Retaliation - 7

Part of the Dragons, Deceit, and Desire collection

Hi Everyone!

As a point of interest, most of the dragon names come from the various mythological gods of old. The dragons are not gods, but in ancient times were venerated by mortals in ways that could explain their functions by humans who were not hosts.

I’m trying to get the footnotes aligned with the Substack editor, but I haven’t gotten the hang of it yet. I’m probably going to make a glossary… sigh.

The back story of the dragons is found at the beginning of Born to Serve. It is rather boring, but a relatively brief chapter that you can read using the preview function of most online bookstores.

As always, your comments and likes will be appreciated! The likes really help. ;o)

---

Chapter 7

Two hours later, Bingley arrived home in time to hear Mr. Jones state, “Sir William, call it what you wish. The lady is dead from poison. Whether it was self-inflicted or given by another is your problem, not mine.”

“Who is dead?” demanded Charles Bingley from the doorway. Caroline’s lifeless body was lying on the floor, obscured by a solemn Sir William, a distraught Mr. Hurst, and an angry Mr. Jones.

Louisa ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. She cried out in distress, “Caroline is dead. She keeled over after drinking tea. What are we to do?”

“Hurst! Take Louisa upstairs. Put her to bed and stay with her,” ordered Bingley. He watched the couple go up the stairs and turned to face the room. Mr. Jones and Sir William stood near the body of his sister. Lydia Bennet sat in a chair by the window, crying crocodile tears with gusto. A footman entered the room and brought a plate of biscuits and a fresh cup of tea to Miss Lydia. The footman placed it on a side table next to the girl and left the room. Without hesitation, she took up the cup and drank. A distraught Charles watched her fall.

Sir William and Mr. Jones rushed to the fallen girl. “She’s dead,” proclaimed Mr. Jones.

Sir William turned to Bingley, “Who was that footman? Where did he go?”

“I didn’t notice him. I can’t believe this is happening. My sister is dead from poison, and now Miss Lydia. Killed in front of the magistrate. Two women brazenly murdered.” Distressed and pushed past his limit, Charles Bingley fell to his knees beside Caroline’s body and cried.

Mr. Jones, the local apothecary, suspected murder by poison. However, the magistrate, Sir William Lucas, disagreed. Sir William thought murder was impossible. He thought Caroline’s death was suicide. A suicide meant to avoid her own ruination and to cast blame on a Bennet. He couldn’t fathom why Lydia was dead. However, it was clear that Lydia was a victim of murder by the unknown footman.

The next day, the Hursts and Charles Bingley began the long coach journey to Scarborough, following the wagon carrying Caroline Bingley’s casket. The Darcys arrived at Longbourn the following day and entered a house full of Mrs. Bennet’s loud lamentations, Mr. Bennet’s lackluster efforts to convince the vicar to allow Lydia burial in consecrated ground, and the tears of Jane, Mary, and Kitty. Colonel Fitzwilliam stoically bore the lamentations while attempting to comfort Jane and aid Mr. Bennet in his attempt to have the vicar agree to allow Lydia to be buried in the Bennet family’s section of the cemetery. Three days later, the Bennets buried Lydia in the family section of Longbourn Cemetery after Mr. Darcy gave a large donation to the church, which persuaded the vicar to discount rumors of suicide and stick to the facts.

Sir William was no closer to finding the murderer. The unidentified footman simply disappeared. Speculation was rife. Rumors flew around the neighborhood regarding the deaths. Sir William believed Mr. Wickham had poisoned the women. He theorized that Wickham took Miss Bingley’s money to ruin Miss Lydia, thus destroying the reputation of the Bennet family. He further speculated that Miss Lydia went to confront Miss Bingley and saw Wickham, dressed as a footman, serve the poisoned tea to Miss Bingley. Wickham knew Miss Lydia recognized him and would accuse him of the crime, so he killed her, too. There was no trace of Wickham in the house or anywhere else, but when do truth or facts matter once gossip is rife?

