Nothing clouded her brain.
No sound crowded the edges of her attention. No sense of strain followed her out into the open. She straightened cautiously, half-expecting the reprieve to prove temporary.
It did not.
She lowered herself onto the bank and drew her shawl closer, though she was no longer chilled. The bank was clammy, but the grass was oddly green for November. Somewhere nearby, a bird called once and fell silent again.
Elizabeth leaned back and let her eyes close.
For the first time since she had begun paying attention, there was nothing she needed to endure.
Darcy was standing beforethe glass while his valet finished fastening the final buttons of his coat when the whining began in earnest.
It had started earlier as a low sound at the door, easily ignored while soap was worked into lather and the razor drawn with practiced care. Brutus had been accustomed to waiting his turn. Today, however, patience appeared to have deserted him entirely.
The dog pushed the door open with his nose and entered the room as though invited.
Darcy did not look round at once. He was watching his own reflection with habitual severity, noting the fall of the collar, the precise alignment of linen. The whining continued—closer now, accompanied by the unmistakable scrape of claws upon the floor.
His valet paused.
“Sir,” the man said, with a hint of strained politeness, “shall I remove the animal?”
Darcy’s gaze shifted at last. Brutus had seated himself squarely between the bed and the window, head lifted, eyes fixed upon his master with unwavering intent. His tail thumped once against the floor.
“No,” Darcy said. “Leave him.”
The valet inclined his head and resumed his work, though the tightening of his mouth suggested he did not approve of the arrangement. Brutus took this as encouragement and rose at once, pacing the length of the room with deliberate exaggeration. He paused near the door, looked back, and let out a short, reproachful sound.
Darcy sighed as the valet finished his shave and he rose from the chair. “You have already been fed,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “And no doubt you have already had a morning airing.”
Brutus stopped pacing and sat again, posture rigid, ears alert. The tail thumped twice this time.
“I am not going fowling,” Darcy added, more firmly. “It is too early, and I have no intention of—”
The whining resumed, louder now, edged with insistence rather than complaint.
The valet stepped back at last. “If there is nothing further, sir?”
“That will be all,” Darcy said. “Thank you.”
The man gathered his things and departed with visible relief, casting one last disapproving glance at Brutus as he closed the door behind him.
The moment they were alone, Brutus rose and crossed the room again, placing his head against Darcy’s thigh with a persistence that bordered on accusation.
Darcy looked down at him. “You are acting rather uncouth today. You know better than to demand.”
Brutus met his gaze, unrepentant.
Darcy reached for his gloves, hesitated, then let his hand fall. He regarded the dog for a long moment, as though weighing a matter of consequence rather than inconvenience.
“A short walk,” he said at last. “That is all. No wandering. No nonsense.”
Brutus bounded toward the door with a joyful bark.
Darcy shook his head, though he did not smile. “You are entirely too confident.”
He took up his hat and followed the dog from the room. Brutus paused on the landing, gave a low, unmistakable grumble, and fixed Darcy with a stare that admitted of no negotiation.
