Page 30 of The Magic of Pemberley (Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mage #2)

Chapter 30

F rederica was out in the garden, wrestling with using dragon magic to cast illusions, when Georgiana’s companion, Belinda Lowrie, approached her. “Lady Frederica, may I have a moment of your time?” the young woman asked, valiantly ignoring the illusory unicorn Frederica was attempting to cast.

“Of course.” Frederica blew her energy through pursed lips until the unicorn faded away. “How may I be of service?”

“Mr. Darcy expects me to report to him when Miss Georgiana does something unusual. In his absence, I would normally go to Mrs. Darcy…”

“But she is away, too,” Frederica said briskly. “If you have a concern, I hope you will share it with me.”

The young woman looked down at the toes of her half-boots. “Some of the lesser fae have convinced Miss Georgiana that she ought to learn to defend herself against the High Fae,” she said in a low voice.

“That seems eminently sensible.” Especially since no mortal could do anything to stop a High Fae bent on destruction.

Miss Lowrie’s eyes widened. “But they are teaching her to use knives and daggers, and she has asked me to purchase one with iron in it. I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy would approve.”

Darcy most certainly would not approve of his little sister learning to fight, so it was a good thing Frederica was here in his place. “ I will take care of this. Thank you for telling me. Now, do I understand that congratulations are in order?”

Miss Lowery’s cheeks grew pink. “Thank you, Lady Frederica.” Her longtime suitor from a neighboring family had finally come up to scratch, and there would be wedding bells soon.

It was good news, but who could possibly replace her as Georgiana’s companion, given the girl’s unusual situation? That was a problem she was happy to leave for Darcy and Elizabeth. Knife fighting was much simpler.

Frederica found Georgiana and her invisible instructor – or was there more than one? – in the ballroom. A good choice, with plenty of empty space to move. Georgiana clutched a wooden dagger as if it were a stick – a particularly clumsy stick that she thrust at apparently empty air. Too low to strike a human effectively. Jasper had taught Frederica to strike high, since any assailant would likely be taller than her.

It was obvious when Georgiana spotted her in the doorway because the girl froze in place, and then awkwardly dropped her hand to her side as if to hide the dagger. “Lady Frederica,” she said weakly.

Frederica strode toward her and plucked the wooden dagger from her. “Hold out your hand.”

Georgiana obeyed, though her arm trembled.

Frederica set the hilt across the girl’s palm in the orientation Jasper had drilled into her, and then wrapped Georgiana’s fingers around it. “There. Do you feel the difference?”

The girl clutched it hesitantly. “I think so.”

“No, do not tilt your hand. Relax your wrist, so that when you strike, you can put the weight of your body behind it.” She demonstrated the movement. “Try it, just like that. Excellent. Now bend your knees just a little and thrust again. ”

Georgiana tried it once, and then several times. “That is better.” She sounded surprised. “Where did you learn that?”

“Jasper’s sister, remember? His victim, too, when he had exhausted all his other sparring partners.”

“You do not think this is too unladylike?”

Frederica widened her eyes in mock shock. “It is absolutely unladylike, but, to quote Jasper, which do you prefer – ladylike or dead?”

Georgiana giggled. “I suppose that is a good point.”

“Seriously, I am delighted that your fae friends are taking your education in hand. But you should also be trained by someone who understands the ability of the human body and can recommend weapons suited to your hands.”

A deep voice rasped, “The mortal is correct. There are limits to what I can teach you while you wear that form.”

“Could I truly do that?” asked Georgiana. “Have a weapons tutor?”

Frederica grinned. “Nothing easier.”

“The Honorable Mr. Fitzwilliam,” the butler announced.

Frederica jumped up and embraced her lanky blonde brother. “That was fast, Jasper! Thank you for coming.” How good it was to see him, her baby brother, her favorite of the entire family! She loved Richard and Charles, too, but Jasper was special.

“Hullo, Freds. You did say you had an unusual weapons challenge for me.” He said it as if that explained his haste, which, this being Jasper, it did.

She beamed at him. “This will be a new one even for you! Did you know that Cousin Georgiana is a changeling?”

His face showed a small measure of surprise, but very little could truly move Jasper if it did not have a sharp edge and a point. “No, truly? ”

“Yes. She is trapped in a mortal body and needs to learn how to defend herself against the High Fae.”

