“But he . . .” Elizabeth stopped. Timothy had been a terrible tease and rather conceited.
Why, no one could say, for he was not his father’s heir nor was he particularly gifted with superior looks or any unusual intelligence.
Although Elizabeth knew she was dazzling on her first night out after Mildread’s arrival—the fairy had made sure of it—Timothy Lucas had flatly refused to stand up with her at her coming out because she was not as beautiful as Jane.
His boorishness had quickly dashed his pretensions.
Not only had Jane flatly refused his hand and told him he was never to ask again, all the women in attendance that night had determined that none of them would dance with him, either.
Even today, some five years later, if a woman turned Timothy down for a dance, the neighbourhood did not require that the lady sit out.
That was nothing to Mildread’s anger, though.
Timothy had disappeared for a few days following the assembly, and Elizabeth was certain, from something the fairy said, that Mildread had turned him into a frog.
Within a week he was home, but for a few days after his return, he was unable to speak.
At the next three assemblies, she gave him, literally, two left feet.
Another time, she had chosen two locks of his hair and made it so that they could not be tamed—they curled straight up from his crown like horns.
And once, she had apparently given him dreams for a week that kept him weary all day long.
She had not tortured the man in some time, but she had never truly forgiven him.
He might keep it to himself, but Timothy Lucas certainly believed the Bennets had a fairy godmother.
Elizabeth still felt the man had earned every bit of his trouble. Mr. Darcy had not. She pursed her lips as she tried to reason her way through the contradiction.
“You have a tendre for Mr. Darcy,” Jane told her. If she was the tiniest bit smug, Elizabeth knew it was only because her elder sister was pleased.
“I do not ,” Elizabeth protested. The very notion!
Mr. Darcy’s insult had been spoken to Mr. Bingley, not the entire room.
Only Mildread had even heard, though she had repeated it to Mamma, and now everyone knew.
Elizabeth was irritated, but not only with Mr. Darcy.
She suspected that Mr. Darcy was stubborn and would not be forced to dance.
They had that in common. She did not care to be forced into things either, even if she wanted to do them.
It was a perverseness in her character, she supposed.
She frowned. A little sympathy for the man was not evidence of her favour.
Even were it so, he certainly was not enamored of her, particularly after their last encounter.
Besides, his position in society was far higher than her own.
Even if he wished to, he could not offer for her.
It would be the height of foolishness to give her heart to such a man.
But once Jane had planted the words in her head, they were not so easily banished.
“Why could I not have had Priscilla for my fairy godmother, Jane?” Elizabeth rested her forehead on the bedclothes. She spoke too quietly for the distracted fairy to hear.
“We are given the fairy we need, you know that,” Jane said.
She bent down to whisper in Elizabeth’s ear, “Truthfully, I have always envied you Mildread. Priscilla means well, poor thing, but she is hard of hearing and refuses to admit it—it causes ever so many problems. At least Mildread is trying to protect you. And I do not think Mildread has ever made you ill from too much fairy dust.”
Elizabeth stared, and Jane just nodded her head once, very slowly.
“I thought it was being caught in the rain that made you ill,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Lizzy, really,” Jane scolded quietly, still aware of Priscilla’s proximity. “Who has ever been made ill by a few raindrops?”
Elizabeth glanced over at Priscilla, who was, even now, blowing more of the golden dust from her flattened palm into the air. Most of it caught the draft from the window and wafted towards the bed. It did not affect her, but Jane sneezed several times.
“Why have you not said anything?”
Jane shook her head. “I cannot bear to hurt her feelings. She does not mean to make me ill. And it is not so bad, really, only I am always so sleepy.”
“Oh Jane,” Elizabeth said with a moan, “we really are the most ridiculous girls.”
Jane stroked Elizabeth’s hair. “Speak for yourself, dearest,” she said archly. “At least Mr. Bingley is not offending Priscilla to the point of retaliation.”
Elizabeth could only laugh. It was better than crying.
“I do not know what you mean.” Mildread sniffed, then held her embroidery closer to the light. “I only do what is right and necessary.”
“That is true,” Elizabeth said in a placating tone. “Still . . .”
“Still nothing,” the fairy replied. “Your Mr. Darcy is an insufferable man, and he will have his answer. Your poor mother was distraught.”
Mamma had not been distraught. She had been offended. Mr. Darcy was terribly good at that. “He is not my Mr. Darcy, and he was affronted on my behalf.”
Mildread chuckled. “If he is not your Mr. Darcy, was it his place to be affronted for you?”
“No, of course not. Still . . .”
“Elizabeth,” Mildread inquired calmly, “why are you defending his behaviour?”
“I am not,” she insisted, frustrated. “It is only that he is not so very bad. Is he?”
“As you are well aware, he cannot open his mouth without saying something unseemly.”
“But I have spoken with him. He will be polite, Mildread, truly he will.”
This was met with a disdainful wheeze. “Did he say as much?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
Mildread hummed a little tune. “I believe what he said was that he did not believe in fairy godmothers.” The needle went in and out, creating a border, then impossibly small figures. “We are, in his words, nothing more than nonsense. Is that not the information he relayed to you?”
The panic began to swell inside her. “He does not know. How could he? You have told us often enough that once we are no longer Bennets, even we will not be able to see you anymore.”
Mildread shrugged. “Once you leave a family, you leave your fairies, too. If you are very fortunate, your new family will have their own.” Her hands dropped into her lap while she considered. “He said he does not believe in fairies.”
“Then how can you hold him to account for it?”
“Is it not enough that he has been rude? He rolled his eyes at your mother.” Mildread began to hum again.
“For me, Mildread. He was upset for me.” She worried her bottom lip. “What will you do to him?” Elizabeth asked, a coldness stealing over her despite Mildread’s soothing song.
The needle flashed as it dipped in and out of the sumptuous cloth.
Elizabeth drew near. She admired Mildread’s handiwork even more than she had at Lucas Lodge.
The gown was a brilliant blue, and the gold embroidery told an abbreviated history of the fairies.
The song’s notes showered them with sparkling silver dust as they faded away, and an echo of the story rose from the golden thread of the gown to cavort around them.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and smelled springtime.
She saw herself strolling between ancient trees and into a meadow where sweet peas, daffodils, rhododendrons, and bluebells grew intertwined in a riot of colour.
Someone was waiting for her there. Someone tall.
With dark hair and a sweet, small smile.
He held out his hands in welcome. She stepped forward, but as the music faded, so did he.
“You will not send Mr. Darcy away, will you?” she asked quietly.
Mildread studied her. “He is pompous, arrogant, and odious. Why do you continue to defend him when he cannot open his mouth without giving offense?”
“I do not know ,” Elizabeth pleaded. Truly, she did not. “For some reason, I think he is not as bad as he appears. He was kind to me at dinner,” she said weakly. “Promise you will not make him disappear.”
“Very well,” said Mildread reluctantly, her eyes still on Elizabeth. “I promise I shall not make him disappear.”