The second most popular rumor held that Lydia poisoned Miss Bingley in retaliation for her machinations, and rather than face the gallows for murder, she had poisoned herself and was therefore spoken of as a young woman who died by suicide. The Bennets and Darcys rejected the tale outright since the facts pointed to murder and prevailed upon the vicar to grant her burial in hallowed ground. They insisted Lydia had been a dutiful Christian girl, constant in her Sunday attendance, and that no creature so full of plans for her future would willingly quit the mortal world. The vicar agreed with the Bennets, and the girl was buried in the family’s consecrated section of the cemetery.

A fortnight after Lydia’s funeral, the Darcys left Longbourn with Mary and Kitty for an extended visit to Pemberley while Jane, accompanied by a maid, went in the family carriage to stay with the Gardiners in London, escorted by Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Bennet looked forward to enjoying a quiet home where he could read without interruption and process the events that had disrupted their lives. Mrs. Bennet viewed her daughters’ departures as desertion and constantly complained to her spouse about every little domestic mishap that annoyed her. Thus, his life was not quiet, and she continued to suffer from grief and her nerves.

A week into Hypnos’s enforced wakefulness, Zander turned his attention back to Longbourn with the air of a commander inspecting a battlefield he already suspected was lost. He found Hypnos slumped in Mr. Bennet’s mind like a creature who had attempted heroism once and immediately regretted it.

Zander: You look worse than usual.

Hypnos (miserably): I have been awake for seven days. Seven. Do you know what Mrs. Bennet can accomplish in seven days?

Zander: I imagine it involves shrieking and a variety of nervous complaints accentuated by her waving handkerchief. Her nervous complaints are not all imaginary. She can really become ill from stress, and her chest pain is real.

Hypnos: Shrieking, wailing, lamenting, prognosticating doom, and declaring her nerves to be in a state of collapse so frequently that even I began to doubt their existence. I tried to guide my host, truly I did, but every time I nudged him toward positive action, she produced a fresh catastrophe — a scorched pudding, a missing ribbon, a maid who breathed too loudly. I am named after a god of sleep, Zander, not a god of fortitude.

Before Zander could reply, a fluttering, self-satisfied voice drifted into the conversation like a draft through a cracked window.

Larkos: Oh, do stop complaining, Hypnos. You sound like Mrs. Bennet herself, and that is never flattering.

Hypnos groaned. Zander closed his eyes briefly, as though summoning patience from a distant star.

Zander: Larkos, this is not your concern.

Larkos: Nothing is my concern, and yet I concern myself with everything. It is one of my many charms. Besides, I have been observing. Mrs. Bennet’s nerves could overwhelm an entire pantheon of gods, not just their draconic namesakes. I am astonished that Hypnos lasted a week.

Hypnos: I did not last. I merely survived.

Larkos: Barely. John Lucas would have done better.

Zander: John Lucas is under your complete influence, which is precisely why he would not have done better.

Larkos (preening): He obeys me with enthusiasm… such a handsome, young, virile man with a sense of humor.

Zander: He obeys you without protest because he has no discernment whatsoever. Also, you take control of his body and mind so frequently that the boy is afraid to confront you. You mistreat your host.

Larkos: A trait I find refreshing.

Zander turned back to Hypnos, who was attempting to remain upright in Mr. Bennet’s mind but listing dangerously to one side.

Zander: Have you guided your host at all?

Hypnos: I tried. I nudged him toward firmness. He attempted to speak. Mrs. Bennet burst into tears. He retreated behind a book. I fell asleep for three minutes. It was an accident.

Zander: You are forbidden to sleep.

Hypnos: I know. I apologized to the heavens afterward.

Larkos: I, for one, think he has done admirably. Mrs. Bennet is a force of nature. A lesser dragon would have fled the household entirely.

Zander: Hypnos is not permitted to flee.

