There was something wispy and white in his cuff.
He dropped his hand beneath the table and plucked out a small plume, allowing it to drift to the floor.
He would have to speak to Cartwright about the state of his clothing.
It was unlike his valet to miss something so obvious.
Darcy’s irritation was soon superseded by a scratchy feeling on the back of his neck, beneath his cravat.
He stretched his neck a bit but found no relief.
What next? He tossed a rueful glance at Bingley and then addressed Miss Bingley. “I thank you for the excellent meal.” It probably had been good—everyone else had eaten. Other than Miss Elizabeth, at any rate. He stood. “I find I must retire.”
“Of course,” Bingley replied, all affability as he rose, though his gaze was assessing. “Please do not wait on Hurst and me.”
“Thank you,” Darcy replied. His voice, which had not entirely recovered its normal pitch, came out a little brighter, a little brasher than it ought. “I bid you good night.” This time it was worse.
Darcy swallowed and shook his head. This was growing very tiresome.
Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy with a rapidly growing sense of horror. Her breath came a little faster and her head swam when she spied the downy feather that was protruding from his shirt sleeve. He hid his arm under the table, his eyes narrowing as he glared at it.
Mildread was behind this. What she was about, Elizabeth did not know. But whatever it was would happen right here, at dinner, in front of two of the worst gossips Elizabeth had ever met.
He stood graciously and begged to be excused, but his words came out in a . . . was that a honk?
Mr. Bingley stood to bid his friend a good night, his expression of alarm quickly masked.
Mr. Darcy spoke again. The trumpeting sound was muted but distinctive.
He stepped around the table but stopped to honk again.
It was more of a cough-honk, and it was right in her face.
Mrs. Hurst laughed aloud, but Elizabeth could not have cared any less—there was panic in that honk. She watched the door close behind him.
No. No. No.
After Mr. Darcy had been gone for less than a minute, Elizabeth offered Miss Bingley a weak smile and stood. “I would return to my sister if you will excuse me.”
Miss Bingley waved her away with the back of one elegant hand, but Elizabeth did not stop to feel the slight.
She burst into the hall, which was strangely devoid of servants, though she could hear them coming up the stairs from the kitchen.
There was a broken line of white feathers trailing away from the dining room.
Swiftly, she scooped them up as she followed the path to a small dark hall off to the left of the family stairs.
“Mr. Darcy,” she hissed. “Are you here? Mr. Darcy!”
“Miss Elizabeth?” It emerged so much like a honk that Elizabeth was surprised she understood her name. She stepped into the alcove, grabbed a candle from the wall sconce, and held it up.
Before her stood Mr. Darcy. As the meagre light fell upon him Elizabeth saw that his right arm was not an arm at all, but a wing, covered in snowy white feathers.
“I could not go back to my room in this state,” he said, raising the wing. His eyes implored her to help him. “What is happening to me?”
“I do not know,” she responded honestly, reaching out to take his human hand. “But I will help you if I can.” She would not step away from Mr. Darcy when he was in such a state, but she wished that she could. Instead, she could only watch helplessly as his head jerked back roughly.
Mr. Darcy’s lips began to stretch.
Elizabeth was frozen in shock, and the candle slipped from her hand. The flame was out before it hit the floor. Mr. Darcy’s exclamations of surprise and panic escaped in hoarse, muffled trumpet blasts and she clapped her now-free hand over his mouth.
It took less than a second for Mr. Darcy’s lips to flatten and elongate.
A dab of orange in the middle spread until Elizabeth was pinching closed an orange beak bordered with black.
A knob rose from it at the same time white feathers began to cover Mr. Darcy’s head and face.
His fine clothing was absorbed into the snowy white feathers except for the area around his eyes which turned as black as his tailcoat.
Something tickled her palm where she held Mr. Darcy’s hand, and she looked down. More feathers. Mr. Darcy grunted, the sound strangled, and the beak slipped from her hand as he began to shrink.
It was in every way horrible. Elizabeth buried her face in her hands, but after a moment, she straightened. “Courage, Elizabeth,” she said and lifted her hands away.
A male swan with a long, elegant neck was running back and forth at her feet, flapping his wings in agitation.
“ Mildread ,” Elizabeth whispered, her stomach roiling. She bent down towards the bird. “Shh,” she begged him urgently. “Please, be quiet.”
Her fairy godmother appeared near the stairs. She crossed her arms over her chest and laughed. “I think he makes an uncommonly handsome swan. It should satisfy even Mr. Darcy’s pride. Swans are royal creatures, you know.”
