“The cat,” Caroline pronounced, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, “is a menace.”
“The cat,” Darcy countered, “is specified in the contract. If the arrangement proves incompatible with your comfort, Miss Bingley, Georgiana and I can repair to Pemberley. Or London. Both offer excellent accommodations.”
Caroline’s expression performed a complicated series of calculations—the loss of Darcy’s company weighed against the indignity of dwelling with an orange tabby—and arrived at the only tenable conclusion.
“One might observe,” Caroline said, and her voice took on a different quality now—still honeyed, but with an undercurrent as sharp as a rapier’s edge, “that Netherfield has been remarkably… accommodating of late. Of all the households in England, Mr. Darcy, one does wonder why you chosethis particular countyto shelter your sister. Hertfordshire, I suppose, offered certain advantages—a quieter society, innocents ignorant of one’s history, and a location so provincial that your esteemed aunts could hardly concern themselves with, shall we say, a surprise visit?”
She allowed her words to linger, and I watched Darcy’s composure, which had been impenetrable all morning, go perfectly and dangerously still.
“We are guests of Bingley,” he stated, flat as a rock. “The reasons are unremarkable.”
“Quite.” Caroline’s smile widened. “There has been talk, you know. In certain circles. Whispers of young ladies and unsuitable connections, of hasty retreats from seaside towns. But I’m certain it’s of no consequence.”
I did not know what any of this meant. Only that the landscape had shifted, and that Caroline possessed venomous knowledge she was not above wielding as a weapon.
Bingley, bless his unsuspecting heart, chose this interval to lean toward me, or it might have been the cat. “Miss Elizabeth, does the cat have a favorite treat? Most animals warm to me eventually if I have the right offering. I am quite popular with dogs.”
Cinnamon, still enthroned on the pianoforte, glanced at Bingleywith the magnificent indifference of a creature who had categorized him as irrelevant and saw no reason to reconsider.
“She is rather particular,” I said. “But she respects persistence.”
“Capital! I shall win her over by week’s end. Mark my words.”
My attention drifted to Georgiana. Her face had assumed a blankness that spoke not of composure, but of a soul who had learned to empty her expression when struck, knowing that any display of pain would invite further assault.
I knew that look. I had worn it at the assembly, standing beside the punch bowl, while a man I had never met reduced me to a function.
“Miss Darcy,” I addressed her, surprised that my voice had softened. “Might I trouble you to show me to the library? Your brother mentioned there was a key, and I find that after traveling, I am in want of a book.”
Georgiana’s gaze met mine, and for the first time since she had entered the room, her expression flickered with something unguarded—perhaps surprise, or the cautious interest of one who had been offered an escape.
“Yes, I can show you.”
“Excellent.” I collected my cat, who left a scattering of orange hairs for her parting gift.
As we passed through the door, I cast a discreet glance over my shoulder. Darcy remained at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture betraying nothing. Yet his eyes followed his sister, and in them I saw something I had not expected to see in a man I had classified as cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of human warmth.
Relief.
I turned away before I could examine it, because examining it would require revising my opinion of him, and I was not yet willing to concede that much ground. Perhaps not ever.
