We had come directly from breakfast, earlier than any gentleman would call for business. That was my plan—be gone before Mr. Tinsdale arrived for his meeting.
I had thought less about how to begin, though.
The wool tassels on Harriet’s shawl were uneven. I straightened the first, but that made it worse.
As I fixed the fourteenth, Harriet said, “Are you nervous, Miss Woodhouse?”
“No,” I said. “You must call me Emma.” I began fixing the other side.
Gently, her gloved fingers stilled mine. “Youarenervous. There is no reason. I know nothing will come of this meeting. I do not know why you try.” She looked up at the sky. “Should we even be out today?”
The streets were almost deserted. The few coaches rolled dangerously fast behind skittish teams, and the scarce walkers hurried, hugging building fronts and ducking from awning to awning. When they crossed roads, they cast frightened glances at the sky like mice hearing an owl’s hoot.
I forced my hand away from Harriet’s shawl. Mr. Darcy’s touch from the ball still filled me. The perfection of her clothes was habit, not necessity.
“You are right,” I admitted. “I am delaying. That is foolish. We are out today because this meeting must be today.” I knocked firmly.
A harried man of thirty opened the door. He straightened oval spectacles with ink-stained fingers, then his expression became resigned. “Good morning, ladies. I am afraid that Mr. Debrett does not hear personal appeals.”
“We are here for Mr. Tinsdale’s appointment,” I said. Harriet drew a surprised breath. I brightened my smile to compensate.
The man frowned. “You are early. That is not for an hour.”
That was nearer than I had guessed, but not near enough to be a problem. I invented an explanation. “Mr. Tinsdale asked that we review the materials before he arrived.”
“I see. Very well.” He waved us in distractedly.
For such a prestigious publication, Debrett & Associates was both untidier and smaller than I expected. It was, however, overflowing with books. The walls were filled with shelves of mismatched, faded volumes, some as thin as a pen, others as fat as a loaf of bread. The countertops and floor were buried in crates spilling identical, thick editions, their titles embossed on the leather binding:Debrett’s Dracal Lineage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing all Wyves’ Descent. The odor of fresh ink and old dust tickled my nose.
We picked through the mess and arrived at an open office door. Our guide announced “Mr. Tinsdale’s associates” and departed without a backward glance.
Mr. Debrett was white-haired and spindly, with wrinkled skin like parchment, but he maneuvered vigorously around his desk and extended his hand. I shook it and gave my name.
“Would that be the Woodhouses of Surrey?” he asked.
“It would,” I said.
“That is very favorable! A rare and potent maternal bloodline. The 1764 wyvern.”
He shook hands with Harriet. He could hardly rattle off the history of Smiths, but as we sat, he gave her a lingering glance. “Given the nature of Mr. Tinsdale’s request, you are not the associates I would expect.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I said. Perhaps he would explain the purpose of Mr. Tinsdale’s appointment. That would be convenient as I had not the slightest idea.
“Well… ladies on business is unusual enough, although I am told there is demand. The Prince himself is scouring shops for some new novel ‘by a lady.’?” He sniffed. “I do not publish fiction. Although I have considered it. The business of print is an endless struggle… though I suppose… if it were lucrative?” He ended with a tentative smile, as if expecting us to present a manuscript.
“It was not our being ladies that surprised you,” Harriet said. I had not expected her to chime in.
“Ah. Well, that brings us to the nature of Mr. Tinsdale’s request. It has weighed on me these last few days, so I am afraid I must decline.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “There are those who say ‘business is business,’ you know. But my life’s work is documenting English binding. Mr. Tinsdale’s terms are generous, but an edition that purged wyves due to ancestry”—politely, his wrinkled fingers acknowledged Harriet—“would be indefensible. There is no deficit of affinity in women of foreign blood. Draca were once bound in the Far East and Africa. The English monopoly on draca is a comparatively recent phenomenon, and due solely to the absence of draca beyond our shores. I call it the ‘Anglo-Saxon dracal migration’ and it is a puzzle, although a comforting one for an old Englishman like myself. Can you imagine if there were American wyves? Draca in log cabins!” He snorted as if caught off-guard by his own humor.
Flatly, Harriet said, “Mr. Tinsdale requested an edition that lists only white wyves.”
“That would be the effect of his criteria,” Mr. Debrett said. “He wished to title it,Strong Blood, Strong Britain. But you know this already.”
No gentleman would marry a lady thought unable to bind. If that edition became accepted, women of color would be purged from the gentry in a generation. It was a duplicitous, hateful scheme, and it would have been frighteningly easy if Mr. Debrett shared that prejudice.
Mr. Knightley had warned that Mr. Tinsdale would never help Harriet. But the very vileness of Mr. Tinsdale’s plan could help us now.
“Mr. Debrett,” I said. “We are not visiting as Mr. Tinsdale’s associates. I find his project quite repugnant.”
