Changeling Child - Part 7

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

It was all but tradition that the Lucas and Bennet families called upon each other at the first acceptable hour, the morning after a social event.

Thus it was that the Sir William and Lady Lucas decended upon Longbourn, their children in tow, to discuss the events of the previous night. Sir William vanished into Mr Bennet’s bookroom, where he might be prevailed upon to give a detailed account of the evening, without the perils of lace or fashion. Lady Lucas joined Mrs Bennet in the drawing room, her children in tow.

As was her wont, Mary gave up her seat in favour of the Pianoforte. She might not be much for the Italian and Spanish operas that were most fashionable for accomplished ladies to perform, but softer tunes intended as background noise were well within her range. While it had been flattering to overhear herself described as accomplished, Mary remembered the Assembly well enough under her own power, and had no desire to chew over every fine detail like it was a piece of over-cooked meat.

Society was exhausting enough without searching for additional meaning and motive where it may or may not even exist!

Besides, Mr Darcy’s explanation of his behaviour had given Mary and idea for another melody, and until she could retreat to the Hermitage, the drawing room would do well enough.

The melody started off slow, like a serenade, Mary’s fingers almost wandering over the keys. She continued the steady pace throughout, leading the listener over rolling hills and along riverbanks, seeking but not quite searching for something unknown. Mary debated ending with a dramatic flourish, but decided against it, settling on a flurry of notes like a quickening heartbeat upon seeing an unexpected sight.

The sound of applause almost made Mary jump off her seat.

Apparently, she had been so caught up in her new composition that she completely missed the arrival of two new, and very notable, guests.

Mr Bingley sat near Jane, safely chaperoned under Mama and Lady Lucas’s eagle eyes as they talked quietly. Mr Darcy and Lizzy shared the small sofa, blank music sheets balanced on an atlas between them. Lizzy held one of Kitty’s charcol drawing pencils in one hand, gesturing to emphasise a point.

Mr Darcy inclined his head, having correctly interpreted the baffled expression Mary was certain she wore. “My sister, Georgiana, also enjoys coming up with her own melodies, and finds it endlessly frustrating that she cannot play and write at the same time, so I learned to do it for her.”

That was quite sweet of him, Miss Darcy was a fortunate girl. Lizzy waved her free hand, very nearly brushing across Mr Darcy’s palm as she did. “We used charcol, so you can make corrections if you wish. I still say the last note was a middle C sharp, not a D flat.”

For a moment, Mr Darcy looked as stunned as the stablehand had when Sarah the laundry maid smiled at him, and moved his hand as if he feared being burned. Jane and Charlotte exchanged amused looks, which made a little more sense now than it had last night; Lizzy rarely took the trouble to argue if she didn’t value the opinion of the person she quarelled with. Mr Darcy cleared his throat before replying. “The two notes are very close together.”

Kitty coughed in a way that suggested she did not want a repeat of old arguments, and that Mary owed her new drawing supplies. “You might as well play it again; or they will never agree.”

Mary played the flurry of notes again, letting them hang in the air and trail into silence. Mr Darcy inclined his head slightly toward Lizzy, “It may be a middle C, as you say, but I cannot be certain.”

Elizabeth’s lips quirked in something halfway between amusement and a pout. Mr Bingley cleared his throat hastily, “May I interest any of you ladies in a walk? It would be a shame to come to the countryside and not enjoy it.”

His attempts to head off another disagreement were very transparent, but Mama could not have her eldest two daughters out the door fast enough, ushering Mary along as a chaperone.

There were worse ways to spend the late morning than watching Jane’s reserve melt while Lizzy’s rapier wit finally faced a challenge.

The Bingley ladies took a few days longer before they called, but their company was pleasing enough, and the call was readily returned some days before the ball at Lucas Lodge.

Returning the call meant that the Bennet ladies missed the arrival of the Militia, though doubtless Papa would have decreed that a stroke of good fortune. Mr Bingley was present when they visited Netherfield, which quite made up for the lack of Officers in Mama’s eyes, if not in Lydia’s. Mr Darcy was content to linger near the pianoforte where Mary examined the available music, while Lizzy and Miss Bingley’s polite barbs grew ever more pointed. “How comes your newest melody.”

Mary sighed, “I fear it will never be played where young ladies are usually called upon to exhibit themselves, yet I can never seem to summon enjoyment in the socially acceptable pieces.”

Gentlemen were rarely called upon to perform as ladies were, so Mr Darcy had little advice. “I suppose Scottish and Irish airs are always popular, especially if there are those minded to dance.”

That was an excellent point, and the simpler tunes would suit Mary far better than the loud, dramatic pieces made fashionable by continental composers. Let Lizzy and Charlotte bear the concertos.

Officially, Beggers Night and All Hallows Eve were looked down upon as backwards country superstitions, practiced by the ignorant and uneducated, if they were at all.

Unofficially, any household with a Changeling, or who counted one in their ancestry, was careful to have a ready supply of soul cakes on hand for anyone who came singing, and followed the traditions to bring good fortune.

Mary asked the fae warrior - her mind still shied away from calling him 'her warrior', since he had yet to entrust her with his name - what the Fair Folk did on the evening. The warrior picked up a turnip, carving it into a far more ornate lantern than most managed. "The veil between worlds is thinnest at Samhain, so we use the night to spirit back any changelings in danger, and visit the border realms that will need to transition soon." He smirked slyly, "sometimes we play tricks on those who deserve it."

That, she did not doubt. "Border realms?"

He shrugged. "They vary. Places where doors Underhill can be found. Wilderness areas that inspire the poets, mostly, but some of your grand estates serve as Overhill residences for a Lord or Lady. The Gentry can afford to be reclusive."

Mary laughed at the pun. "You are welcome to use the hermitage, if there are any endangered changelings who need a place to gather before you bring them home."

He reached out, squeezing her hand in gratitude, and Mary's breath froze in her chest. She felt as if she stood balanced on a precipice, and the slightest sway one way or the other would sent her flying into the unknown. Her warrior smiled gently, “If I send any in need of shelter, they will tell you that Cathal sent them.”

Mary felt her eyes widen at the implications of his words. “Is that your name, or merely what they will call you? I have no wish to use it lightly.”

He touched her hand again, gentle and reassuring. “Cathal is a name I go by when I need to give one for everyday use. My name is Diarmait, and that is who I will be to you.”

A name was a powerful thing, especially among the Fair Folk. It could be used to ensnare or to free, to bind a Lord or Lady to the will of another. For Diarmait to share his name with her was a sign of trust well beyond ordinary measure; it didn’t feel right not to respond. “You know it already, but my name is Mary.”

Perhaps Mary had another name, given to her by her fairy parents before they exchanged her with a human child, but perhaps she did not. Diarmait smiled softly, as if he understood what she didn’t have the words to say. “I am honoured that you share it with me, none the less.”

Read the next chapter here

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