The swan hissed.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, bending to check his feet before her hand touched her forehead. “He is not registered. The crown could claim him. How could you?”
“It should protect him from anyone but the crown,” Mildread pointed out. “Surely they are not going to send a royal shepherd to Hertfordshire for one swan.”
“Someone could capture him and take him to London! What are we going to do with him?” Elizabeth asked, panicked. “We cannot allow anyone to see him in this way. You must change him back.”
“Not I,” Mildread said, shaking her head. “Once the spell is released, it must be completed.”
“How long will he be a swan?”
“Forever,” the fairy said, twirling the pewter wand in her fingers.
The swan stilled for a moment before it began to flap its wings menacingly.
“ What? ” Elizabeth cried. “No, that cannot be!”
“Of course it can.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, resigned. “You said the spell could be completed. Tell me what I must do to release Mr. Darcy from this,” she whispered, waving at the swan, “this madness!”
Mildread clucked at her. “Why would you wish it? Mr. Darcy is nothing to you.”
“He is a fellow human, Mildread,” Elizabeth pleaded. “He deserves to live his life the way it was intended.”
“Hmph.” Mildread’s lips twisted one way, then the other. “There are several ways to complete this spell. One takes a week. Another a hundred years.”
Elizabeth refused to believe that Mr. Darcy would be a swan for a hundred years. “How are we going to keep this a secret for a week?” Elizabeth’s mind was racing. Where could they possibly hide? What would happen when Mr. Darcy was missed?
“I suppose you shall have to keep him safely out of sight.”
She gazed down at the swan. “This is a nightmare.”
Mr. Darcy honked. She took it as agreement.
“What was that?” someone asked out in the main hall. One of the footmen, perhaps.
Oh no. “Shh,” she begged Mr. Darcy. He flapped his wings impatiently.
“You were worried he would be an obstacle to Jane and Mr. Bingley, and so he would have been,” Mildread reminded her.
Elizabeth was unable to contain her distress but attempted to keep it under regulation. “You promised you would not make him disappear!”
This was met by another swan hiss.
“I have not.” Mildread threw out her arms with a dramatic flourish. “I have transformed him!” She winked at Elizabeth. “Now it is your turn.”
“What?” This made no sense. Why a swan of all things? Elizabeth wanted to shake the fairy, but it was never wise to anger her.
Voices drifted down the hall. Miss Bingley was asking her brother to check on Mr. Darcy.
“Caroline.” Mr. Bingley was annoyed, the first time Elizabeth had ever heard him lose his temper, even a little. “Darcy is entitled to his privacy. If he requires anything, Cartwright will request it.”
The Bingley party seemed to be approaching the stairway. She could not allow them to see her here when she should be upstairs with Jane.
“Mr. Bingley, sir,” said a member of the staff, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought I heard something down the hall just here.”
Elizabeth gasped. They would see her, standing alone in the dark. No, not alone. With a swan. An uncommonly large and handsome swan, but a swan nonetheless.
“There is a door to the outside down this hall and to the left, dear,” Mildread informed her, a hint of laughter lingering in her words.
Several heavy footsteps approached.
Elizabeth pulled a face at her fairy godmother before she hauled Mr. Darcy up into her arms—gads, he must weigh more than two stone—and staggered from the house.
“Are we there yet?” Elizabeth asked plaintively.
Mildread had guided her nearly a mile from the house out to the ruins of what appeared to be a castle. Elizabeth had carried the swan—Mr. Darcy—at least half the distance before she was unable to continue and set him down. Fortunately, he seemed willing to follow them on his own.
The fairy turned where she was hovering just above the ground. “Patience, my dear.”
Elizabeth was tired and cross. “I am trying, Mildread,” she replied.
Mildread clucked and turned back to survey the rubble.
“This will do,” she said cheerfully. She lifted her wand, made two circles with it, and directed the end towards the ruins.
Elizabeth blinked as the remnants of stone rose from the ground and reassembled themselves into a tall, wide castle. It shimmered in the moonlight.
“Shall we go inside?” Mildread asked smugly.
“How?” Elizabeth asked. “There is no . . .” Her voice trailed off as a drawbridge dropped from the entrance and hit the ground with a heavy thump. She tipped her head to evaluate it. “Why is there a drawbridge when there is no moat?”
“Enough of your complaints,” Mildread scolded. “There is a lake instead. You are welcome.”