Page 50 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
I laughed and examined the coat with exaggerated interest. It was indeed brown and matched my brown ribbon, the one that was never misplaced.
“It is a very sensible color, Mr. Darcy,” I said, catching my breath as the path trended upward. “Though I am surprised you chose it. I thought you preferred the dark, brooding hues of a thunderstorm.”
Georgiana tilted her head, watching us both. “Your ribbon from yesterday was a lovely shade of green. Why did you change it? I thought you said that was your favorite.”
“It was,” I said, a small frown tugging at my brow. “But I must have lost it during our adventures.”
“Then we shall retrace our steps all the way to the boundary stream,” Georgiana said. “Although I daresay finding a green ribbon in the meadows would be next to impossible.”
Darcy, I noticed, was examining the apple tree with a focus that struck me as excessive, given that the tree contained nothing more remarkable than apples.
“I shall keep an eye out,” he said to the tree.
“That is very kind, Mr. Darcy, though I suspect a ribbon hunt is not in the programme.”
“It will turn up…” his voice trailed.
“Not if it had already washed away in the stream…”
“Or eaten by pigs,” Georgiana added, snorting in an unladylike sound I found entirely delightful.
We broke through the orchard’s edge to meet the weathered wooden stile flanking the pasture. Half-convinced I might yet spot a gleam of green silk crushed in the clover, I neglected to watch the uneven footing. My toe caught the top rail, and for a heart-stopping second, the “four counties” and I were about to become very acquainted with the mud.
In an instant, a gloved hand clamped firmly around mine.
Darcy didn’t just steady me; he anchored me. His grip was certain and surprisingly warm through the leather, with a strength that made me feel suddenly, strangely small.
“Careful there, Miss Bennet.” The low, gravel-scrape of his voice brushed against the shell of my ear. “The earth here is far less forgiving than it appears.”
My heart pounding over my lost footing, no doubt, I stepped over the stile onto steadier ground. He did not release me immediately, nor did I withdraw, and the moment lasted exactly long enough for us both to pretend it had not happened.
“The path improves from here,” I said, which was not true but was serviceable as a change of subject.
“Does it?” He looked at the increasingly rocky track with open skepticism.
“In character, Mr. Darcy, if not in gradient.”
“The way divides ahead,” I called out, pitching my voice toward Georgiana. “The shorter route cuts straight up the spine—steeper, but much faster, while the longer wraps gently around the eastern face. Which do you prefer?”
She considered, looking at both options with the seriousness of a girl who has recently learned that being asked to choose is not the same as being tested.
“The longer path,” she said decisively. “I should like to see the eastern view, and I am in no hurry.”
“Nor am I,” Darcy concurred.
As the climb steepened, Georgiana forged ahead, driven by the energy of seventeen, while I slowed to navigate a patch of loose stone. Darcy fell into step beside me, his presence a steady counterpoint to the uneven terrain.
“You walk here often,” he observed, his tone more statement than question.
“Papa used to bring me when I was small—before he lost interest in anything that required leaving his library.”
“And your mother?”
“Mama’s empire ends at the garden gate. Beyond its iron hinges lies the wilderness, and wilderness breeds mud, and mud is the sworn enemy of marital strategy.”
A suppressed vibration rippled from his chest—a rough, smothered sound masquerading as a clearing of the throat. “And your sisters?”
“Jane walks as far as the meadow. Mary walks to church. Kitty and Lydia walk to Meryton, which involves ribbons rather than exertion. I am the only Bennet who climbs.”
