“Pray, Mama,” said Elizabeth as she took her seat, “she will be quiet, and after last night, I daresay she deserves to dine with us, else she misbehave while waiting for scraps.”
Pippin gave a small, eager bark, as if to second the motion.
Mrs. Bennet ignored Elizabeth and turned to her husband instead. “Efforts! I should call it ruin! To make such a spectaclebefore Mr. Bingley’s whole party! That proud Mr. Darcy will think her wild and uncivilised forever!”
Elizabeth smiled, unruffled. “If so, I imagine his opinion has survived the shock. He appeared in excellent health when I met him again today.”
The table fell silent.
“You met him?” Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Good heavens, Lizzy, where?”
“By chance, near Meryton,” Elizabeth replied, glancing beneath the table. “Pippin made the introduction again today. She went after his dog, and they contrived to knock him quite off his feet.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Mr. Darcy keeps a dog?”
“He does,” said Elizabeth, her lips curving. “A greyhound, called Apollo. He seems to like Pippin, and the feeling, I’m afraid, is mutual. They were in perfect harmony before either of us could separate them.”
Lydia leaned forward eagerly. “Then Pippin will be married before any of us!”
Mr. Bennet gave a low laugh. “A most promising match. Apollo sounds the very name of a creature of sense. I should say he has chosen wisely.”
Elizabeth tossed Pippin a small piece of meat; the spaniel caught it neatly, earning another ripple of laughter round the table.
Mrs. Bennet, however, was not appeased. “Oh, Lizzy, you make sport of everything! I cannot think why you delight in provoking that disagreeable man.”
“I assure you, Mama, I do not,” Elizabeth replied lightly. “Though I am beginning to think Pippin takes great pleasure in tormenting him.”
“Then she has her mistress’s example,” said Mr. Bennet, eyes glinting with amusement.
Jane’s soft laugh covered Elizabeth’s smile, while Lydia exclaimed, “I am sure Mr. Darcy must have been dreadfully angry, being bested by a little dog and having his own so taken with her!”
“Take care, child,” Mrs. Bennet said, shaking her head. “That animal will be the ruin of Lizzy yet.”
“Then let her be ruined in good company,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Better by affection than by ambition.”
At that, Elizabeth bent to stroke Pippin’s head, her laughter quiet but sincere. “There now, my love, even Papa defends you. We are quite in favour tonight.”
The spaniel wagged her tail in triumphant agreement, and the room filled once more with warmth and laughter.
It was at that moment that Mr. Bennet, with deliberate composure, set down his knife and fork. “And speaking of affection,” he said, “I have received a letter that will, I think, interest you all—a most affectionate one from our cousin, Mr. Collins.”
All conversation ceased at once.
“Mr. Collins!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “The very man who is to inherit Longbourn?”
“The same,” Mr. Bennet said, a dry amusement flickering in his eyes. “And judging by his style, a man of the utmost consequence.”
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a neatly folded paper, and adjusted his spectacles with exaggerated care.
“Shall I read it aloud?” he asked, his tone suggesting that, whatever the letter contained, it promised more entertainment than instruction.
Elizabeth glanced about the table, noting her sisters’ curiosity and her mother’s agitation. The name Collins was not a strange one. With no brother to inherit, the Bennet girls hadlong been reminded of the cousin destined to claim all should anything befall their father.
The room fell silent but for the faint crackle of the fire, as five daughters leaned forward, prepared for what promised to be a most diverting performance.
“‘Dear Sir,’” he began, in a tone of mock solemnity, “‘The disagreement which has so long subsisted between yourself and my late honoured father has weighed heavily upon my conscience; and as I consider it my duty, in the light of Christian forgiveness, to atone for the same, I flatter myself that this letter will be received with such kindness as may heal the breach between our families.’”
He lowered the page long enough to remark, “A very pious opening. I am already softened.”
