Page 48 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PROSPECT
Elizabeth
I foundthe gentleman’s cravat at dawn.
It was draped across my pillow alongside my fickle cat, who had returned to me sometime in the night. The guilty partner herself sat beside it, wearing the expression of a creature who had performed a tremendous service and was awaiting the praise it merited.
“Cinnamon,” I whispered. “What have you done?”
She blinked slowly, which in cat language translates toyou are welcome.
There was no mistaking the owner of this fine white linen, now sadly wrinkled after what I could only imagine was a perilous journey through the hidden passages behind the library wall. The faint aroma of shaving soap and sandalwood clung to its fibers, a fact I noted purely by chance and certainly not because I had lifted it to my face for closer inspection—a point I wish to emphasize most emphatically.
I could not send it to the laundry. Mrs. Nicholls would have the entire servants’ hall speculating about marriage and christeningchildren before luncheon. Abandoning it in the corridor was equally unthinkable—a gentleman’s cravat discovered outside a lady’s bedchamber would spell ruin for us both ere the breakfast bell tolled. And returning it in person was laughable at best. One does not approach one’s employer before the morning meal bearing an item of his clothing to declare,My cat has stolen your cravat and deposited it on my pillow, which I assure you is less romantic than it sounds.
Instead, I did what every plucky Gothic romance heroine did: I secreted it in my bottom drawer beneath a stack of clean chemises and resolved to address the problem later, I knew not when.
“You,” I told the wretched beast, “are no friend to my nerves.”
She ignored me, naturally, grooming herself with the indifference of a creature with a spotless conscience.
I dressed in my second-best muslin—the superior gown having suffered grievously during yesterday’s sow encounter—and twisted my hair against my nape. Setting aside the mangled bonnet, I chose the plainer one with brown ribbons, because in my experience, brown ribbons never vanished or got dirty.
If my extended presence at Netherfield was, as Mr. Darcy had once insinuated, designed to prod his sister toward maturity, I felt equally obliged to offer him the same vexing courtesy. Scooping my unrepentant cat into my arms, I descended the stairs, ready to unleash my irritating cheer upon the breakfast room.
Caroline Bingley presided from her usual chair, ankle arranged on the footstool. The offending appendage was wrapped in white linen as if it were an offering to a god. The three gentlemen were each tucked behind open newspapers when the footman plodded in with a silver tray laden with correspondence, which he deposited beside the toast rack.
“Louisa,” Caroline’s imperious voice cut through the rustle of newsprint, “is there something for me?” Her tone suggested she addressed not a sister, but a mere servant.
Mrs. Hurst calmly examined the post with the thoroughness of a woman who receives very little of interest but inspects it like herbirthright. I waited until she was seated before taking my correspondence.
“Caroline, I believe there is but one piece for you.” Mrs. Hurst extracted a note that bore my mother’s unmistakable hand and the Bennet seal. “From an unknown correspondent.”
“Ah,” Caroline said, breaking the seal on Mama’s letter. “An invitation from Mrs. Bennet.” She scanned it with the expression of a woman detecting an unpleasant smell. “Dinner. Three days hence. How… rustic.”
“We accepted yesterday,” Bingley said from behind his newspaper. “I look forward to it enormously. Mrs. Bennet’s cook produces the finest rabbit pie in the county, possibly the country, and I say that as a man who has eaten rabbit pie in four counties.”
“Five,” Darcy said, without looking up from his newspaper. “You told them five yesterday.”
“Did I? Well, then, five counties, and Mrs. Bennet’s is still the finest.” He lowered the paper with the bright optimism of a man for whom every morning presents fresh opportunities. “I wonder whether Miss Bennet, that is, Jane, might save me the first set at the assembly. Do you know when the next one is, Miss Elizabeth?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Caroline spoke first.
“Louisa, I require a trip to Meryton,” she announced. “Mr. Jones’s draught has quite run out, and my ankle simply will not bear another night without it. Might you take the carriage?”
Mrs. Hurst’s hand hovered above the marmalade dish. “I did not find the ribbons I wanted on my last trip, and Mrs. Grant mentioned a new delivery of Brussels lace?—”
“Then it is settled. Charles, you will escort Louisa. I cannot ride in a carriage without distress, and I shall be quite settled in the music room while Miss Darcy undertakes her daily practice.”
“Happy to,” Bingley said, with the agreeableness of a man for whom Meryton errands are neither burden nor pleasure but simply the next thing on offer. “Though I confess I had thought we might all walk this morning—the weatheris very fine.”
“Walk?” Caroline’s hand fluttered to her ankle.
“Oh! Forgive me, Caro. The ankle, to be sure.” Bingley turned toward the opposite chair. “Darcy, will you join us? I recall your mentioning the necessity of a sturdier inkstand from the stationer.”
Caroline’s eyes snapped toward the dark head still hiding behind the news. “A footman might procure an inkstand easily enough. Surely, Mr. Darcy, your presence at Netherfield would afford Georgiana a far greater comfort. The dear girl’s playing is always so much more… exact… when she knows you are listening.”
