"Yes, miss. Do come in." Mrs. Nicholls stepped aside. Her face was admirably neutral. "And the... companion?"
"Her name is Truffles. She followed me. I am very sorry."
"Of course, miss."
Elizabeth was shown to the drawing room. She could hear voices inside. She adjusted the pig in her arms, pushed a strand of wet hair from her face, and walked in.
The room was warm and bright. A fire blazed in the grate. Caroline Bingley was seated on a settee with Mrs. Hurst, both of them immaculate in afternoon dress. Bingley stood by the mantelpiece. And in a chair by the window, with a book open on his knee, was Mr. Darcy.
Every face turned to her.
She knew what they saw. A woman dripping rainwater onto the carpet. Mud on her dress, her boots, her face. Her hair undone. Her bonnet ruined. And in her arms, pressed against the ruins of her pelisse, a small pink pig that was craning its neck to look around the room with the bright, searching gaze of an animal trying to locate a specific person.
Truffles found him.
The pig erupted from Elizabeth's arms with a squeal of pure joy. She hit the floor, skidded across the carpet, and launched herself at Darcy's feet. She scrambled up and settled on his boot before he could move, leaving a trail of muddy hoof prints across the drawing room's pale carpet.
Caroline Bingley looked at the mud on her carpet. She looked at the pig on Darcy's boot. She looked at Elizabeth, standing in the doorway like something the weather had dragged in.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. It was, Elizabeth suspected, the first time in Caroline Bingley's life that she had been genuinely speechless.
Bingley recovered first. "Miss Elizabeth! You walked? In this rain? Is Jane worse? Is she all right?"
"Jane is ill and I wished to be with her. I apologise for my appearance, and for the pig. She followed me. I could not persuade her to stay behind." Elizabeth's voice was steady. She would not be embarrassed. She had walked three miles in the rain for her sister, and if she had a pig, that was her business. "If someone might show me to Jane, I would be grateful."
Darcy had not spoken. He was looking at her. His book was forgotten on his knee. The pig was on his boot, pressing her wet body against his trouser leg, and he did not appear to notice or care.
He was looking at Elizabeth with an expression she could not read. It was not the cold assessment of the assembly. It was not the stiff neutrality of Lucas Lodge. It was something else entirely. Something that made her breath catch in a way she attributed to the cold.
"You walked three miles," he said quietly. "In this weather."
"My sister is ill, Mr. Darcy."
He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he stood, dislodging the pig gently from his boot, and pulled the bell."Mrs. Nicholls will show you upstairs. I will ensure your pig is looked after."
"You do not need to look after my pig."
"The pig appears to have decided otherwise."
Truffles was already back on his boot.
Elizabeth looked at the pig. She looked at Darcy. The corner of his mouth moved by a fraction of an inch.
"Thank you," she said, and followed Mrs. Nicholls up the stairs to Jane.
Jane was in a guest room on the first floor, propped against pillows, pale and feverish. Her eyes were glassy and her nose was red and she looked, for the first time in Elizabeth's memory, less than perfectly composed.
"Lizzy." Jane's voice was a croak. "You walked? You should not have walked."
"Hush." Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and took her sister's hand. It was hot. "Of course I walked. What else would I do?"
"You could have waited until the rain stopped."
"The rain will not stop for days, and you are ill, and I am here, and that is the end of it." Elizabeth felt Jane's forehead. Warm. Too warm. "Has an apothecary been sent for?"
"Mr. Bingley sent for Mr. Jones this morning. He prescribed rest and broth. Mr. Bingley has been very attentive." Even in her fevered state, Jane managed a blush. "He sent his housekeeper up to ask how I was three times before luncheon."
"Three times. How thorough."
