“You are not. But you are reckless with your influence. You lead a life gifted with cleverness and beauty and wealth. Do you appreciate the effect you have on others?”
My fingers were still caught in his, my racing pulse barely concealed by silk, but I recovered enough for a bright smile. “That is a very roundabout way of congratulating me on Mr. Tinsdale.” Mr. Knightley gave a startled laugh, and I said, “You see? You like that I am clever.”
“I wouldlikeyou to face a challenge.”
My smile broke. I had thought he understood my life.
Instantly, he was contrite. “That was an idiotic thing to say. I apologize. You fool me with all… this.” His free hand sketched the air past the brim of my bonnet, my flushed cheek, the sleeve of my gown. He released my hand from its press against his muslin neckcloth and stepped back, then watched me, the fine lines beside his eyes deepening as if he were deciphering a difficult passage of music.
Like the arrival of a wrathful angel, a memory of Mr. Elton filled my vision—that day in Highbury when, resplendent in his vicar finery and brimming with the holy authority of the Church, he pronounced that I could never bind. Shouted that I could never be a proper wyfe.
I heard my name and hunted blindly to find Mr. Knightley, waiting yards down the hallway. He must think me mad.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“I thought this would interest you.”
He stood by an arched stone entryway. I steadied myself for a few breaths, then we entered a large hall.
It was a gallery, long and wide with open arches at both sides. Five statues were equally spaced along the center. A few large portraits hung on the stark, white walls. The effect was dramatic and sparse, very unlike my beloved Hartfield, crammed with needleworks and knickknacks and friendly, amateur watercolors.
Mr. Knightley stopped before a life-size statue of a young wyfe in white marble, standing with her arm stretched to grasp something unseen. A wyvern, poised for flight, crouched at her feet. Two feet of red cord hung looped from her other hand.
“Lady Anne Darcy,” he said simply.
The healer of Pemberley. When she died, six years ago, I was sixteen. My symptoms, or whatever they were, began that year.
“Thank you. I am interested,” I said and circled her slowly. She was carved from marble so pure it was translucent. I stopped when we faced each other. Our gazes—lady, stone lady, and stone wyvern—met there.
I realized what had seemed familiar when I settled Nessy in her bed. The wyvern at the ball saida messenger awaits to the north.
I peeled off my glove and grasped the statue’s outstretched, questing hand. The fingers were unyielding. Lifeless. The hope that had welled within me, a child’s imagined fable of healing, slunk away.
Lady Anne shared the high cheekbones of her children. Her expression was focused and driven. But that was a choice of the sculptor.
“Caring for the sick is not like this,” I said. “It is not great or noble. Healing is a small thing. Little courtesies. Smiles when life is bitter.”
Mr. Knightley, observing from a respectful distance, said, “You never shy from Nessy. When she is wracked with coughing fits, you comfort her, then wipe the gore and smile. It is astonishingly brave.”
“I should think she is the brave one.” I patted the wyvern’s head. The stone scales felt sharp, but they were cold as well. No message here.
“I mean that you do not shy from the challenge. I criticized you unjustly. You help that girl.”
I said nothing. His praise was unjust, not his criticism. When I tucked Nessy into bed, I feared to remove my glove.
Mr. Knightley continued, his voice resonant in the empty hall. “You have a life, Emma. If there are lessons to take from Lady Anne, find them. But do not let Darcy enlist you with his ghosts and guilts. You do not need Pemberley.”
I veiled my thoughts with lowered lashes. Yuánchi was at Pemberley. I could not explain the relief I gained from his strength—not when that relief depended on touching Mr. Darcy. That secrecy, and Mr. Knightley’s undeserved praise for my care of Nessy, heightened the color in my cheeks.
The silence stretched, then Mr. Knightley said, “I must travel to Brighton.”
It took a moment to believe my ears. I turned to him. “You cannot! The south coast is occupied.”
“Slavers have begun to transact their vile business on English soil. The Freedom Society is building a chain of households to shelter escapees while they flee north. I must go to assist.”
“That is madness. You are the last person who should go!”
“Because of my skin?”
