“Your legal niceties are well studied,” the War Secretary said to Darcy. “But they mean nothing if the Crown orders it.”
I bristled at that, and Darcy whitened, but the tension along his jaw was anger, not fear. His answer was exact. “The law is no nicety, nor does the Prince have carte blanche. Even in war, ethics and morality—”
“Spare me your lily-livered morals,” the War Secretary saidscathingly.
I shot to my feet. “That is enough! You have repeatedly insulted my husband. In the face of disreputable behavior, he shows gentlemanly restraint and honors the institution you represent. Where is your respect for the rights and honor of a loyal Englishman?”
The table became still. The War Secretary glared at me, chewing his bottom lip in furious silence.
Lord Wellington rose and wrapped my forearm in his. “Mrs. Darcy, let us step aside.” I spun to him, furious at dismissal, but he whispered, “Your point is scored. Come with me.” Unruffled, and with my arm firmly clamped, he led us across the room and murmured, “The Secretary has overstepped, and you have called him out. Darcy will prevail. It would be wise not to focus more of the Secretary’s attention on yourself.”
At an infuriatingly relaxed stroll, we reached a distant bench of the gallery. Lord Wellington released my arm and bent to examine some words scraped into a wooden armrest. He shook his head. “How crude.”
Seething, I watched the three gentlemen converse, their tones now muted and polite. My whole being was alight with fury. With shaking fingers, I stripped off my overheated spencer and threw it past Lord Wellington’s nose onto the bench. He straightened reproachfully.
“You support us, then,” I said tightly.
“Do not call it support, exactly,” he said. “I am tempted by a weapon that would end the war in days and save English lives. If England’s sovereignty were at stake, I would wield it in an instant. But the Secretary has never seen a ship burn, nor a cannon cut down a row of friends enfilade, nor a dragon pour flame like the Almighty’s wrath. If France no longer has a firedrake, I cannot unleash unmitigated destruction. England would emerge a victorious pariah.”
“Darcy could have used your support.”
“Darcy had you.” He said that with such simple regard that a flicker of gratitude cooled my anger. Of course, that was likely his intent. I eyed him, then turned back to the conference, lifting the back of my hair to cool a sheen of sweat on the nape of my neck.
Darcy listened gravely to Mr. Tinsdale, then answered deliberately. Everyone was stiffly proper, and Darcy was calm and confident. He was satisfied.
The courthouse windows were a long row of shining rectangles high on our left. A shift of cloud brightened them, then the space filled with reverberating silver so intense that it needled my eyes and raised a spasm in my throat. Surrealgleams raced across the lacquered rails and molding, each shimmer haloed with brilliant colors as if the room had filled with rainbows.
The effect faded. I rubbed my clammy temples, feeling the bite of a headache. Strange colors still flickered in the corners. I muttered, “The sun is too bright,” and Lord Wellington gave me a mystified look.
18
VANISHED WYVES
LIZZY
With Yuánchi flown north,it was time to replace the boathouse gate. The battered remnants of the last one were precariously propped in place, splintered edges and all.
The school carpenter came to assist our yardmaster. He kicked at a three-foot-long gash in the hard-frozen clay and cast me a questioning glance.
“We have ferocious moles,” I explained, amusing myself but wondering how long even more serious attempts at deception could succeed. At remote Pemberley, secrecy had felt foolish, but in the bustle of London, it grated at me—a disavowal of something worthy.
Indoors, a letter waited, addressed in Jane’s rounded hand:
“My dearest Lizzy,
I am most excited by the news of your ball! Charles and I would not miss it, even if they must roll me into the carriage, for I am swelling with baby like a rising loaf. Mr. Jones assures us it is safe to travel, and I know it is true as I feel wonderful, but Charles frets as men do. Whatever shall I wear, though? …”
A long discussion of dress styles followed, then an inventory ofevery wardrobe at Netherfield to ensure there was room for another garment. I read it smiling but bemused as Jane was usually levelheaded about such things.
Mary entered the morning room and sat at the tea table, thumping down a massive embossed-leather volume fringed with the scraps of ribbon she used to mark pages.
“Jane has written,” I said, passing the letter to her. “She declares pregnancy to be frolicking puppies and blooming daffodils. In other words, she is Jane.”
Mary smiled wryly while she read. “She is in her sixth month. All mothers are in ecstasies then. Ask her in eight weeks.”
I curled in my chair to see her better. “Do you know about it?”
“Dr. Davenport originally sought a female assistant for a midwife’s experience at deliveries. I convinced him that training a female physician was more valuable. But we agreed I should learn from a midwife.”
