I shook hands, relieved by the distraction. When Mr. Darcy’s glove touched mine, the Darcys’ scarlet binding flashed. It was rare to sense anything from a husband, and this was strong, like touching a wyfe, although nothing to the raw power when I had touched Lizzy.
Beside me, Harriet managed a wordless bob, her eyes wide at Mr. Darcy’s bearing and social consequence, or perhaps his broad shoulders.
“Do you see your challenge, Emma?” Lizzy said, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.
At first, I hardly heard her. My eyes were searching his clothes, my fingers itching. Men’s clothes were better—concealing, snugly buttoned—but also worse because touching required elaborate contrivance.
But the compulsion faded. I recalled now: the miasma was a fancy of my mind. It was not real.
“He is perfect,” I said, then laughed and corrected myself, “Your clothes, Mr. Darcy, are quite perfect.” Relief left me giddy.
“It is his most annoying habit,” Lizzy said. “I am overmatched in any dressing contest.”
“My habit is in remembrance of my mother,” Mr. Darcy said. He had a resonant baritone that suited his height.
“What?” Lizzy said, turning to him. “I did not know that.”
“My mother was distressed by imperfect clothing,” Mr. Darcy said. His eyes had not left me. Attention from gentlemen was familiar, but this felt odd. Was he suspicious? Impossible. I was too practiced at concealment.
The other draca in the room were a roseworm and a broccworm. To sense the Darcys’ binding so strongly, one draca must be theirs. Bindings were stronger when the bound draca was near. Could a roseworm feel scarlet? That seemed unlikely.
“Which is your bound draca?” I asked.
Silence.
Mr. Darcy replied, “Regrettably, my wyfe and I were unable to bind.”
He had lied. I felt their binding.
I offered the traditional, vacant sympathies. Lizzy stared at the floor as if shamed by their failure—deserved or not, blame fell on the wyfe—but her pose was unconvincing after her frank grief for her deceased sister. Mystified, I braced myself and grazed her gloved hand again. Her binding flashed scarlet in my mind.
Why would a bound wyfe pretend she had failed to bind?
Here is my second secret. I sense the bindings between wyves and draca. This secret is not illusion; bindings are real. But only I can sense them. It is a strange skill, and harmless, but I conceal it. A gentleman and wyfe bind draca through the passion of their marriage night. That makes curiosity aboutbinding improper, but my skill is even more troubling—too much like the powers claimed by sinful crones who peddle binding charms to desperate brides.
These first two secrets are a dangerous pair. One senses truth but must be concealed. The other fills me with false terrors I must ignore or be declared a madwoman.
Hand-in-hand, the pair of fashionable ladies left the larger group and crossed the room to join us. The remainder of the group quieted, every eye following. These were the salon hosts and influential in London society.
“Mary!” Lizzy said as they arrived. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered my name printed in your program.”
Miss Mary Bennet was an intense young woman in an unremittingly black gown, her only jewelry circular gold spectacles and a delicate gold musical note hanging on a hair-thin necklace. Her brown hair fell straight to her shoulders, a peculiar style but one shared by several guests. Some trending London fashion.
“The male aristocracy has conspired to restrict binding to gentry,” Mary replied, her words so rapid they were almost staccato. “You should be the speaker, as you made me aware of it.” When Lizzy seemed taken aback, Mary adjusted her spectacles—inexpertly; they must be new—and added in painstaking tones, “Ourthemeis society’s conventions that disempower women.”
“I did not intend to give a public speech on the matter,” Lizzy protested.
Mary squinted through her spectacles. “Why not?”
“Did you not evenaskher?” said the woman beside her. She was younger yet but blooming into a beauty, black-haired with ocean-blue eyes, although slim as a reed. She wore an unembellished, exquisite blue watered-silk gown. Around her neck hung a twin to Mary’s musical note necklace.
The three women launched into overlapping claims and counterclaims, all delivered with the happy annoyance of loving family. Harriet and I exchanged an amused look.
Mr. Darcy’s powerful voice intervened. “Miss Woodhouse, Miss Smith. May I present my sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy, and my wyfe’s sister, Miss Mary Bennet.”
Miss Darcy was the young beauty. She greeted us with unselfconscious grace, her hand elegant as a duchess and her voice a song. Behind her back, Miss Mary Bennet traded sisterly scowls with Lizzy before shaking my hand distractedly.
While Harriet listened to the ladies debate the merits of public speech, I stole a glance at Mr. Darcy. He no longer watched me. His gaze hung on his wyfe, enthralled. They were very obviously in love. That was by no means the rule for a gentry marriage.
