Page 34 of Cousin Conundrum

If only Mr. Collins were not so gangly and awkward of movement. If he didn’t slick his hair back with that awful, pungent wax. If every word that left his mouth didn’t make Kitty want to shove an old sock in there to keep him from speaking.

The matrons shielding her shifted and Kitty caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bennet craning her neck, searching, Mr. Collins at her side. Kitty stood and hurried farther down the wall. She ducked behind a large potted palm, then peered between the leaves, her position shielded by both foliage and a broad set of shoulders. Not until Mr. Bingley approached did she realize the man with his back to her was Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Bingley had, indeed, danced with them all, even Mary, and with Charlotte. He had also danced twice now with both Miss Archer and Miss Edith, much to Mrs. Bennet’s displeasure. Mr. Hurst, in contrast, danced only with his wife, occupying her for three sets before disappearing into the card room. In what Kitty assumed was some sort of compromise, Mr. Darcy danced once with each of the elder two Archers, once with both Jane and Miss Bingley, and, surprisingly, once with Lydia, which went far to salving her pride and making her more bearable. Since, however, he had stood out quite resolutely.

“Darcy,” Mr. Bingley said by way of greeting his friend, though his attention remained fixed on Miss Archer where she now partnered John Lucas. “Have you ever attended such a fine assembly? I have never seen such an abundance of beautiful ladies.”

“That speaks to a flaw in the events you attend, not to an abundance at present,” Mr. Darcy replied, his voice oddly loud.

Mr. Bingley chuckled, as if Mr. Darcy were amusing, not rude, and asked, “But why do you stand about when you could dance?”

“I have already stood up with your sister, two of the Miss Archers, and, sadly, two of the Miss Bennets.”

Sadly? How dare he?

“Sadly?” Mr. Bingley echoed, as if he could hear Kitty’s outraged thoughts. “How so? The Bennet sisters are lovely.”

“Miss Bennet certainly is, and Miss Lydia looked to be, but proved far younger and sillier than her appearance suggests. I will not risk similar insufferableness from the remainder.”

“I have stood up with all five, and I can assure you the remainder are not so silly as that. What about Miss Elizabeth? She is a delight, on my honor.”

“Which of the short, dark-haired ones is she?” Before a reply could be issued, Mr. Darcy shook his head. His voice pitched even louder than before, he continued, “Pray, forget I asked. It matters not. None of the three are handsome enough to tempt me.”

Kitty clamped her hands to her mouth to hold in her ire. The insufferable man!

Her mind flashed to the caricature she was working on. Perhaps not two women dueling, but a woman and a man? Mr. Darcy would well deserve if she drew the man to his likeness and crafted a truly scathing caption. Would naming the character Mr. Farcy be going too far?

“I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom. I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening.”

“Then by no means must I keep you from them.”

Mr. Bingley frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it closed again. With a shrug and a silent bow, he retreated.

Kitty did as well, having no desire to be anywhere near such an odious gentleman. The only way in which Mr. Darcy was preferable to Mr. Collins was that he did not reek of stale pomade.

Fortunately, Kitty needn’t endure either. Instead, she made her way to the entrance hall. The woman who managed the cloakroom, Mrs. Martin, loved to chat, and knew all sorts of interesting things about people. Kitty needn’t squander the entire evening on plotting how to mock Mr. Darcy and hiding from her mother.

She approached the cloakroom to the sound of movement inside and pushed open the door. “Good evening, M—”

Mr. Hurst stood within. One hand held an open notebook and a pencil. His other was thrust into the cloaks, in the midst of pawing over what, by its sumptuousness and that of the four other women’s garments around it, could only belong to one of the Archers. He stilled at the sight of Kitty, staring at her.

“What are you doing?” Kitty asked.

“Ah.” He snatched his hand free of the Archers’ cloaks. “I, ah, was looking for Mrs. Hurst’s cloak.”

“Do you not recall what it looks like?” Kitty frowned. “Where is Mrs. Martin?”

“I, ah…” Red crept up Mr. Hurst’s neck.

“Did you send her away?” Was he a thief?

His gaze went from the Archers’ cloaks to his little notebook, which he snapped closed and shoved into his pocket, guilt adding a jerky quality to his movements.

“I know precisely what you are about,” Kitty exclaimed with mounting excitement, having taken in the illegible scrawl covering the notebook pages. “You are a caricaturist.”

“I am not a—” He broke off. “Did you say, caricaturist?”

“I did, and do not deny it, for I know the signs.”