They were near the apothecary when it happened.
The high street was busy. A cart had stopped to unload barrels. Several women with shopping baskets crowded the pavement. Darcy's horse, Caesar, was tied to a post but shifting restlessly at the commotion. Caesar was a well-mannered bay gelding who tolerated most things, but he had not been exercised that morning and was inclined to fuss.
Bingley had already struck up a conversation with the draper about local hunting, and the draper was answering with the sort of detailed enthusiasm that suggested Bingley had just become his favourite customer. Darcy stood to one side, examining a display of ribbon he had no interest in, and waited for it to end.
Two young women emerged from the milliner's shop across the street. One was tall and fair, with a serene beauty that made men walk into posts. The other was shorter, with brown hair escaping from under her bonnet and an ink stain on her glove. Darcy barely registered them.
What he registered was the piglet.
A small pink creature, roughly the size of a terrier, was trotting along behind the brown-haired woman like a very determined, very short footman. It had enormous ears and an air of total confidence. It navigated the cobblestones with the purposeful trot of a creature on important business.
Darcy stared. He had seen a great many things in his eight-and-twenty years. He had never seen a young gentlewoman walking through a village with a pig at her heels.
The pig wandered. As pigs do. Its snout caught some smell near the gutter, and it veered sideways, away from the young woman, across the pavement, and directly into the path of Caesar.
Caesar stamped. The pig was small enough to be crushed by a single hoof.
Darcy moved before he thought.
He crossed the distance in three strides, bent, and scooped the piglet out from under Caesar's feet. The animal was warm and surprisingly solid, its body tensing in his grip before relaxing almost immediately. Small hooves pressed against his waistcoat. A pink snout bumped against his chin.
For a fraction of a moment, the pig looked up at him. Bright dark eyes in a round pink face. Its ears were enormous and slightly velvety. It was, he supposed, not entirely unattractive. For a pig.
It settled against his chest with a small grunt and closed its eyes.
Darcy stood in the middle of the high street, holding a pig.
Several passers-by had stopped to stare. A woman with a market basket stood frozen mid-step. The boy who had been chasing the dog earlier was now watching with his mouth open. Even the two old men on the bench had sat forwardwith renewed interest, as though the show had finally produced something worth the price of admission.
He was acutely aware that this was not the sort of behaviour expected of a gentleman of ten thousand a year, and he was also acutely aware that the pig was very warm and very soft and was making a low, contented rumbling against his waistcoat, a sound he had never heard a pig make before, like a small bellows working steadily.
He did not know what to do with his hands. He was already using them to hold the pig. He could not bow, or tip his hat, or do any of the things a gentleman did when standing in a public thoroughfare. He could only stand there, holding a pig, and hope that no one he knew would ever hear of this.
"Oh! Oh, I am so sorry, sir. Truffles! You wretched creature, come here at once."
The brown-haired woman was rushing toward him, her bonnet slightly crooked, her cheeks flushed with exertion and embarrassment. She reached for the pig. Her hands brushed against his coat as she took the animal from his arms.
"I do apologize. She wanders. I cannot seem to keep her from wandering. Your horse, is he quite all right? She was not stepped on? Oh, thank goodness."
She was speaking very quickly and not quite looking at him. The pig, now in her arms, was looking back at Darcy with an expression he could only describe as devoted.
"The animal is unharmed," Darcy said. His voice came out stiffer than he intended. It usually did. There was something about speaking to strangers that locked his throat into a register that sounded, even to his own ears, like a magistrate passing sentence.
"Thank you. Truly. She is very small and not at all sensible about horses." The young woman glanced up at him. Dark eyes, bright with intelligence and something that might have beenlaughter, or mortification, or both. "I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet. This is my sister, Miss Bennet."
The fair-haired woman had arrived and was offering a graceful curtsy. Bingley, who had materialized from somewhere, was already bowing and introducing himself with the barely contained delight of a man who has just encountered the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Darcy bowed. "Mr. Darcy."
"You are Mr. Bingley's friend. From Derbyshire." Miss Elizabeth adjusted the pig in her arms. The animal was staring at Darcy over her shoulder. "We are grateful for your quick hands, Mr. Darcy. Truffles is not always so foolish, but she has a talent for finding trouble."
"Evidently."
He meant it as a mild observation. It came out as a judgment.
Miss Elizabeth's chin lifted a fraction of an inch. "She is young yet. She will improve with experience."
"One hopes."
