“Have you attended the salon before?” I said.
“This is my first visit.” She offered her hand. “Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Miss Emma Woodhouse.” We shook hands.
The binding to her draca crackled up my arm and flooded my mind, a blinding flash of scarlet, numbingly potent even through gloves.
Shaken, I missed Mrs. Darcy’s next words. Her dark brown eyes became puzzled—waiting for a reply.
I guessed, a talent I had mastered to hide my distractions. “One of the hosts is your sister?”
She smiled, relieved our conversation was on track. “Both hosts are my sisters. Georgiana Darcy by marriage, and I was Elizabeth Bennet before.”
“How delightful that your sisters share their project with you.”
“Share?” Her eyebrows narrowed.
I unfolded the program included with my invitation and touched her name on the list of speakers:Mrs. Darcy, against social prohibitions to binding. This was why I had brought Harriet to London—to ensure she would be allowed to bind. No gentleman would marry a woman forbidden to bind draca.
Mrs. Darcy folded her arms and glared at the knot of ladies. “Mary neglected to inform me that I shared her project. I may spend our afternoon delighted by one fewer sister.”
I laughed at that and found I quite enjoyed Mrs. Darcy. “Please forgive your sister. I have learned that sisters are precious.”
She became still. She did not look away, but a pair of glistening tears pooled on her lower lashes.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I have upset you.”
“You could not know. I lost a sister this year.” She touched my hand. I was prepared this time, but the scarlet of her binding hammered my wrist like a giant pulse. “Please call me Lizzy.”
“Of course. I am Emma.”
I introduced Harriet Smith, who had returned to report on the styles of the London ladies. Lizzy listened with great amusement, and I was pleased to see Harriet at ease in city society.
While they spoke, I studied the tykeworm, who had padded close to investigate the lace trim of my petticoat. Lizzy’s scarlet binding could not be with this tyke. The color I sensed from a binding was the color of the draca themselves, and the tyke was brown and orange. To my knowledge, no draca were scarlet.
I addressed the tyke, mock serious. “Which wyfe is yours?” Gleaming blackeyes turned up to consider me. I felt the stirring of his binding, but weak. Distant.
“He is bound to my aunt,” Lizzy answered, and the tyke switched his attention to her. “Today he is my companion. My aunt’s legs tire, and he is high-spirited, so when I come to London, I take him out.” She bent to him. “You are my loyal guardian.” He sat back on his haunches, chest flung out and for all the world appearing proud. All three ladies laughed.
Although the event was for ladies, two gentlemen entered. One was dark skinned, and my gaze caught on him. Black men were common in port cities like London, often sailors from the Caribbean who had settled, and Black gentlemen were mentioned in the society papers, but I had never met one. Our small Surrey village of Highbury had only a Black farmer and Harriet.
This man was elegant and poised, his charcoal coat fitted to a strong, tapered torso. He wore no gloves and gestured while he spoke. His hands were strikingly expressive. I wondered if he had passed the men shouting that England should resume the slave trade.
“Who is that?” I asked Lizzy as the man bowed to a pair of fashionable young ladies.
“Mr. Knightley. He is prominent in the London musical establishment. I have been looking forward to meeting him.”
A cough echoed through the room.
I spun, unsure where it had been. Lizzy gave me a surprised look. I grasped for an excuse. “Such a pretty salon.”
Who coughed? The compulsion bit like a demon, curling my fingers.
I dragged a smile onto my lips. “Harriet, if I may…” I smoothed the ribbon on her collar, explaining, “Harriet will warn you. It is my favorite project to keep my friends’ clothes neat.”
The ladies laughed. But the ribbon had not been enough. Pestilent, colorless miasma curled around our feet. My fingers crooked.
“I have a challenge for your clothing project,” Lizzy said. Her friendly smile became intimate as she took the hand of an approaching gentleman—the fair skinned one, although he also had dark hair. He was very tall. “Mr. Darcy, may I introduce my new acquaintances, Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith.”