He whistled, his mind clearly whirring with possibilities. “Interesting. Can she use iron?”

Anyone else would have asked why Georgiana needed to fight a High Fae, but Jasper would never see anything beyond the weapons question. “Yes, though she has been practicing with a wooden dagger for now. Some lesser fae have been teaching her, but their techniques are not suited to her body. I have gone over the basics with her, but she needs more.”

A light kindled in Jasper’s eyes. “Lesser fae, too? I wonder if they would be willing to spar with me. I bet they have techniques I have never seen. Where are they? When can we begin?

She laughed. “I will take you to Georgiana right away.”

Frederica looked up from her book with profound relief when the butler came in. Studying Arabic so that she could someday read Elizabeth’s books had seemed like a clever idea, but she had forgotten how difficult book learning was for her. How would she ever make sense of all those little squiggles?

“Mr. Roderick is here, Lady Frederica,” Hobbes intoned.

Roderick, damn him. How dare he? Her hand itched to throw that blasted book at his head.

But she had been raised to take her place in the ton , so instead she told Hobbes to show him in and sank into a graceful curtsy when he entered. “Mr. Roderick, what a lovely surprise.” With only the slightest bite to her words, lest he think he was truly welcome.

He looked just the same. How dare he make her heart skip a beat, after what he had done to her ?

“Lady Frederica, I thank you for receiving me,” he said. Of course Roderick would not pay her the automatic compliment any gentlemen of society would have given a lady, be she the plainest chit in Town.

But she already knew all too well that he did not find her attractive, and she might well have exploded if he had said she was as lovely as ever. If he could even manage to say it in face of her truth-casting.

Oh, why was this one man able to confuse her so?

“I suppose you did not know I was here, or you would have stayed away.” Blast her ready tongue! She had meant to stay polite, especially with Hobbes stationed just inside the door like the well-trained butler he was, unwilling to leave Lady Frederica Fitzwilliam alone with an unmarried man. Especially a Welsh commoner.

“No, Lady Frederica, I was well aware of your presence,” he said in the same gentle voice he had always used, the one that had foolishly made her think him kind. “I would have called earlier, had I thought you would welcome it. Business brings me here today.”

Of course he would not have come to her of his own free will. “What is it you require?” she asked bluntly. Not her, that was for certain.

His mouth quirked. “Rowan plans to spend a few days strengthening the wards against the Wicked King. He asked me to take on the lesser bond again as his anchor for it. In the absence of the Darcys, I wished to ask your permission for the two of us to be on Pemberley grounds while he works.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. Several days of his presence? Even having him nearby would hurt, that constant ache of knowing she was not enough for him, not even with her wealth, birth, and connections. “I suppose you wish to stay here, then.”

“It would be convenient, but I could ride back and forth each day.” How did he always sound so reasonable?

No. It would be unbearable to have him in the house at night. There had to be another way. She said, “Hobbes, Mr. Roderick will be staying at the Dower House for a few days.”

Hobbes bowed. “I will make the arrangements, your ladyship. ”

Frederica raised her chin. “Mr. Roderick, I hope you will forgive me for sending you there, but with Mrs. Darcy away, I cannot have an unmarried gentlemen stay in the same house as Miss Darcy.” It had the benefit of being true, by society standards, even if she had already made an exception for her brother Jasper.

“I understand completely.” His voice was muted. “Pray forgive me for taking up so much of your time.”

If she did not know better, she would have said he sounded hurt. But she did know better.

He bowed and departed, leaving her feeling more alone than ever. Alone and empty.

But she was not alone anymore. She had Quickthorn now.

She reached out through the connection that was always there, to her irritating, short-tempered, beloved dragon. Her dragon. She still could not believe it. Quickthorn, are you there? Roderick is here, saying he and Rowan will be working on the Pemberley wards.

A mental snort came in reply . It is just an excuse. Rowan quarreled with the Eldest and now is desperate to get away from the Nest, so he has concocted this. It will do no harm, though.

Rowan was the most even-tempered dragon she met, and the Eldest nearly so. What happened?

No one knows, and he will not say. The sending was flavored with Quickthorn’s annoyance that Rowan did not trust her, his nearest age-mate in the Nest. But he has been moping for days. I am glad he is leaving.

