Page 4 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
Mama’s hand found my elbow. Her expression had gone to that particular stillness that preceded her most devastating remarks—the silence before a storm that left no survivors.
“How fortunate for Miss Darcy.” Mama’s voice carried the way a blade does, without loudness but precisely targeted. “That my daughter’s worth can be so readily assessed. I do hope the position comes with a pension, Mr. Darcy. One hates to think of clever girls discarded once their usefulness fades.”
The color drained Mr. Darcy’s face—what little there had been—leaving him grey beneath the candlelight. His jaw worked once, as though he meant to speak, but no words came.
Inclining his head, stiffly and barely, he walked away, his back very straight and his pace too quick for a man with nothing to regret.
“Insufferable,” I said, when I trusted my voice. “Absolutely insufferable.”
“Worse.” Mama drew me closer. “He’s the sort who believes he’s being practical when he’s merely being small.”
I let her anchor me, though the ache beneath my ribs had not quite settled. “I wish I’d brought Cinnamon. She would have looked at him once and turned her back, not suffering fools like we did.”