Larkos: Precisely my point. He is trapped. We are all trapped unless we resort to murder. It is very tragic and very funny that we must stay within our hosts until they die, or cause them to die if we flee. A serious design flaw that someone should rectify.

Zander exhaled slowly, the cosmic equivalent of pinching the bridge of one’s nose in exasperation.

Zander: Hypnos, you will continue your task. You will remain awake. You will guide your host. And you will not allow Mrs. Bennet’s theatrics to derail you.

Hypnos: I shall try. But she is louder than thunder and more persistent than erosion.

Larkos: And far less interesting. Zander ignored him.

Zander: Hypnos, I will check on your progress in another week. I expect progress.

Hypnos whimpered. Larkos smirked.

Zander: Larkos, the design for our hosts was granted by an architect greater than me, and it works well for most dragons. If you are dissatisfied, feel free to stay in the ether after your current host dies of natural causes. There are thousands of dragon spirits waiting to claim hosts, and never enough hosts to accommodate them. In fact, I’m sure that I can find one willing to swap places with you now if you desire to rejoin those in the ether. It is quite uncomfortable to be supplanted by another dragon, but your host will survive and probably be grateful for the change.

Mrs. Bennet, unaware that she had single-handedly overwhelmed her husband’s sensibilities, launched into a fresh tirade about a bonnet that had been moved half an inch from where she last remembered placing it.

Hypnos flinched. It was going to be a very long five months and three weeks.

Larkos, who had been mentally hovering about Longbourn with the restless energy of a minor dragon in search of mischief, at last decided that Hypnos’s failure was not merely predictable but intolerably dull. A week of watching the dragon of sleep wilt under Mrs. Bennet’s daily lamentations had left him bored, and boredom was the most dangerous state in which Larkos could exist.

He chose his moment with the precision of a creature who had never once considered consequences. Mrs. Bennet was in the middle of a spirited denunciation of a maid who had folded a handkerchief in a manner she deemed “positively French.”

Larkos slipped into her thoughts like a draft under a door.

Larkos (slyly): Yes, yes, your nerves are in tatters. You should tell your husband so. Loudly. Repeatedly. Preferably until he does something dramatic.

Mrs. Bennet, already primed for hysteria, seized upon the suggestion with the enthusiasm of a general receiving reinforcements.

Mrs. Bennet shrieked, “Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! My nerves are in such a state that I may never recover!”

She burst into the library with the force of a cannonball, startling Mr. Bennet, who had been attempting to read the same paragraph for three days.

Hypnos, who had been clinging to consciousness by a thread, recoiled as her voice struck him like a physical blow.

Hypnos (faintly): Why would she do that? Why would anyone burst into a room shrieking like that?

Larkos (smug): Because I told her to. You’re welcome.

Hypnos groaned.

Mr. Bennet closed his book with the resignation of a man who had long suspected the universe was conspiring against him and now had proof.

Zander materialized in his mind with the quiet authority of a cosmic being who had reached the end of his patience. His gaze swept the room and the minds in it: Mrs. Bennet in full lamentation, Hypnos half-conscious, Larkos preening, and Mr. Bennet looking as though he would gladly trade his soul for five uninterrupted minutes of quiet.

Zander: I left you for one week. One. And this is the result.

Larkos: I improved matters. Look how animated she is.

Zander: You meddled after I forbade it.

Larkos: I enhanced.

Zander: You interfered with a draconic mandate.

Larkos: I relieved my boredom.

Zander’s expression darkened — a rare and ominous event, for cosmic architects do not often display irritation, preferring to let stars collapse on their own schedule.

Zander: Larkos, if you interfere again, I will find another dragon compatible with John Lucas and reassign you to the ether for a few millennia.

Larkos blinked.

Larkos: The ether?

Zander: Yes.

