“You are going out,” he observed, in a tone that hovered neatly between statement and gentle objection.
“We are going to see puppies,” Georgiana explained brightly. “Basset hounds at the Maitland farm. Elizabeth is entirely recovered and in desperate need of fresh air, and Prue says the puppies are magnificently absurd.”
“Mrs. Darcy was confined to her chamber for days,” he reminded.
“Yes, and Mrs. Darcy is standing before you in excellent health,” Elizabeth countered firmly, “and will not be confined to her chamber a moment longer. The walls have begun to close in, and I find myself developing an unhealthy attachment to the ceiling pattern.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “The ceiling?”
“There is a crack that bears a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Collins. I have spent far too many hours in his company,” Elizabeth explained, her tone light but meaningfully suggestive.
The furrow deepened for a moment—puzzlement, perhaps, at the notion that ceiling cracks could resemble pompous clergymen—before his expression softened. “I see. And you believe that puppies are the appropriate remedy for excessive clerical contemplation?”
“Puppies are the appropriate remedy for nearly everything.”
“A sound medical philosophy,” he conceded, glancing at Georgiana and Prue, who were watching this exchange with poorly concealed interest. “Very well. But you will take the path through the lower meadow rather than the ridge. The ground is more even, and you will not overtax yourself.”
“I am not an invalid, Mr. Darcy.”
“I caused you unnecessary distress with that journey. Humor me,” he urged, his request gentle and almost plaintive in its sincerity. Elizabeth’s objections melted in the face of such earnest concern.
“The lower meadow,” she agreed. “Though I reserve the right to protest if you attempt to wrap me in cotton wool and store me in a display case.”
“I would not dream of it. Cotton wool is far too expensive to waste on display cases,” he remarked, a corner of his lips quirking. “Enjoy your puppies, Mrs. Darcy.”
“I intend to,” she replied with a wink, sweeping past him and fully aware of the effect she had wrought. There was no needto glance back to confirm he was watching; she felt his gaze as surely as the press of her reticule against her waist. She felt it even as they turned the corner and left him standing alone in the entrance hall.
The walk was all the more pleasurable for the brightened sights and sounds of April: meadows damp with dew, streams running high, the air scented with grass and wet earth, and a lark singing overhead. Elizabeth walked between Prue and Georgiana, her muscles protesting the novelty of exertion, but her spirits rising with every note of their chatter.
“Lady Cathcart’s daughter eloped last autumn with a curate,” Prue reported, as they passed a particularly handsome stone wall. “The scandal was magnificent. Lady Cathcart took to her bed for a fortnight and refused to receive anyone except the physician, who was sworn to secrecy about the precise nature of her ailment.”
“Which was?”
“Wounded pride, primarily. The curate was perfectly respectable, but he lacked the thirty thousand pounds Lady Cathcart had envisioned for her daughter. She had her eye on a baronet’s son from Cheshire.” Prue navigated a particularly muddy patch with the practiced ease of a country girl. “Miss Entwhistle says the daughter is perfectly happy, which Lady Cathcart considers the greatest insult of all.”
“Miss Entwhistle seems remarkably well-informed.”
“She’s an avowed spinster who makes it her business to be both well-informed and well-read. She has sources throughout the county—servants, mostly, and a network of spinster aunts who correspond about nothing but other people’s affairs.” Prue’s tone was dry but not unkind. “She is not malicious, precisely. She simply believes that knowledge is a form of currency, and she prefers to be wealthy.”
“And what does Miss Entwhistle say about me?” Elizabeth asked, both curious and slightly apprehensive.
Prue’s smile was quick and knowing. “That you are either the cleverest fortune hunter in England or the most unlikely love match of the decade. Opinion is decidedly divided.”
“And which do you believe?”
“Neither.” Prue met her gaze with the directness Elizabeth was coming to appreciate. “I believe you are a woman of considerable intelligence who found herself in circumstances that required a practical solution, and that you and Mr. Darcy are both too sensible to pretend otherwise. But I also believe that practicality and affection are not mutually exclusive.”
It was, Elizabeth thought, a disconcertingly accurate assessment from a woman she had known not even a fortnight. Prue Duntze saw with unsettling clarity, which was either reassuring or alarming, depending on what one preferred to keep hidden.
“You are perceptive,” Elizabeth said.
“I am a rector’s daughter with literary ambitions and no fortune. Perception is the only advantage I possess.” Prue shrugged, but her eyes were warm. “I mean no intrusion, Mrs. Darcy. Only observation.”
“Elizabeth. If we are to be friends—and I hope we are—you must call me Elizabeth.”
Prue’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Prue. And yes, I believe we shall be friends. You have the sort of wit I have been missing since my sister married and moved to Shropshire.”
“You have a sister?”
