“He flies,” I said, my heart thrilling.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Knightley said.
A rumble grew. The lanterns flickered, then fluttered. Captain Freeman shouted an order but stopped mid-word, remembering his ship was not afloat.
The air pressed down, thick as an ocean and snapping our scarfs and hems stiff as flags. It lifted into a floating, eerie stillness. My head turned to track an invisible arc, then the wind returned in thumping, gusting gales—the beats of monstrous, unseen wings. They drove to the root of my lungs. They shook my heart.
The night quieted, leaving exclamations and wondering murmurs. The hidden scarlet soared away to the north.
16
AWAY FROM MAYFAIR
EMMA
Harrietand I packed our things with help from several servants. Then, lit by lamps, we met Lizzy on Chathford’s circular white gravel drive.
“You might try Mivart’s Hotel,” Lizzy suggested. “It is very respectable. But are you sure you will not stay? Yuánchi will be away for at least two days.”
Yuánchi had flown north so the Darcys could repair the boathouse. That much was planned, but Lizzy had been surprised by his abrupt departure. I did not mention his approach to the ship. I would not know what to say if I did.
“Thank you, but we shall enjoy the shopping districts,” I answered. “There are so many affairs to attend in London.”
The Darcys had lent their huge coach for our move. I watched the footmen pile luggage and realized that was lucky. Four chests of clothes had been delightful when they arrived from Hartfield, but the rear rack was nearly full with two strapped in place.
“Do you know how much luggage a hotel expects?” I whispered to Harriet as the footmen hoisted the third with theatric grunts.
“Inever left Surrey before,” Harriet said sullenly. She had been moody since I insisted we leave. But she thawed enough to add, “Do you not know?”
“I have never stayed at an inn,” I admitted. “But people do. I shall ask Isabella.”My sister and her husband, John, lived in London. The only London “affair” I had planned was a visit to their home on our way to the hotel.
“Could we stay with them?” Harriet asked hopefully. Staying with family was always safer for traveling ladies.
I adjusted the corner of my shawl and said simply, “No.”
A footman raised a lamp while two others levered the last chest onto a pair of seats inside the coach. It thumped into place, and the carriage rocked.
The coach pulledup outside my sister’s house. The coachman aimed one of the driving lamps to illuminate the walk, then unlatched the door and let down the step.
I stayed in my seat, fingers laced, practicing arguments. And summoning courage.
“Are you sure you do not wish me to come?” Harriet asked. She had abandoned her resentment while watching me stew during our ride.
“You are kind, but this is a private matter. I shall be swift.”
Her concern bolstered my resolve, so I stepped down from the coach, climbed the three steps to the house door, and rang the bell. A maid exclaimed “Miss Woodhouse!” and escorted me to the parlor.
Isabella arrived in a flutter. “Emma! How are you in London?”
We each took a stuttering step, then it became a tight embrace. Isabella smelled of my childhood, that lilac soap she had always loved, and of her London life, coal smoke and bustle and children. She had five already.
“It has been so long!” she whispered into my ear.
“Since Papa’s funeral,” I said. I meant no ill will, but she stiffened and stepped back, her face averted and her eyelids fluttering.
Her husband arrived in an unbuttoned day coat, a pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth. “Emma,” he pronounced. The pipe bobbed.
“Good evening, John,” I said.