Larkos paled. Even he knew when to behave. The ether was restful, but without any physical sensations or mental challenges. That was why the dragons had begged Zander and Kira to create compatible hosts. They could enjoy physical pleasures and pain while inhabiting a host for up to ten decades, plus the mental companionship of a compatible mind to speak with. The nothingness of the ether was restful, boring, and not enjoyable.

Larkos: I apologize, Zander. I will do as you asked.

Mrs. Bennet, still mid‑tirade, paused only when Mr. Bennet raised his hands, palm out, in a pushing manner — a gesture so rare for the indolent man that even the dragons fell silent.

Mr. Bennet calmly said, “My dear, if your nerves are indeed as fragile as you claim, I suggest you conserve them. At their current rate of expenditure, you will have none left by supper.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped, affronted.

Mrs. Bennet replied, “How can you speak so unfeelingly when I am in such distress?”

Mr. Bennet, in response to her question, retorted, “Practice. You are always in distress. Your distress regularly overwhelms the rest of the household. Our nerves are overwhelmed by your nerves so constantly that it is absurd. Are you trying to kill me? Do you have a desire to be tossed into the hedgerows sooner?”

Hypnos perked up slightly. Larkos snorted. Zander was slightly impressed.

Mrs. Bennet continued, “My darling Lydia is dead, and her murderer runs free! Oh! That Wickham must be caught! My darling, Jane, has gone to London! And Lizzy has taken Mary and Kitty away to the north!” She burst into a fresh bout of sobbing.

He chose to ignore the reminder of Lydia’s death since he knew Wickham was dead, and he had no idea who the murderer could possibly be.

Mr. Bennet continued sternly, “And if the household is to survive another week, I must insist that your nerves take a brief holiday. Preferably somewhere quiet. Preferably somewhere not here. Somewhere like the dower house. In fact, I will send servants to give the place a thorough cleaning and prepare it for occupation. Hopefully, your nerves will improve before you are forced to live here. I can only praise the good sense of our remaining children for choosing to flee this house and your nerves. In fact, I am tempted to pursue an alternative that you will find less appealing than the dower house. I will visit a friend without you and stay until you can regulate your outbursts. If I choose to flee my home, I will grant the servants a holiday. You will be forced to stay here alone without a maid, footman, cook, or gardener. The staff will all be on vacation until I return.”

Mrs. Bennet sputtered, lapsing into silence, torn between outrage and confusion.

Mr. Bennet further stated, “I assure you, my dear, it is for the good of all who remain here — including your nerves, which I fear are in danger of becoming a public menace.”

Hypnos straightened, sensing — for the first time — the faintest glimmer of progress.

Zander nodded once, satisfied.

Zander: Continue in this vein, Hypnos. Your host may yet be salvageable.

Hypnos (weakly triumphant): I did nothing.

Zander: Precisely. Sometimes mortals surprise dragons.

Larkos rolled his eyes.

Larkos: Oh, please. Bennet made one joke.

Zander: His statement was more effective than all your meddling. It was not a joke. Leave this household alone. If you wish to be useful, find the murderer. It is not a host. Search among the humans for the culprit. That is now your task. I expect results.

Larkos sulked; he had no wish to be productive.

Hypnos exhaled, relieved.

Mrs. Bennet, exasperated, flounced out of the study, slammed the door in her wake, and determined to retire for the night. Mr. Bennet reopened his book with the air of a man who had earned the right to read in peace and hoped that his wife might have exhausted herself.

It lasted thirty seconds. But for Hypnos, thirty seconds of peace was pure relief. For Bennet, it was a miracle. A commotion began as soon as Mrs. Bennet entered her bedroom and discovered her nightgown was not lying on the bed’s coverlet. Her maid scurried about retrieving the garment and quickly readied the matriarch for bed. Once under the covers, she instantly fell asleep, inadvertently granting the household the gift of silence.

