To Harriet, Lizzy said, “That is the hardest part of caring for these children. But for every sorrow there are a dozen joys. A dozen children embarking onwonderful paths through life. If I have not frightened you away, may I show you something more pleasant?”
“I am not frightened,” Harriet said, who had not spoken since we left the girl.
We joined a classroom of rambunctious younger girls. A harassed older gentleman with gray hair sticking in every direction was helping them fit leather straps around a life-sized straw model of a horse’s chest, shoulders, withers, and neck. This was Lizzy’s harness making project.
Lizzy sent a girl with a message, and she returned with Lucy, the lady’s maid from Chathford. She must be a student, or perhaps an assistant. Harriet and she greeted each other, then crowded around a table with three of the younger girls. I watched Harriet beam at Lucy and a tableful of penniless urchins, and I frowned. Harriet Smith was not a Darcy who could condescend in gracious charity. The more precarious one’s status was, the more caution was needed. The more perfect one must be.
Lizzy nodded toward seats beneath a slate illustrating knots and buckles, and we moved there.
“Perhaps Darcy’s legends are wrong,” Lizzy said dejectedly. “The wyfe of healing may be a story, or a wish. The great wyves celebrated in song may be inventions to justify a handful of women with power.”
“I have no power,” I said. “But I believe what Yuánchi said.”
“I trust him, too. But everything sounds profound when it is delivered in booming thoughts. His explanations are frustratingly incomplete. I do not know if he relates grand truths or tells draca folktales.” She sighed. “It is nice to be able to discuss this with a wyfe.”
I snugged my gloves more firmly. Despite disliking Harriet’s interest in the school, I could not help liking Lizzy. She was enthusiastic and caring. But I did not enjoy admiring the wonders of Mrs. Darcy’s fabulous binding.
Martha, the girl who threaded the bolt, approached Harriet and whispered in her ear. Harriet smiled and dipped her head so the girl could stroke Harriet’s hair, elegantly styled but as black and curly as the girl’s own. Together, they positioned a metal punch on a piece of leather. Martha struck it with a hammer, admired the neat hole, and ran to fit it around the straw model.
Lizzy’s thoughts seemed distant. She mused, “I really should ride more.”
13
THE BRITISH MUSEUM
LIZZY
When we left the school,Emma walked swiftly ahead. Harriet, though, all but danced around me, tromping on my toes while she enthused about the young students.
“I think I must love schools!” she announced, face tilted to the sky. “Do you know that Mrs. Goddard scolded me on my first day? I was six, and I did not know the rules, and she was so strict that I cried! But I still loved school. Reading stories, and learning to compose letters, and forming lines two-by-two for our outings. And your girls lovethisschool, and I loved helping them!” She ended by flinging her hands exuberantly toward the school, launching her excitement like a dove.
That seemed a good finish, so I sent Harriet on her way. Emma, fur-trimmed and lace-gloved, had observed us silently, but when Harriet linked arms with her, she gave her a fond smile, and they boarded discussing whether to shop for boots or gowns. The coach departed, and I found myself even more perplexed by their friendship. The surface was all asymmetry: of class, of influence—that was what disturbed Mary—but beneath the surface, there were roots deeply intertwined from both sides.
A four-horse town coach waited for me, the latest expansion of our London household by the formidably organized Mrs. Reynolds. It was a lumbering, oaken beast equipped with a driver and a pair of footmen. Even a singlefootman was ostentatious for Darcy, who preferred anonymity, but their purpose was evident from their military posture and the narrow wooden gun cases they had stowed behind the coach. Mary’s and my unaccompanied stroll the day before had been noted.
While a milk cart clopped down the street, I watched the footmen—guards, really—and thought about soldiers. England had been at war since I was eleven. In quiet Meryton, the main effect was that I often dined and danced with officers. Yet, not once had we discussed guards or sentries. That seemed an oversight, as their methods were interesting. One guard remained in the elevated seat beside the driver, watching the street, while the other stayed two paces from me, examining each passerby.
Still, two men could be overrun in seconds. It was like… what? I lost the thought, then was disturbed by a lingering interest in martial topics.
Interesting or not, the guards and their wooden cases were a token against the weapon I had brought. I closed my eyes, and my mind filled with the elevated perspective of the Duchess of Wessex’s firedrake. Her Grace was a notorious bore, and her firedrake, a clever creature, was every bit as bored by ducal life as the aristocrats trapped in the Duchess’s luncheons. He had cheerfully accepted my invitation to our outing, and was perched across the street, his stippled bronze-copper scales largely hidden behind a chimney. His eyes saw the street in colors that were distorted to human senses, but anything alive—people, horses, even the mouse creeping toward a dropped crust of roll—shone warm against the cold paving stones. Motions were slowed, and the detail was terrific. I could see the mouse’s trembling whiskers.
I pictured myself riding in the coach and felt a mentalchirpof acknowledgement. To the driver, I called, “Montagu House on Great Russell Street,” and we set out, hopefully to resolve mysteries rather than add to them.
Mary was standingin the park that fronted the British Museum and studiously ignoring nods from passing gentlemen. She was striking in a sweeping gown of heavy black cloth that exposed her collarbones and a fringe of crimson petticoat. Her ink-dark bonnet was decorated with black lace, and her gold musical note, a gift from Georgiana, sparkled on her chest.
“You are very stylish today,” I said in greeting.
“This is not instyle,” she said with such disdain that, had her salon beenwithin earshot, there would have been orders for crimson petticoats at every dressmaker. Her scornful expression became uncertain. “Do you like it?”
I could not remember the last time Mary had asked my opinion of her clothes. “Well… it is dramatic. Such dark black…” I hesitated, sensing that this answer was important.
Mary grew visibly tense. “It must be black. I am mourning the unjust death—”
“—of our fellow sentient animals,” I finished with her, having heard this before. “I understand. However, it is veryunremittinglyblack. The red is becoming. You could have more color without undermining your message.” Mary bit her lip, and I resolved to be less obtuse than our last heartfelt conversation. “It is not my opinion that matters. Why do you not ask the person you care for?”
Her bit lip whitened. She nodded, touched my arm, then walked briskly toward the museum entrance. I hurried to catch up.
Outside the doors, an officious, round-headed gentleman stepped into our path. “Ladies. May I be of assistance?”
