Page 5 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
CHAPTER TWO
MRS. BENNET’S LONG GAME
Elizabeth
Cinnamon hadopinions about the assembly.
She expressed them the way she expressed all opinions—by occupying the precise center of my pillow when I returned home, opening one amber eye to assess my emotional state, and then closing it again with the slow deliberateness of a creature who had evaluated the situation and found it wanting.
When I crawled into bed beside her, still wearing my second-best muslin because I could not summon the energy to undress properly, she repositioned herself against my neck, purring with such aggressive sympathy that I suspected she could smell the insult on me like smoke after a fire.
“I met the most insufferable man in England tonight,” I told her. “He looked at my mind and saw cutlery. Then promptly reassessed me as a servant.”
“You would have hated him,” I continued, because she did not remark, not even a yawn. “He is the sort of man who looks at a cat and sees vermin rather than royalty. Cold, tall, insufferably certain ofhis own consequence. Also, regrettably, handsome. Which I mention only because it is relevant to my annoyance and not for any other reason whatsoever.”
Cinnamon gave me a sympathetic purr, or perhaps she had determined that I required noise more than wisdom. I buried my face in her warm side and tried to convince myself that the ache beneath my ribs was merely the aftermath of overly tight stays and stifling assembly rooms, and not the bruise left by a man who had glimpsed my mind and thoughtuseful.
I did not convince myself. But I slept.
My feelings were still somewhat tender by morning, not that I should be concerned about the opinions of one aristocratic, overbearing gentleman—well, he could barely be called a gentleman, no matter how well-tailored his waistcoat and that artfully tousled lock of hair that framed his face like some Grecian statue.
But the birds still chirped, and the sun still shone, and the smell of toast and bacon rose with the insistence of a household that intended to eat breakfast whether or not its second daughter wished to face the world. Cinnamon’s pointed stare from my pillow—combined with the distinct sound of Lydia’s voice at full sail—compelled me out of bed and into a dress.
“I am not suffering from nerves,” I told my cat. “I am beingselectiveabout which parts of the day I choose to acknowledge.”
Her dispassionate blink spoke volumes, and so I went downstairs without further complaint.
The Bennet breakfast table was already in full battlefield mode. Lydia’s lamentations about the shortage of officers were punctuated by Kitty’s customary agreement. Mary, in an unusual departure from her morning sermons, had her nose in the household management book Mama had given her. Jane sat beside me, serene and golden, with a secret smile that appeared without warningwhenever a certain name was mentioned. And Papa existed behind his newspaper, which meant he was either reading or hiding, and with Papa, the distinction was largely academic.
Cinnamon landed on my lap with a proprietary thump, positioned herself for optimal access to falling ham, and arranged her expression into one of profound disinterest.
“Good morning, Lizzy.” Jane greeted me with the warmth that was both her gift and her armor, because it led people to assume she felt nothing deeply when in fact she felt everything deeply but chose not to make a spectacle of her sentiments. “You look rather fatigued.”
“Indeed, I am,” I confessed. “It was a most exhausting evening.”
“Was it? I found it rather lovely.”
“You danced with Mr. Bingley twice. Your definition of lovely is doing considerable work this morning.”
Jane’s cheeks went pink, which was as close as she ever came to admitting excitement. “He was very agreeable.”
“He was besotted. There is a difference, though I grant you it looks similar from the outside.”
“He has very nice manners,” Kitty offered, from around a piece of toast.
“He has a very nice coat,” Lydia corrected, in the tone of a woman contributing the more relevant observation.
“He has five thousand a year,” Mama said pleasantly, appearing in the doorway, “which makes his manners and his coat both considerably nicer.”
She wore her brown morning dress—the practical one reserved for days when she intended to accomplish great things. Her hair was already pinned with the efficiency of a woman who had not wasted time on vanity. And she was carrying a fresh pot of tea—not innocent at the least.
I did not like that look.
“I have been thinking,” Mama said.
“Have you, Mama?” I reached for the chocolate pot. “How alarming.”
“Do not be pert, Lizzy. I have been thinking about Mr. Darcy.”