Mrs. Bennet did not take kindly to being told her nerves ought to take a holiday and spent a restless night dreaming about scenarios that would give her husband grief. Indeed, she considered it the gravest insult she had suffered since the day Mrs. Long wore a bonnet suspiciously like her own, yet somehow more attractive.

Thus, the very next morning, Mrs. Bennet loudly retaliated with a fresh wave of histrionics so sweeping that even the curtains seemed to recoil.

After she arrived in the breakfast room and took her place at the table with a plate of her favorite foods, she began with sighs between each bite — long, theatrical sighs that suggested imminent collapse from the simple exertion of lifting a pastry to her mouth and chewing it. When the sighs failed to produce the desired effect (Mr. Bennet merely turned a page of his newspaper), she escalated to moans. When the moans elicited nothing more than a raised brow, she advanced to full lamentations.

“Oh! My heart! My spirits! My constitution! I am undone — utterly undone!” she cried, loud enough to alarm the sparrows outside. The flock immediately took flight, abandoning their search for food.

Hypnos, who had been attempting to remain alert, flinched so violently that Mr. Bennet’s spectacles nearly slipped off his nose. The dragon of sleep was already showing signs of divine burnout — a condition rarely seen among immortal dragons, brought on only by prolonged exposure to mortals with excessive emotional output.

Hypnos (desperate): You must respond. Firmly. Calmly. Assert your authority. Say something decisive. Threaten to take away her pin money. Be kind. Be positive.

Mr. Bennet looked up from his newspaper with the air of a man who had been asked to perform a complicated mathematical proof without warning.

Mr. Bennet tersely commented, “My dear, you look solid enough. If you are undone, I suggest you redo yourself at once. I cannot have you unraveling before you finish eating breakfast. I cannot eat all this delicious food alone. I may need to invite the housekeeper and butler to join me, or possibly that new maid. Unlike you, she looks a bit too thin. A good breakfast will help her gain some weight.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped, scandalized. She sobbed, “How can you speak so cruelly when I am on the brink of dissolution?”

Hypnos (encouraging): Good. Continue. You are doing well. Maintain the pressure. Be kind to her.

Mr. Bennet considered this advice, then promptly ignored it.

Mr. Bennet replied, “I have great faith in your ability to survive your own catastrophes and ignore what I say. You have done so admirably since 1786 when we married.”

Mrs. Bennet clutched her chest as though stabbed and wailed, “You mock my suffering!”

Mr. Bennet sternly replied, “Only when it is imaginary. All this noise serves no purpose unless you mean to vex me. Now that the girls are gone, we need to find a way to get along. Your caterwauling over every little thing is childish. Worse, it is disturbing the servants. If you keep complaining about imagined mistakes, we’ll find them leaving for employment elsewhere. If they depart, I will not hire replacements because I will expect you to do their work.”

Hypnos groaned. This was not guidance. This was… what Mr. Bennet always did. Dry, evasive, accusatory, and utterly unproductive commentary. His temples throbbed — a rare and alarming sign of celestial exhaustion. He tried again.

Hypnos (insistent): No, no — you must take charge with kindness. Tell her you will not be swayed by theatrics. Tell her—

But Mrs. Bennet interrupted with a fresh wail so piercing that Hypnos’s essence quivered like a struck tuning fork.

Mrs. Bennet wailed, “I shall faint! I shall faint this very moment!”

She did not faint. She never fainted. She simply announced the possibility with great enthusiasm.

Mr. Bennet sighed and said, “If you must, my dear, please choose a location that will not inconvenience the servants.” Mrs. Bennet gaped at him, stunned into silence.

Hypnos buried his face in his claws. His wings drooped. A faint, shimmering aura of fatigue radiated from him — the unmistakable glow of a dragon pushed beyond his natural limits.

This was not the assertive leadership Zander had demanded. This was a man sidestepping responsibility with the grace of a cat avoiding a puddle.

And yet — Hypnos could not deny it — Mr. Bennet’s dry humor had momentarily stunned Mrs. Bennet into silence. A rare and precious event.

