Page 12 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“The household has been informed that Miss Bennet’s feline companion is to enjoy unrestricted movement within the premises. Mrs. Nicholls has made the necessary arrangements.”
“Cinnamon’s demands are but few. A sunlit perch by the window, sustenance at regular intervals, and the freedom to pass judgment upon every member of the household without fear of reprisal. She is remarkably undemanding for a creature possessed of such decided opinions.”
His mouth twitched. I chose not to assess whether the twitch constituted amusement or indigestion, as such distinctions would only serve to complicate an already trying morning.
“Georgiana is eager to make your acquaintance,” he stated, resuming our progress down the corridor.
“Is she indeed?” I did not disguise my skepticism. A seventeen-year-old girl informed that her brother had engaged a companion—a stranger from an unfamiliar family who would now reside with them—was unlikely to be eager about anything save perhaps articulating herobjections.
His hesitation told me everything his words did not.
“She has been made aware of the arrangement,” he said, which, I must admit, was a masterpiece of diplomatic non-disclosure.
The drawing room at Netherfield was designed, I suspected, to make visitors feel exactly as insignificant as its occupants wished them to feel. It was large enough to host a modest ball, furnished with a tasteful extravagance that saidwe can afford to be restrained, and currently occupied by a collection of people who looked as though they had been arranged for a portrait nobody had commissioned, though notably absent was Miss Darcy or any figure resembling a Darcy in female form.
Caroline Bingley held court from a settee near the hearth, dressed in peach silk that made her pale skin approach the pallor of Dover chalk. Beside her, Mrs. Hurst occupied a chair with the boneless languor of affected gentility, finding consciousness mildly taxing. Mr. Hurst was installed on a sofa where he appeared to be simultaneously present and asleep—a feat of social acrobatics I found almost admirable.
Mr. Bingley sprang from his seat with all the eagerness of a spaniel. “Miss Elizabeth! Welcome, welcome. We are delighted to have you join us, are we not, Caroline? And who is this?” His gaze landed on Cinnamon. “Your cat, is it? What a fine creature.”
He was all smiles with a warmth I could not distinguish from theatrical or overwrought. “And is your family well? Your sister?”
I executed a curtsy while simultaneously lowering Cinnamon to the floor. Bingley extended a hand toward her, cooing, “Oh, aren’t you a pretty thing. May I?”
Cinnamon regarded his proffered fingers with the polite disinterest of royalty confronted with an unsolicited pamphlet.
“She requires time to warm to new acquaintances,” I explained, a trait Cinnamon and I shared, if I were to be entirely honest.
Mr. Bingley withdrew, his countenance betraying but a hint of disappointment. I observed this reaction with interest, noting it as sincere rather than affected—a small yet significant distinction.
“Miss Eliza.” Caroline rose with the fluid grace of a woman who had perfected the art of standing beautifully. “How charming that you’ve arrived. We have been looking forward to having you. Georgiana, in particular. She has been in want of companionship, and I dare say your… lively spirits will be quite the novelty for her.”
Her gaze performed a meticulous inventory of my person—from gown to bonnet, gloves to cat, lingering pointedly on what I knew to be my impertinent smirk.
“How kind,” I replied. “I shall endeavour to be as lively as circumstances permit.”
Mrs. Hurst barely turned her head—the maximum exertion she appeared willing to invest in a new acquaintance—subjected me to a disingenuous assessment. “What a charming dress. Is that Meryton muslin?”
Unable to resist the bait, I responded with mock seriousness, “It is Longbourn muslin, Mrs. Hurst. We cultivate it in our garden, nestled between the cabbages and gooseberries.”
Bingley laughed, and his sisters did not. Darcy, for his part, maintained his rigid posture, though I noted a telltale twitch at the corners of his mouth. Mr. Hurst appeared to have belched, from which end I could not ascertain, given his prone position on the sofa.
The swinging door shifted the already chilly atmosphere, darkening like the Hertfordshire thunderclouds rolling across the landscape, admitting a young woman who could only be my charge, Miss Darcy.
She entered, her gaze seeking her brother.
I had anticipated several things. Shy, because everyone said she was shy. Fragile, because Darcy’s protectiveness implied vulnerability needing shielding. I had even prepared for a younger, softer version of Darcy’s reserve—someone who would require gentle coaxing and patientmanagement.
What I had not prepared for was her expression upon seeing me.
She was furious, but hid it the same way Lydia did when deciding whether to speak or sulk. From the set of her mouth, sulking held a commanding lead.
“Georgiana.” Darcy’s voice changed when he spoke to her—dropping half a register and losing its edges to become rather gentle. “Allow me to present Miss Bennet. Elizabeth. She will be staying with us.”
“Miss Darcy.” I curtsied with unfeigned warmth, because whatever resentment I harbored toward her brother had no place being aimed at a girl of seventeen who had not asked for any of this. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Do you.” She spoke to me as she would to a servant, with neither a greeting nor any of the social niceties upon meeting a new acquaintance.
Darcy frowned, but Caroline inserted herself, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “My dear Miss Darcy,” she cooed, her voice honeyed yet brittle, “your brother has seen fit to hire a companion for you.” As if he had bought a pet for her, and indeed, she was eyeing Cinnamon with more interest than she had displayed at my arrival.