Interesting. Will I see you tonight? It was the Eldest’s decree; while Rana Akshaya was at Pemberley, Quickthorn must be, too. Frederica was glad of it, even if it made Quickthorn cranky. It meant being with her dragon more. With Roderick nearby she would be even more grateful.

As always . The sending cut off. So the wards were an excuse. Did Roderick know that? Or did Roderick want an excuse to be here, too?

No. Roderick had made his feelings plain that horrible night in the coaching inn before they reached London, that she was good enough for a momentary distraction, but nothing else. Daydreams were pointless and would only hurt her more. And there had been quite enough pain. She was so tired of living with this aching hollow deep inside her where once she had thought Roderick cared for her.

Foolish, foolish, foolish!

She needed a distraction, and the primer of the Arabic language would not do. Perhaps she could convince Jasper or Georgiana to spar with her. Trying to stab someone sounded just right.

Janet, the maidservant that Frederica knew from her own time at the Dower House, was out of breath when she arrived in Pemberley’s breakfast room. Had she run all the way?

“What is the matter?” Frederica asked.

“It’s Mr. Roderick, your ladyship. He’s terrible sick.”

Frederica ignored the tug of fear in her gut. Janet was prone to exaggeration. “What seems to be the matter with him?”

“Last night, he said he was tired and refused dinner, but he was that flushed, your ladyship, cheeks red as apples. This morning we could not wake him. Cook said I should run and tell you.”

How had Frederica ended up on her feet, with her hand over her mouth? “What do you mean? Is he…alive?” Her lips moved in silent prayer.

“He is breathing, but burning up with fever. Tossing and turning, like in a dream.”

Her throat was so tight she could barely get the words through. “Has the apothecary been called?”

“Yes, your ladyship, and we’re sponging him to bring down the fever.”

She swallowed hard. There was nothing she could do, and it would be totally improper for her to go to his bedside. But something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“I am coming,” she whispered, as if he could hear her. Then she spun on her heel and set out for the Dower House.

Frederica’s stomach churned as she held Roderick’s burning hand in her own, trying to pour her strength into him. His eyes had opened briefly, but he had not recognized her, nor even his own name. Dear God, how could he have become so ill so quickly?

It was like Elizabeth’s sickness after Cerridwen bonded her to the land of Pemberley. That same sudden onset, coming out of nowhere. Elizabeth had barely survived.

Could it be? She turned her gaze to the maid who was wringing out towels. “Send a runner to the main house. I need Chandrika, Mrs. Darcy’s maid, here without delay.” Chandrika had recognized what was happening with Elizabeth. Perhaps she would know what to do.

“Right away, your ladyship.” The maid hurried out, leaving Frederica alone with Roderick and her regrets.

Why had she been so unkind to him, simply because he had made it clear he did not want her? Though he had seemed to enjoy her kisses quite well at first, before pushing her away and saying those fateful words that still echoed in her head. She could at least have had him as a friend for a little longer, had her vanity not been so terribly piqued. And her temper.

And now he lay here, unable to object to her holding his hand. She pressed her forehead to the back of it, wishing fiercely that the world could be somehow different, that he could have loved her. That he could survive this terrible fever. Somehow. Anyhow.

Because he was the only man who had ever taken her seriously, every impulsive word that poured out of her mouth. The only man who had understood her desire to be heard, to be liked despite her dratted truth-casting. The only man who had ever treated her as a person rather than the Earl of Matlock’s Talented daughter. He had seen her as a person in her own right .

How she had loved that long journey from Pemberley to London with him and Granny, she, who usually despised being trapped in the carriage with nothing to busy her restless mind. How they had talked for hours about everything under the sun – well, everything except that mysterious Welsh village of theirs. When she finally had realized that he enjoyed her company, after thinking he despised everything about her, her Englishness, her aristocratic blood, her connection to the King’s Mage. And then she jumped to thinking that perhaps he more than liked her, and how very wrong she had been. Oh, why could she never settle for what she had? Why did she always want more?

Tears leaked down her cheek, and she swiped them away fiercely. She never cried. Ever. Ever. Ever.

Chandrika confirmed that it indeed looked like nagapani, or dragon fever. “Where is the dragon he worked with? Perhaps he would know.”

Silently Frederica reached out for Quickthorn.

Oak and ash, what is wrong with you? the dragon sent. Frederica’s distress must be leaking through their bond.