Hypnos (tentatively hopeful): Perhaps… perhaps this is progress?

Mrs. Bennet recovered at once.

Mrs. Bennet screeched, “I am surrounded by monsters! My husband mocks me, my daughters abandon me, and my nerves — my poor nerves — are shredded beyond repair!”

Hypnos wilted.

Hypnos: No. No progress at all.

The dragon attempted one final nudge.

Hypnos: Tell her you care for her well-being. That you wish her to be strong and healthy. That you—

Mr. Bennet (flippantly): Hypnos, why are you awake? Stop interfering. You know I can’t control her.

Hypnos’s eyes narrowed — or rather, drooped with offended exhaustion.

Hypnos: But I can control you. You did not enjoy the results the last time I took charge. You must manage your household, or I will — by decree of the Dragon King.

Stung by his dragon’s rebuke, Mr. Bennet straightened.

Mr. Bennet sympathetically said, “My dear, if your nerves are indeed shredded, I recommend mending them before luncheon. I should hate them to unravel into the soup. If they are not mended by then, I shall call the apothecary and deduct the bill from your pin money. In fact, I may summon a doctor from London to evaluate your mental state. You are behaving like a crazed lunatic. Committing you to Bedlam may be the only way to calm your nerves, and better than relegating you to the dower house. I fear that these histrionics are going to give me palpitations and cause an early demise. Then Mr. Collins may claim Longbourn and throw you into the dreaded hedgerows post haste. I doubt Darcy or Colonel Fitzwilliam will cater to your whims.”

Mrs. Bennet shrieked louder.

Mr. Bennet rose, walked to the door, and called a footman. “Fetch the apothecary. My wife is experiencing a massive bout of nerves. I fear she may truly be ill.”

Hypnos sagged in relief — not because progress had been made, but because the shouting had momentarily ceased. His wings trembled. His eyelids drooped. His aura flickered like a candle in a draft.

The god of sleep was burning out.

And the Bennets were only on day nine of a six-month period.

Mrs. Bennet, having exhausted the ordinary range of her lamentation during the apothecary’s visit, proved the next morning that her lamentations could ascend to operatic levels of distress. Her sighs became arias, her moans took on the structure of a tragic narrative, and her wails achieved such resonance that the windowpanes trembled in sympathetic vibration.

Even the barn cat fled the kitchen before Cook gave him the customary plate of table scraps.

Mr. Bennet attempted to read the newspaper, but each sentence dissolved into blurry lines of newsprint beneath the force of his wife’s vocal dramatics.

Mrs. Bennet: “Oh! My heart! My spirits! My very soul! I am undone, shattered, ruined beyond comprehension!”

Hypnos, already deep into divine burnout, flinched so hard that Mr. Bennet’s teacup rattled.

Hypnos (hoarse, exhausted): You must respond. Firmly. Calmly. Assert your authority. Threaten her pin money. Do something.

Mr. Bennet lowered the paper with the air of a man who had been asked to solve a riddle in a language he did not speak.

Mr. Bennet threw down his paper and said, “My dear, if you are shattered, I recommend sweeping up the pieces before luncheon. I should hate them to mingle with the toast crumbs. The apothecary left a draft for you to drink. Have you taken it?”

Mrs. Bennet gasped, scandalized into silence with a slightly guilty countenance. She had not taken the draft.

Hypnos blinked (astonished): That… worked.

But Mrs. Bennet was not a woman to be silenced for long. She rallied with renewed vigor. She screeched, “You mock me! You mock my suffering! My nerves are in tatters… tatters, sir!”

Mr. Bennet dryly replied, “Then perhaps you should darn them. You are quite handy with a needle.”

This time, the silence was not scandalized but stunned. Mrs. Bennet stared at him, mouth open, as though he had spoken in ancient Greek.

Hypnos sat up straighter. His wings twitched. His aura brightened.

