"Naturally."
"It has nothing to do with the pig."
"Of course not."
They looked at each other. The library was quiet. The rain tapped against the windows. The pig sighed in her sleep and rolled onto her side, exposing her belly, and Darcy became aware that he was alone in a room with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and a sleeping pig and that the room felt smaller than it had a moment ago, in a way he could not define.
She broke the look first. "I should see to Jane's broth."
"Of course."
She turned to go. Stopped. Turned back.
"Mr. Darcy. The pig. She... she does not do this with everyone. She does not follow people. She does not sit on their boots. She does not knock on library doors." Elizabeth's voice was different now. Quieter. Almost uncertain. "She has only ever done this with me. And now, with you."
He did not know what to say. He did not know what she was telling him, or what she wanted him to understand, or whether there was a correct response to being told that a pig considered you worth following.
"I am honoured," he said. He meant it as a light remark. It came out sincere.
She searched his face for a moment, as if looking for something. Then she turned and went to the kitchen.
Elizabeth came down for dinner that evening. Jane was improving but still feverish, and Elizabeth's face showed the strain of a day spent nursing. There were shadows under her eyes and her hair was pinned loosely. She had changed into a gown that was clean but plain, dark blue, without ornament.
She looked, he thought, more beautiful than any woman at any assembly he had ever attended. He did not want to think this. He thought it anyway.
Miss Bennet's fever had eased. Another day, perhaps two, and the sisters would leave. The pig would leave. The library would be his again, and the rug would be empty, and the breadcrusts would not be needed. The thought should have been a relief. It was not a relief.
Dinner was a small affair. Bingley talked about Jane's progress. Louisa talked about the weather. Mr. Hurst ate in silence. Caroline talked about London, about the theatre, about the opera they had attended last season, steering the conversation, topic by topic, toward ground that Elizabeth could not follow.
"Do you enjoy the opera, Miss Eliza?" Caroline asked, with the careful emphasis she placed on the diminutive, as if trimming the name to size.
"I have not had the pleasure," Elizabeth said. "The pig and I do not often go to London."
Darcy's mouth twitched. He covered it with his glass.
"You must find the country very entertaining," Caroline said, "if it provides sufficient amusement."
"I find it more entertaining every day," Elizabeth said, looking directly at Caroline with an expression of absolute pleasantness that was, Darcy suspected, absolute war.
Bingley, who had noticed none of this, launched into an account of the local hunt. Darcy listened with half an ear. He was watching Elizabeth. She ate with small, precise movements. She held her wine glass by the stem, as a woman who had been properly taught would. She listened when others spoke and responded with intelligence and wit.
She argued with him about something. He could not afterward remember what it was. Something about books, or reading, or the relative merits of the country versus the city. She took a position and defended it with a sharpness that delighted him and a stubbornness that infuriated him. She was wrong, he was certain. Or possibly he was wrong. The details blurred. What remained was the heat of the exchange, the way her chin lifted when she disagreed, the flash of her eyes.
"You are very decided in your opinions, Miss Elizabeth," he said.
"I am. Is that a fault?"
"It is if the opinion is wrong."
"And you, of course, are always right."
"No. But I am right about this."
She looked at him. The corner of her mouth curved. It was not quite a smile. It was something more dangerous.
"We shall see," she said, and rose to check on Jane.
He watched her leave the dining room. Truffles, who had been sleeping under his chair throughout dinner, woke and trotted after Elizabeth, catching up at the foot of the stairs. The pig paused, considered the staircase with the sober assessment of a creature who understood the difference between flagstone and polished oak, and then ascended — one determined step at a time, hooves clattering on each tread, her whole body listing slightly to the left. A housemaid on the landing pressed herself against the wall to let her pass with the expression of a woman who had been in service long enough to know when not to ask questions.
