8
ASCARLET CALM
EMMA
I am Emma Woodhouse.Two of my secrets are revealed. I imagine false illness, and I see bindings. One secret remains.
Today, Harriet and I planned to tour the Darcys’ school, but we started our outing by accompanying Georgiana to her music salon. She wished to inspect it. Specifically, it appeared, the instrument.
The salon air had the stale, charred odor of an uncleaned fireplace. Harriet and I watched Georgiana prowl around the massive mahogany pianoforte. Already, the cuff of her sleeve had a half-inch sooty smudge.
Harriet touched my arm. “I keep thinking of those horrible visions you had. They must be so frightening.”
“They are frightening while I see them,” I admitted. It was strange to be so open, even with Harriet. I pictured the miasma flooding the world. “I lose my sense of what is impossible. You would laugh if I described what I see. It would sound like a silly dream.”
“Why did you not tell me before?” Harriet’s tone had no hint of accusation, only concern.
I smiled brightly. “I prefer happy topics.”
Harriet hesitated, then grinned. “We are staying in London! That is happy.”
The Darcys had invited us to stay the week.
Yesterday, I rode to London, fearful outside the shield of Hartfield’s walls.Today, I woke in a borrowed nightgown, and an unfamiliar maid fastened my dress and bemoaned the weather. I had been tipped into a foreign sea, but I had not sunk.
“I shall take you shopping,” I decided. “This trip will be your coming out as a lady. You need finer things for London.” I had written a letter asking for clothes to be sent, but Harriet’s wardrobe was dictated by Mrs. Goddard’s boarding school and very dull.
“I did not think of clothes when I asked to visit the school. Is my dress good enough?”
I gave a little sigh. The school was already a tiresome topic. “Your dress is more than sufficient for a school. It is society where you must present yourself with perfection.”
Harriet’s hands twisted. “The children at Mrs. Goddard’s do not notice my clothes. They do not care how I look.”
I patted her reassuringly. “That is exactly my point. You are wasted on children.” Her fingers wiggled. I patted more firmly.
Georgiana’s head was upside-down to see beneath the pianoforte’s lid. She straightened, tucked a fallen raven lock behind her alabaster ear, then sat and played a thundering excerpt of something jarringly modern. Beethoven, perhaps. Serious music.
As if summoned, Mr. Knightley appeared in the doorway, puffing and laughing. His coat was sprayed with snow like a child after a snowball fight. I fought an urge to rush over and sweep it off.
“Oh!” Harriet said. “Mr. Knightley is here.” She crossed the room, her steps a natural chassé. Mr. Knightley bowed to her extravagantly, and she clapped in delight. Then he caught my eye and mimed a handshake with a glove caked in snow. A laugh tumbled through my lips, surprising me.
Georgiana joined me with a satisfied sigh. “At least there is no damage.”
I looked up. My borrowed maid had enjoyed the novelty of yellow hair, so I peered through exorbitant curls. Blackened paint and broken plaster dangled from the ruined ceiling. “That appears damaged.”
“Thatdoes not matter.” Georgiana flicked her fingers ceilingward. “Fitz will pay the landlord if he makes a fuss. More likely, Fitz will scowl tremendously, and the landlord will payhim. But the instrument is a treasure.”
“Fitz?”
She beamed. “My brother is Fitzwilliam. I am an indulged sister, so I call him Fitz.”
“Your brother is quite intense.” Our long conversation at Chathford filled my mind.
“He is a good brother.” She glanced at me. “How are you today?”
I wore my dress from yesterday, although it had been ironed and freshened. My fingers were pinching a pleat to align the crease.
I forced my hand still. Putrid illness did not erupt from the floor.
