CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE TRUE PROGRAMME
Elizabeth
The hour drewnear when we had to depart, and while I had been away from Longbourn before visiting my uncle and aunt in London, I had never seen my home with the eyes of a visitor. I felt it more strongly through both Georgiana and Darcy—the noise, the antics of my sisters, and of course, Mama’s aggressive hospitality.
“We expect your return,” Mama said, placing a cloth-wrapped parcel into Georgiana’s herb basket. “Dinner at seven. I shall write to Miss Bingley to formalize the invitation, but I consider it settled.”
“We would be honored, Mrs. Bennet,” Bingley spoke for the party, darting a smile in Jane’s direction. Darcy appeared like a man who had swallowed a bushel of figs, amusing me to no end. I’d observed the way he’d swallowed the reprimand he would have directed at his sister when they had a moment of privacy.
“Excellent,” Mama said, presenting a separate parcel wrapped in linen stamped with the Clark crest—Bakers to the King, as Mama would remind anyone who stood still long enough. “For your sisters, Mr. Bingley, who appear to subsist on opinions and weak tea.”
“Mrs. Bennet, you are a treasure.” Bingley tucked the parcel under his arm. “Miss Bennet, Jane, thank you for the rabbit pie. It was the finest I have ever eaten, and I have eaten rabbit pie in five counties.”
Jane smiled from the doorway, and Bingley smiled at Jane. The smiling went on long enough that Darcy cleared his throat.
“We should not impose further.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Darcy. It has been a delight.” Mama’s curtsy was precise enough for protocol and warm enough to exceed it. She accompanied us to the garden gate.
While the rest of the party moved to where the boy held the horses, Mama caught my elbow and whispered, “He chased the Haydn to her, Lizzy. He heard it from the yard and followed the sound before he remembered to be angry.” Her fingers tightened, brief and deliberate. “A man who follows music is not supervising. He is listening. Do with that what you will.”
Always strategic, Mama should have been a spy for the Home Office. Releasing me, she smoothed her apron and raised her voice to its public register. “Safe travels, all of you. Mr. Darcy, do mind the gap in Mr. Jacobs’s fence. His pigs have been escaping all week, and they are partial to anything that smells of garlic.”
“Your mother,” Darcy observed as we cleared the garden gate, “is a remarkable woman.”
“She is aware of it. Thank you.”
Bingley’s horse and Darcy’s stood where the boy had tied them, patient and unimpressed, and since I did not ride and Georgiana had neither her sidesaddle nor her riding habit, we decided to return to Netherfield on foot, leading the horses.
As we cleared the gate, Cinnamon streaked toward us and mewed at Darcy. He scooped her up before she could thread between the horses’ legs, and she settled against his shoulder.
The natural sorting happened without discussion. Bingley fell in with Georgiana, already requesting a full botanical inventory while she explained the medicinal properties of yarrow. Which left mewalking beside Darcy, who led his horse between us like a four-legged chaperone, with Cinnamon draped across his shoulder, her tail curling against the back of his coat and depositing fresh orange fur to complement the existing collection.
I counted forty paces before he spoke.
“You might have sent word.”
His voice was quieter than I expected, lacking the edge I had braced for since his arrival.
“I might have,” I agreed, “had I planned it. The walk produced an impulse, and the impulse produced a visit, and the visit produced rabbit pie, and the sequence did not include a pause for correspondence.”
“Georgiana is my ward, Miss Bennet. Her movements are my responsibility and my concern.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy, and she is your sister who laughed, climbed a stile, and threw apple cores at ducks.” I slowed my pace, forcing him to stop and glare at me. “She also ate biscuits with her fingers, taught my sister a passage, and submitted to having her hair plaited by my two youngest sisters, who consider French embroidery the pinnacle of civilization. If you wish to reprimand me for these crimes, I shall accept my punishment with the gravity they deserve.”
The horse snorted, which I interpreted as editorial support. My cat, however, snuggled against Darcy’s chest, eyes closed in contentment. Traitorous feline.
We walked another ten paces before he said, “That is not the point.”
“Pray, what is the point, Mr. Darcy?” I countered, arching an eyebrow.
After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “The point is that Georgiana’s welfare is my charge. I cannot fulfil that duty if her companion undertakes expeditions without so much as a note left on the breakfast table.”
He was right, which was most inconvenient. I had not sent word, nor had I paused to consider that a man who monitored hissister’s accomplishments by the quarter-hour might object to her vanishing for hours into unknown territory.
“You are correct,” I conceded. “I should have sent word.”
