around the corner. An echo of brown woodland-earth flickered in my mind.
I looked for the building named on the invitation. The doorway was down the street, but the path was blocked by a dozen working men shouting and waving hand-drawn signs. One sign faced me: “Of the Heathen, Ye Shall Buy Bondmen and Bondmaids.”
The man holding the sign saw my attention. He grinned, stretching skin that was rough with stubble. His gaze crawled down my yellow silk gown.
Harriet stepped from the coach. She looked around, her raven curls swiveling, then she saw the men. Her hand caught my arm. “We should go another way.”
“Another way?” I said. “Why?”
She leaned close. “They are pro-slavers.”
“Oh.” I recognized the sign now, a Bible verse that slavers cited as divine proof of their cause.
Slavery was outlawed in England, but the slave industry and its horrors still flourished in the colonies. The pro-slavers sought to repeal the government embargo on transporting slaves aboard English ships. They claimed it cost jobs.
Unexpectedly, the opposition to slavery was led by women. Ladies Societies throughout England had organized the movement for full abolition. Of course, the encroachment of ladies into politics only fanned the fury of the pro-slavers. That made a lady with Harriet’s coloring twice a target.
The man’s coarse grin was now an angry sneer at Harriet.
I linked my arm through Harriet’s and clasped my hand on her puffy muslin sleeve. “Come, Harriet. You are a lady, and ladies are above such people.”
I strode forward, and Harriet fell into stride with me, although stiffly. Twopaces short of the men, I stopped and stared at the stubbly man. He shuffled aside with a mutter and a glare. The group parted, most of the rest touching a hat or forelock. When the path was clear, we proceeded, and I felt Harriet’s arm relax.
“I have seen their kind twenty times,” I said to her. “They cannot impede proper ladies.”
“You have seen their kind.” Harriet’s voice was somber. “You have not seen what they do.” Fiercely, she added, “I am glad you have not.”
We entered a quiet, elegant lobby. A note in a lady’s hand gave directions to a salon on the next floor. There, a dour maid asked to see our invitation and admitted us.
The salon was a good-sized room, about twenty by forty feet, with windows overlooking the street. It was furnished like a lady’s sitting room but excessively bland, with beige fringed curtains, plain cushioned chairs around small tables, and undersized, dull watercolors hung on the walls. This was a space for hire, not one decorated to an owner’s taste. The sole unusual item was a tremendous grand pianoforte of gleaming mahogany.
At one side of the room, the hostesses were buried in a bustle of chattering ladies. Around them were draca.
A broccworm, wingless and quadruped like most draca breeds, sat at the edge of the crowd. Broccworms are one of the larger draca, and this was no exception, at least fifteen pounds and solidly muscled under armored brown scales. In a farther corner a pretty roseworm lazed, no bigger than a rabbit, her belly scales streaked with pink.
The invitation had suggested that wyves bring their bound draca, but seeing them in the room was remarkable. Draca are rarely together. A gentry couple bind a single draca on their wedding night, and the beasts themselves lead solitary lives. Even seeing a broccworm or roseworm indoors was exceptional, as they can throw fire. Flamers were usually kept outside in stone draca houses, away from wooden structures.
A third draca, a tykeworm, waited by a lady observing from the far wall. I encouraged Harriet to mingle with the crowd—it would be good practice—then crossed the room. The lady watched me with lively eyes, her curly chestnut hair barely restrained in a chignon and an amused quirk on her lips. She wore light blue muslin, simple but finely tailored, and practical, slightly scuffed shoes. The tykeworm sat alertly at her feet, a few pounds of puppyish energy sheathed in nutmeg-brown scales that became carrot orange at his toes.
