No.
There was a clatter from the far end of the boathouse. Darcy had closed the gate. His silhouette returned through the narrow passage between Yuánchi’s torso and the boathouse wall.
“No one could see,” Darcy said as he reached us, knocking dust off his palms. “It is bright outside and dark in here. I would have to come within twenty yards to make him out.”
“What about boats?” I asked. The Thames was busy from dawn.
“The river froze in the night,” Darcy said. “There is ice from shore to shore. This winter will be one for the books.”
No one saw when I came, Yuánchi thought.I was careful.
“I am glad someone was,” Darcy said dryly. He could hear Yuánchi through our binding, at least when Yuánchi wished.
“I meant to tell you,” I said. “It was a confused evening.”
“I think it’s grand,” Lucy said, sidling up next to me. “I’ve never seen him so close. He sparkles.”
“He will touch you, if you wish,” I said with a smile.
Hesitantly, she reached out a hand. Yuánchi pressed his nose against her palm and puffed a rumbling snort. Her jaw dropped, and she stepped back, eyes wide.
She is brave,he thought.She will bind well.
I thought of Mary’s campaign for the rights of women to bind. Why not a housemaid bound to a draca? I chuckled, tugged his nose closer, and rubbed the smooth scales under his jaw.
You are very warm,he thought in a fussy tone. I stole a glance at Darcy, but it seemed Yuánchi had shared that thought only with me.
That is an amusing comment from a dragon, I thought.
Georgiana,Emma, and Harriet had left by the time Darcy and I arrived for breakfast. Darcy spotted Mrs. Reynolds in the hall and went in pursuit, muttering “sides of beef.” I presumed that was a menu for Yuánchi, not a ball. I liked my idea of hosting a ball, but Darcy would require persuasion.
Mary sat alone in the breakfast parlor, poking a ragged slice of cold toast with a bare butter spreader.
I sat beside her. “Are you not hungry?” Her head shook a slowNo, her face lowered over her dented toast. All I saw was hanging hair and glints of her spectacles. “Why did you not accompany the ladies to the salon?”
“I am meeting Dr. Davenport. He advises outside exercise for health, so we walk to discuss cases.” That was the doctor Mary studied with, a commitment that had grown until she was often gone at unexpected hours.
“May I walk with you?” I asked. She nodded, her loose brown hair swaying.
We set out, dressed for the cold and leaving the tyke snoozing by the fire. The day was silvery-bright, overcast but dry. I chose a practical bonnet and checked I had coins for a coach if the weather turned. Mary wore her customary black, fashionably cut despite the intimidating hue.
I had barely noticed Chathford’s exterior when we arrived in the snow, so Mary and I stopped to inspect it from the circular drive. We had exited the front, which faced the river. The main entrance was recessed between a pair of octagonal towers that fronted the main house. The walls were variegated red-brown brick and decorated with inset busts of anonymous figures. It was handsome and elaborate and far more conventional than Pemberley. Several acres of park surrounded us, fenced by a stone wall. In the Darcy tradition, there were few groomed gardens. Most was wilderness—chestnut, oak, and birch, their bare branches capped with thin snow.
Two footmen bundled in brown wool stood beside the iron gate. I did not know them, but they greeted me by name.
“Mrs. Reynolds described you, ma’am,” one explained with a bob of his head. “We was brought on yesterday. We’re to watch for miscreants.”
Darcy had hired guards against French assassins. He was nothing if not efficient. But they had been told to watch the property, not me, so they cheerfully pulled the gate wide for Mary and me to leave.
Mary studied the skyline, then set out parallel to the Thames, her pace determined and wordless. We passed two other estates, then a shippingwarehouse. It was certainly a different neighborhood than the country. But that would lessen the outrage when we converted a floor or two for the school.
After another silent minute, I said, “Tell me of Dr. Davenport. You speak of his work, but I know little of the man.”
That got a smile. “He is a brilliant physician. I am fortunate to assist him. He even attends our marches in support of women’s rights.”
“Another radical, then.”
“We agree that disease must be addressed by prevention as well as treatment of acute cases. Even a cursory study shows social risks to health. That is all too apparent in London.” Her stride lengthened energetically. “Any ethical doctor must advocate social change.”
