She looked up at him. Her expression changed. He could not name how, but it made his chest feel tight.
She took the pig and left the room. He watched her go. The pig stared at him over her shoulder, as it always did, with itsround dark eyes and its drooping ears, and he felt, absurdly, as though he were being abandoned.
Darcy sat very still. His boot was warm where the pig had been. The spot on his hand where her ear had pressed against his fingers still held the ghost of velvet. His heart was doing something unusual, and he suspected it had less to do with the pig than he wanted to admit.
The visit continued. Bingley talked to Jane. Mrs. Bennet talked to everyone. Mary played. Kitty coughed. Lydia asked Darcy whether he had ever attended a ball at St James's, and when he said he had, she asked what the ladies wore, and when he said he could not recall, she looked at him with the disappointment of a person who has discovered that a treasure chest contains only accounting ledgers.
Elizabeth returned from the kitchen without the pig but with two spots of colour high on her cheeks and an expression that suggested she had just had a very firm conversation with an animal. She sat across the room from him and did not look at him, which he noticed because he was looking at her. She poured herself a cup of tea with steady hands and said something to Jane about the weather that Darcy suspected was not about the weather at all.
She was not beautiful in the way Miss Bennet was beautiful. Miss Bennet was beautiful the way a painting was beautiful, something composed and perfect and meant to be admired from a distance. Miss Elizabeth was beautiful the way a bonfire was beautiful, unpredictable and bright and warm in a way that made you want to move closer even when you knew you shouldn't.
He looked away. He looked at the window. He looked at the carpet. He looked at the pianoforte, which Mary was now playing with renewed vigour and diminished accuracy. He looked at Bingley, who was looking at Jane. He looked at Mrs.Bennet, who was looking at Bingley looking at Jane. He looked at Mr. Bennet's library door, which was closed, behind which he suspected Mr. Bennet was reading and enjoying the only sensible activity available in this house.
He looked at her again. She was listening to Lydia say something, and her mouth was pressed together in the way it pressed together when she was trying not to laugh, and the gold in her eyes caught the light from the window, and he thought, with the quiet devastation of a man who has just walked into a wall he did not see coming,oh no.
Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway of his library. He had, Darcy suspected, been listening to everything.
"Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet said. "A word?"
Darcy followed him into the library, which was small and warm and crowded with books in a way that suggested they were read rather than displayed. Mr. Bennet closed the door and regarded Darcy over his spectacles.
"My daughter's pig appears to be fond of you."
"So it would seem, sir."
"She is an excellent judge of character. The pig, I mean. Although the same might be said of Elizabeth." Mr. Bennet paused. "I am told you find the neighbourhood dull."
Darcy said nothing. He was not certain what the correct response was.
"I find it dull myself," Mr. Bennet said. "But I have lived here for thirty years and have earned the right. You are a guest. Guests ought to at least pretend." He picked up a book from his desk. "You may borrow this, if you like. It will give you something to do besides standing at the side of rooms looking displeased."
Darcy took the book. It was a volume of Cowper's poems, well-worn, with a margin note in a hand he suspected was Elizabeth's.
"Thank you, sir."
"Do not thank me. Thank the pig. She is the only reason I permitted Bingley to call a second time. I wanted to see what she would do."
He paused at the door. "Mr. Darcy. My daughter is the cleverest person in this house. That is not flattery. It is a warning."
Darcy was not certain what the warning was for, but he filed it away.
They returned to the parlour. The visit wound down. Bingley had secured an invitation for the Bennet sisters to dine at Netherfield, which Mrs. Bennet received with the restrained joy of a woman who had just been told her ship had come in. Jane accepted with grace. Elizabeth accepted with the careful neutrality of a woman who had mixed feelings about the destination. Bingley left reluctantly. Darcy left with the book in his coat pocket and the warmth of the pig still on his boot and the memory of brown eyes with gold in them looking up at him from the floor.
On the ride back, Bingley talked about Jane. Caroline, who had stayed at Netherfield, met them in the hall and asked how the visit had gone.
"Wonderful," Bingley said.
"Adequate," Darcy said.
"Did the pig sit on your boot again?" Caroline asked, with a laugh that was meant to be light.
"Yes," Darcy said.
"And the girl was there? The one with the pig? Miss Eliza?" Caroline used the diminutive the way she used everything — to make something smaller than it was.
"Miss Elizabeth was present, yes."
"Her petticoat was muddy, I suppose."
