Page 32 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“There you are, Darcy! I have been all over the county and back, and I am here to report that the horses have been returned, the gig is in a ditch, and Mrs. Long’s pug is a menace to civil society.” He stood in the doorway, his gaze shifting to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth! Are you well? I heard from the groom—is it true, you carried Caroline? Actually carried her?”
“Miss Darcy and I assisted Miss Bingley to the house,” Elizabeth said, with a modesty so precise it bordered on art. “It was entirely a joint effort.”
“Then I owe you considerable gratitude. Mrs. Nicholls tells me Caroline is resting. The ankle is twisted, not sprained, and Mr. Jones recommends elevation and cold compresses for a day or two.”
“I am happy to be of service, Mr. Bingley. Miss Darcy was uncommonly resourceful.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Darcy is a veritable angel. Caroline informs me that Miss Darcy was the first to act—ran for assistance without hesitation and then returned to help carry when the situation required it. Caroline says she has never seen such composure in a young lady of her age, and that Miss Darcy’s character is a credit to her family and her breeding.”
He delivered this with the earnest warmth of a man repeating his sister’s words without examining their underlying motivations. “I must confess I had not appreciated how remarkable she is—one forgets, you know, because she is so quiet at dinner, but Caroline says there is a great deal more to Miss Darcy than one might suppose, and that she has a quality—” He gestured, at a loss for the word.
“Courage,” Elizabeth offered, pleasantly.
“Yes, precisely! Courage. That is exactly it.” Bingley beamed, delighted to have the word supplied. Then his gaze dropped to my boot. “Cinnamon has defected again. Miss Elizabeth, does it not wound you?”
“Cinnamon has always had questionable taste,” she replied, “and I have made my peace with it.” She glanced at the cat with an expression that did not quite conceal her amusement. “What I have not made my peace with, Mr. Bingley, is your drainage diverting floodwater onto my father’s fields.”
Bingley’s brow crinkled with the innocence of a babe with no concept of milk’s origin.
“The channel borders Longbourn’s lower fields,” I explained. “Miss Bennet has identified that our current course will flood Mr. Bennet’s winter wheat. The works must be halted and the gradient resurveyed to direct the runoff toward the existing boundary stream. I will ride out with the steward tomorrow morning to oversee the necessary adjustments.”
“Then I shall inform my father to inspect the diversions.” She dipped the quill and scratched more words on the letter before sanding andsealing it.
“Consider it done, Miss Elizabeth.” Bingley waved a magnanimous hand. “Darcy’s schemes are infallible. Well… nearly. Present drainage excepted.”
“Present drainage very much included,” Elizabeth retorted, rising from the desk with the finished letter in hand. She bent to retrieve Cinnamon from my boot, and her fingers brushed my ankle as she scooped the cat upward—a contact so brief and incidental that no reasonable person could have assigned it significance, except I ceased to be reasonable while listening to her bath water.
“Mr. Darcy.” She inclined her head—civil, correct, and carrying beneath its surface a warmth that I had not earned. “Thank you for hearing me. I shall ring Mrs. Nicholls about the messenger.”
She departed with her cat draped over her arm, and I watched her graceful movements as her cat watched me, two amber eyes judging the mettle of a man who had failed to categorize the woman who refused to remain within any boundary—and who was the more interesting for it.
The library door closed, and Bingley said nothing for a full five seconds, which was a personal record, and then burst out, eyes beaming with delight.
“Darcy, you like her.”
“I do not,” I protested weakly, opening the turnip pamphlet and tracing my finger over the words in a futile attempt at nonchalance.
With a knowing smile, Bingley picked up the pamphlet, turned it the right way round, and regarded me with an expression of unbridled amusement.