Frederica pushed it all through wordlessly, the sight of Roderick before her, her misery and guilt, and the question of dragon fever.

It cannot be dragon fever if all they did was the lesser bond. There is no blood mixing for that. Unless… There was an abrupt shift in Quickthorn’s aura, switching from concern to outright fury. That thrice-cursed fool! That idiot! How dare he?

Now Frederica was even more frightened. What is it?

I will find that ridiculous excuse for a dragon and bring him there if I have to drag him. Quickthorn ended the connection.

Leaving Frederica even more confused. Was she talking about Rowan? Rowan the kind, gentle, amiable dragon? What had he done to Roderick? And more importantly – much, much more importantly – would he recover?

It was an eternity later – half an hour by the ridiculously slow mantle clock – before Quickthorn announced her arrival with an annoyed rap on the diamond-paned window.

Finally! Frederica unlatched the window and pushed it open, but it was not large enough for Quickthorn’s peregrine falcon form to fit through.

With a squawk of outrage, Quickthorn transformed into a starling just long enough to get through, followed by another bird. Rowan, perhaps?

The peregrine falcon perched on the railing of the bed. “Look what you have done,” Quickthron snapped, her voice tinged with the odd squeak that went with her bird form.

Rowan flew to the floor and blurred for a long moment into his human shape.

Frederica winced. By the Dark Nest standards, Rowan was considered particularly gifted at taking human form, but if that was true, dragons were truly bad at it. Except Rana Akshaya, apparently, and Napoleon, but perhaps dragons did things differently outside of Britain. Looking at the odd angles of Rowan’s joints was painful, and as for his face – well, better simply not to look at it at all. It reminded her of a porcelain doll.

He bent down to touch Roderick’s cheeks, his expression – if he had one – unreadable. But his aura shone with sorrow and fear.

“What did you do to him?” Frederica burst out.

Quickthorn replied in his stead. “They tried to form the companion bond – against the wishes of the Eldest. Now your friend is paying the price.”

Rowan did not move his gaze from Roderick. “The Eldest only refused in order to keep me here in the Dark Peak. She knew Roderick must return to Wales.”

As if Frederica needed any reminders of that.

“And you want to leave?” snapped Quickthorn .

“I want a companion. This companion. If that means I must leave, then yes.” Now his pain was apparent. “Roderick promised we could come back to visit often.”

“You risked his life by sneaking off here, pretending to work on the wards, to create the bond behind the Nest’s back.”

“We did work on the wards. I knew we could not lie to you or to Companion Frederica.”

But Roderick had lied to her by omission. It should not hurt, but it did.

“There is a reason we do bondings at the Nest, where our healers are nearby,” Quickthorn muttered.

Rowan retorted, “It was so easy when you bonded to Companion Frederica! I thought he might be a little ill, but not like this.”

And it had been easy for her. For all the warnings that she might be sick for weeks, she had only suffered a mild fever and a day in bed. It had been no worse than a summer cold. “Why is it so different for him?” she asked.

“No one knows why some mortals take the bond easily and some fight it. I would have thought Roderick a likely candidate, with a history of many dragon companions in his family,” said Quickthorn.

Finally Rowan looked up at his nestmate. “Have you any advice to offer? Useful advice, that is?”

“What is done is done. I will ask the healers.” Quickthorn switched back to the starling form and took wing out the window.

Frederica missed her already.

Then her hand, the one entwined with Roderick’s, began to tingle. “Are you using magic on him?” she asked Rowan suspiciously.

“I am giving him strength. You may be more comfortable if you do not touch him right now,” he said apologetically. “Though he seems to be taking some comfort from you.”

She tightened her fingers. If this was helping, she would not let go. “I suppose he wanted the companion bond.” How many times had Roderick admitted to envy of dragon companions? He would have jumped at the chance, despite the risks. Just as she had .

Rowan bowed his head. “He did. He was worried about how his family would react, but then he laughed and said they would think it was fate. Because of my coloration.”

How could the color of a dragon possibly matter? Admittedly, Frederica was secretly proud of Quickthorn’s shimmering sea-green scales, but it would not make any difference to her if her dragon was not beautiful. Then it struck her.

A red dragon was the emblem of Wales, and Roderick was one of its disinherited princes.

It would be a potent symbol – if Roderick lived through the bonding, which seemed increasingly unlikely.