When Mrs. Bennet finally let go, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief, Mr. Darcy cleared his throat with heroic restraint, smoothing his coat and attempting to recover his dignity.
Mr. Bennet gave an elaborate sigh. “Well, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, “now you see precisely where our poor cat Sophocles gets his habit of demonstrating proof of effusive affection in the most public manner possible.”
Elizabeth let out a strangled laugh despite her burning cheeks.
Darcy, after a beat, gave a stiff but unmistakable nod. “Indeed, sir,” he said dryly. “I believe I understand perfectly.”
Six
Now, six days after the gentlemen’s visit, the household at Longbourn was in a strangely uneven mood at noon.
Mary sat on a narrow bench in the garden, spine rigidly straight, reading sermons in the weak October sun. Her lips moved just slightly with each line, and she wore the look of one determined to wrest improvement from every paragraph.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bennet, Lydia, and Kitty had departed early in the morning, rattling off in the gig toward Meryton on the double pretext of ordering ball dresses and—rather more transparently—watching the officers drill on the green.
Jane waited in the front parlour, her pale hands twisting restlessly in her lap, eyes flicking again and again to the window with quiet longing. Each time wheels or hooves were heard in the lane she seemed to catch her breath.
Mr. Bennet sat nearby in his favourite chair, spectacles balanced low on his nose, the paper ignored upon his knee. He sighed, clicking his tongue in dry annoyance.
“Your mother, Jane, has chosen to forget every warning I have offered about militia officers’ connections. She cultivates them with the energy of a colonel mustering reinforcements.”
Jane only blushed faintly and attempted a soothing “Yes, Papa. Let us have faith,” though her gaze soon darted back to the window.
“True. They will return with bonnets rather than betrothals. Though if I know Lydia and Kitty, they are like dragons with three heads each—never quite convinced they have enough bonnets.”
At the other end of the room, Elizabeth sat pensively on the settee with Sophocles sprawled across her lap like a small,overfed tiger. She traced lazy patterns behind his ears while he blinked with regal indifference.
“You are shameless,” she murmured to him, voice full of gentle accusation. “You know you will be fed and petted no matter how many visitors you charm. You are spoiled and would do anything at all just to win your cream.”
Sophocles yawned and kneaded her gown with proprietary arrogance.
“Oh, very well,” Elizabeth added, her tone mock-magnanimous. “I suppose you can be a credit to the household. Sometimes.”
She continued to murmur such transparent flatteries to the cat, fully aware he believed none of them and would have acted no differently if he had.
Just then Jane, who had grown still and intent, suddenly leaned forward, pressing a hand to the windowpane.
“Lizzy! Papa—look. There’s the post messenger at the gate!”
Elizabeth straightened at once, her heart giving a small, startled leap.
Jane’s eyes shone with cautious hope. “It is about time for Mr. Darcy’s first letter to arrive, is it not?”
Elizabeth bit her lip, trying not to smile too broadly. Sophocles, picking up on the sudden energy, let out a questioning meow and shifted in her lap.
Mr. Bennet gave a sardonic little huff, folding his paper at last. “Well,” he said, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, “let us see what arrives, and hope it proves more interesting than alarming.”
Elizabeth smothered a laugh, smoothing Sophocles’s fur with absent affection.
“Papa, you always assume the worst.”
He lifted one brow, giving her an arch look over his spectacles. “Experience has taught me the benefit ofpreparation, my dear. Besides, I react to news better than your mother.”
Jane pressed her fingers together in her lap, her voice calm but quivering with hope.
“Even if it is not from Mr. Darcy, it may be from London. Perhaps Aunt Gardiner will write…”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, her expression softening.
