Page 7 of Mr. Darcy Comes to Town

“About horses and dogs,” Darcy acknowledged, nodding.

“If it works for them, then it should work for any animal.”

“I am not certain your logic follows, but we shall soon see,” Darcy said, keeping his remark pleasant.

Bingley laughed, his good humor restored. “It does not seem to work on Basile. I wonder if it is true for all cats or just not on arrogant ones.”

“The name Basile does mean royal or kingly.”

“Does it really? I thought it was just something Caroline likes to say about his highness.”

“I would not be surprised if that is why she picked the name,” Darcy said dryly.

“She tried out several. Jean-Guy, Jaques, Pierre, but she said his ears pricked up when she suggested Basile to him.” Bingley huffed. “He goes with her when she marries—if she will ever choose someone other than you—and thank the good Lord for that. She is not foisting that smug, gray bundle of fur on me.”

“You say that, but you let him up on your lap anytime he wishes to honor you with his person,” Darcy teased.

“Well, there is no excuse for rudeness.”

Darcy guffawed. Bingley soon joined in.

And so, they passed back into countryside again. Enormous sweet chestnut trees lined the road to Longbourn Village, spaced widely apart, their significant girths indicating their great age.

“The chestnuts have started to fall,” Darcy observed, pointing at the prickly fruit, split open to reveal the dark-brown nut within. Several locals, carrying large baskets and wearing thick gloves, worked beneath the trees to pick the ripe chestnuts off the ground.

“It is an odd tree, is it not?” Bingley mentioned, nodding at the trees. The lamb’s bleating increased in volume. He raised his voice. “Are there any other fruits or nuts that should not be picked off the tree, but from the ground?”

“I have no idea,” Darcy admitted. “Here, now, pull up and fetch that lamb out of the box. You hold him while I drive.”

Bingley obligingly drew his carriage to a stop and handed over the reins. “I hope he can control his waters.”

“He is just an animal,” Darcy reminded him, accepting the reins.

His friend opened the box and returned to climb into his seat, holding the white lamb up to his chest. A scrap of sheep skin had been wrapped around the animal’s bottom.

“Just in case,” Bingley said, grimacing.

“How much further must we go?” Darcy asked, setting the horse in motion.

“Not far.”

The lamb snuggled his head under Bingley’s coat.

“Do sheep drool?” Bingley asked, frowning.

“Angels of mercy do not grumble,” Darcy admonished.

Bingley’s eyebrows shot up, and he lifted his nose in the air. “I was merely seeking information.”

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said, smirking.

“Humph.” Bingley pointed his nose toward a red brick wall. “This is the place. And there are the gates.”

Driving to an inch, Darcy turned through the gates and onto a short drive. The manor house, not so large as Netherfield, but nothing to be ashamed of either, had been formed from a deep red brick. White painted window frames brightened the façade. Darcy drew to a stop beneath a semi-circular porte-cochere that was supported by smooth white columns. The door opened and a butler stepped out onto the porch.

“Good morning, Hill,” Bingley said, leaping down. “I have brought a patient around for Miss Elizabeth. This is my good friend, Mr. Darcy.”

Hill bowed. “Good morning, sirs. Please, come through.”