Hypnos: Yes! Yes! This is progress! Continue! Press the advantage!

But Mrs. Bennet, sensing danger, escalated to her highest register yet — a shriek so piercing it could have cracked porcelain. Mrs. Bennet cried, “I shall faint! I shall faint this very instant! I shall fall dead upon the carpet!”

Mr. Bennet sighed, “If you must faint, my dear, please choose a spot that will not inconvenience the servants. You have grown heavier over the years, and more than one footman will be required to lift your body. I will send a message to the London physician that Mr. Jones recommended. Your pin money is rapidly shrinking. Plus, I will instruct the servants to begin cleaning the dower house this afternoon. Your behavior is intolerable.”

She did not faint. She never fainted. She simply declared the intention with operatic conviction.

Hypnos’s eye twitched. His claws dug into the fabric of Mr. Bennet’s mind. His wings drooped. His aura flickered like a candle in a gale.

He had reached the limit of his endurance.

Hypnos (snapping): ENOUGH.

The word was not spoken aloud, yet it reverberated through the room like a thunderclap muffled by velvet. A pulse of shimmering, drowsy draconic power rippled outward — a divine sleep wave, born of exhaustion, frustration, and the desperate need for silence.

Mrs. Bennet froze mid‑lament, blinked twice, and collapsed gracefully onto the nearest sofa, snoring with the delicacy of a woman who believed she had fainted elegantly.

Mr. Bennet blinked.

Mr. Bennet: “Well. That is the quietest she has been in twenty-four years.”

Hypnos sagged, panting, wings trembling.

Hypnos: I did not mean to do that. I simply… snapped.

Mr. Bennet: “My dear fellow, if I had your abilities, I would have snapped decades ago.”

Hypnos groaned, rubbing his temples.

Hypnos: This is divine misconduct. Zander will be furious.

Mr. Bennet: “Then I suggest you pretend she fainted naturally. She will certainly believe it.”

Hypnos considered this, then nodded weakly.

Hypnos: Very well. But I warn you… If she awakens shrieking again, I cannot guarantee I won’t inadvertently send the entire county to sleep.

Mr. Bennet: “If you do, please begin with Longbourn.”

And for the first time in days, Hypnos laughed — a tired, wheezing sound, but genuine.

Mrs. Bennet snored on, blissfully unaware that she had been felled not by her nerves, but by a dragon’s frayed patience. Her beleaguered husband took her slumber as an opportunity to send the necessary servants to clean the dower house and prepare the largest bedroom for his wife. When she awoke three days later, she found herself in a strange bedroom. After frantically looking around, she located a note on the bedside table.

Dear Fanny,

You are in your new home… the dower house. Your personal maid, a footman, a scullery maid, and an outdoor servant are provided for your convenience. Meals will be brought to you and the staff from Longbourn Manor House daily in serving dishes. The servants performing this task will not take orders from you. They will leave the food in the kitchen and leave. Screaming, shrieking, and wailing about your nerves or anything else will achieve nothing pleasant. The following day, they will collect the clean serving dishes and containers from your kitchen table and deposit the new meals on the table. If no clean serving dishes are available for collection, you will not receive any additional meals. Any servant who wishes may leave your service and return to the manor. It behooves you to treat the servants well and to act like a reasonable adult rather than a small child. The provided meals are for you and the staff. Share the food. Ensure the scullery maid cleans the serving dishes promptly. As you know, Longbourn does not have an endless supply of covered dishes.

Do not return here for any reason. Do not send notes to me. If you wish for more servants, use your remaining pin money to hire and pay them. You do not have a carriage. Learn to walk if you wish to visit your friends or the Meryton shops. The exercise will help you regain your figure. I remind you that it is two miles from the dower house to Longbourn Manor and four miles to Meryton. If you do not like the provided meals, I suggest you learn to cook.

Your husband,

T B

---

---