E lizabeth Bennet gazed at her sister Jane with a wistful sort of envy. She was not envious because Jane was kind and intelligent as well as uncommonly beautiful. No, Elizabeth had benefitted from her sister’s generous nature too often to bemoan her own shortcomings in comparison to Jane’s.
It was her sister’s fairy godmother that Elizabeth coveted. If it were a sin to do so, she could only pray that she would be forgiven, for it could not be helped. She had tried.
Priscilla Roseheart hovered near Jane as Sir William conducted introductions between the Bennet ladies and the Netherfield party.
Elizabeth’s eyes strayed to Priscilla more than once.
Jane’s fairy godmother was a vision, ethereal in a luminous white gown trimmed in shimmery pink ribbons, golden tresses flowing over her shoulders, translucent wings barely seeming to move as they held her aloft.
She even held a delicate silver wand in her hand.
Netherfield’s newest tenant, Mr. Bingley, was a perfect match for her perfect sister—Elizabeth could see it in Priscilla’s beatific smile. Jane was not paying any attention at all to her fairy godmother. There was no need. Priscilla neither wished for nor required any management on Jane’s part.
Mr. Bingley requested Jane’s hand for the second set of the evening. The rest of the Netherfield party made their various excuses and dispersed about the assembly hall like so much morning mist.
Her mother immediately began to complain about their behaviour to Mary and Kitty. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley’s bachelor friend, took the brunt of Mamma’s ire. An unmarried man of property must of course dance with all her daughters. It was unforgivably rude not to.
Lydia skipped away, saying glibly that she was perfectly content to dance with any of the men or boys from Meryton. Kitty trailed after her, and Mary wandered off to find a chair near a lit candle but away from notice, where she might read.
Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy attempt to melt into the crowd.
He was tall enough that he could never truly disappear.
He was rather handsome, but alas, he seemed to believe himself above them all.
Given the cut and material of his clothing, she supposed he was correct.
Well, if he judged them all solely by wealth and status, it was nothing to her.
He had just turned back in her direction when she felt a sharp prod between her shoulder blades and was forced to step awkwardly forward to maintain her balance. Across the room, Miss Bingley tittered.
“Well!” Mildread Driftwort sputtered. She punctuated each following question with a stab of her sturdy pewter wand. “Did you ever see such proud creatures? And what have they to be so very vain about? There is not a single fairy among them , is there?”
Did men even have fairy godmothers? Papa had not, though he could see theirs. Was Mildread simply appalled by the way Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were observing everyone in the room like creatures at the Royal Menagerie? If that were the case, Elizabeth could hardly blame her for it. Still . . .
“Mildread,” Elizabeth whispered as she tipped her head down.
“You know they cannot see you. I cannot answer your questions, or I shall be carted off to Bedlam.” Or Mamma would.
That was all she needed, Mamma angrily defending Elizabeth’s strange behaviours with a cursory wave and an explanation of the Bennet magic.
So few families still had fairy godmothers that her tales were often passed off by their neighbours as harmless lies meant to puff herself up.
Mr. Bingley and his party, however, were strangers.
There was no telling how they might respond.
Sadly, Mildread was ignoring her. Instead of quieting, she had created a small windstorm with her spotted wings.
They lifted her in the air, beating hard and fast in some fantastical combination of hummingbird and rooster.
She landed directly before Elizabeth, who raised a hand to her hair to keep it in place.
“I believe I shall do something,” Mildread announced.
Elizabeth opened her fan with a snap of her wrist and held it up to hide her mouth.
“Do not, I beg of you. Their poor behaviour will have its own consequences.” She faltered, attempting to dredge up additional platitudes, but came up dry.
Why? She could devise dozens when the need was not so urgent!
To her surprise, Mildread’s annoyance subsided. “Very well, if you insist,” the fairy said, eyeing her intently.
Elizabeth’s relief was sweet. “I do,” she replied, just before she was asked to dance.
She attempted not to fret about Mildread all through the first set, and by the second, she had mostly regained her equanimity.
When, due to a lack of men in attendance, she sat during the fourth, she turned her head to see Mr. Bingley approaching Mr. Darcy.
The latter had already danced with the women in his party and had been slowly circling the room between dances ever since in an obvious attempt to avoid additional partners.
She heard Mr. Bingley take Mr. Darcy to task for his unsocial behaviour and smiled as she turned away. She had no desire to hear the other man’s response.
Elizabeth’s ears pricked when she heard Jane’s name, but she was determined not to eavesdrop—Mildread disliked the habit and had made certain Elizabeth never heard anything to her advantage. Unfortunately, this left her unprepared for what came next.
Mildread’s yowl of displeasure nearly deafened her.
It was so loud, so shrill, that Elizabeth was certain everyone must have heard it.
But though Priscilla blinked and then sighed with a serene, sweet sort of disappointment and Jane’s expression tightened briefly, the other Bennets were either too far away or too much engaged with their company to notice.
Elizabeth had already lifted a hand halfway to her ear before recalling where she was and allowing it to drop.
“Abominable man!” Mildread cried. She turned to Elizabeth, hands on her hips, evaluating her from head to toe.
“Your dress is exquisite and your hair a dream. I have entirely outdone myself. Your beauty may not be the same as your sister’s, but you are far more than tolerable even on your worst day!
” Her eyes flashed and narrowed as the words were nearly thrown from her mouth in Mr. Darcy’s direction.
“Goosecap, saucebox, ungentlemanly oaf! What is he about, telling his Banbury tales?”
Elizabeth sighed. She never need eavesdrop when Mildread was around. She began to speak, only to be cut off.
“He would swallow his spleen if he knew what was good for him.”
Mildread always had been rather hot-tempered, but Elizabeth had never heard the fairy curse—at least, she had not heard Mildread use quite so many curses all strung together.
Yet as unnerving as the fairy’s language had been, Elizabeth knew what followed would be much worse.
For at the end of it all, Mildread raised one steel-coloured brow and fell silent.