Elizabeth reached down and scratched Truffles behind the ear. The pig's eyes closed in bliss, her small body relaxing into a warm pink puddle at Elizabeth's feet. One brown-spotted ear flopped over Elizabeth's shoe.
"Of course, Mamma."
She glanced at the pig. The pig, who had escaped a locked kitchen, a latched gate, and the determined grip of Mrs. Hill,all before breakfast. The pig who would follow Elizabeth into a church, a shop, or the middle of the village green without a moment's hesitation.
She had absolutely no confidence in her ability to make that happen.
CHAPTER 2
Mr. Darcy
Mr. Darcy was regretting Hertfordshire before his boots had touched its soil.
The road from London had been long, the carriage stuffy, and Bingley had spent the final thirty miles extolling the virtues of his new estate with the breathless enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning. The house was spacious. The grounds were green. The neighbours were reputed to be friendly. Bingley could find cheer in a coal mine.
"You will like it, Darcy. I am certain of it. The air alone is worth the journey."
The air smelled of sheep and damp hedgerow. Darcy said nothing.
Netherfield was tolerable. A large house, well situated, with good bones and indifferent furniture. Bingley's sisters, Caroline and Louisa, had already begun cataloguing its deficiencies, which they intended to remedy at considerable expense and with considerable commentary. Mr. Hurst had found the wine cellarand pronounced himself satisfied. That was the extent of his contribution.
Darcy had come because Bingley had asked him, and because Pemberley was quiet without Georgiana, and because London in autumn held nothing for him but card parties and the suffocating attention of women who knew his income to the shilling. He told himself the country would be restful. He told himself it would be brief.
He had been at Netherfield for two days. It felt like twelve.
The mornings were the worst. At Pemberley, his mornings had a shape to them. He rode before breakfast. He read correspondence in his study, where the windows faced east and the light was clean and sharp. He walked the grounds with his steward, discussing drainage and tenant repairs and the new planting along the south meadow. There was purpose in those mornings. There was quiet.
At Netherfield, the mornings began with Caroline.
She appeared at breakfast in a different gown each day, as if the dining room were a stage. She asked his opinion on wallpaper patterns. She asked whether he preferred salmon or trout. She commented on his reading habits. She said things like "I do so admire a man who reads" while looking at him as though he were a portrait she intended to purchase.
He had taken to eating breakfast very quickly.
His sister Georgiana had written to ask if the countryside was pleasant. He had written back that the countryside was green and the company adequate. He did not mention that Caroline Bingley had seated herself next to him at every meal, or that she had begun each morning by asking his opinion on some aspect of the house, as if furnishing Netherfield were a shared endeavour and not the most transparent attempt at domesticity he had ever witnessed.
He missed Pemberley. He missed his library and his dogs and the particular quality of light that came through the gallery windows in October. He missed speaking to people who did not require him to smile.
On the morning of the third day, Bingley announced they should ride into Meryton.
"There are shops, I am told. And an apothecary. And people."
"People," Darcy repeated.
"You say it as if it were a disease."
"In my experience, it frequently is."
Bingley laughed, because Bingley laughed at everything, and Darcy permitted himself to be dragged along because the alternative was remaining at Netherfield with Caroline, who had spent breakfast examining the drawing room curtains and making pointed observations about the taste of previous tenants.
Meryton was a small village. One main street, a smattering of shops, a church with a squat Norman tower, an assembly room above the inn, and the sort of unhurried bustle that suggested everyone knew everyone else's business and rather enjoyed it. Women stopped on the pavement to talk. A boy chased a dog past the blacksmith. Two old men sat on a bench outside the post office, watching the street with the air of theatre patrons who had seen the show before but came for the company.
Darcy kept his face carefully neutral as they rode in. He could feel the glances. A new gentleman on a fine horse in a small village was a spectacle, and he was aware that his bearing did nothing to diminish the effect. He sat very straight in the saddle, which was simply how he sat, but which he knew from experience suggested to strangers that he considered himself above them. He did not consider himself above them. He simply did not know how to sit any other way.
Bingley beamed at strangers like a spaniel with a county seat.
They tied their horses near the draper's shop and walked the length of the high street. Bingley greeted every person they passed with the unguarded warmth of a man who had never been given a reason to distrust a stranger. Darcy walked beside him, hands clasped behind his back, and offered brief nods to anyone who caught his eye. He was aware that this made him appear proud. He was also aware that the alternative was Bingley's indiscriminate friendliness, and he could not bring himself to attempt it. It would feel like wearing another man's coat.
He had been introduced to a Mr. Bennet two days prior. A quiet man with clever eyes and a dry manner. Five daughters, no sons, an entailed estate. The wife was, by local reputation, a woman of considerable anxiety about the marital prospects of said daughters. Darcy had noted this, resolved to keep a safe distance, and moved on.
