“A beast of pure malice indeed,” Sir William agreed, shaking his head. “Capital story, my lord! Though tragic for the hat.”
“Therefore,” Robert concluded, patting Mr Collins on the shoulder once more, “you must not rush out there. If you confront the spotted sow, she will not simply eat the cabbages. She will wait. And next week, she will eat your favourite sermons.”
Mr Collins paled. “My sermons! Oh, Charlotte, bar the doors! Send the boy to the stables!”
As the vicar began issuing orders to protect his theological writings from the marauding pig, Darcy finally reached the sofa. He sat down gingerly next to Miss Elizabeth, keeping a respectful distance, though the urge to close the gap was very tempting.
“Your cousin,” she whispered, tears of laughter shining in her fine eyes, “is a menace to society.”
“He is,” Darcy agreed, his voice a low rumble. “But he is a highly effective menace. I believe he just saved Mr Collins from a mud-wrestling match with a sow.”
“And he gifted us with the legend of Beatrice the Vengeful.” She looked up at him, the remnants of laughter making her face radiant. “Tell me the truth, Mr Darcy. Did a pig actually eat his beaver hat?”
Darcy leaned in slightly, conspiring with her. “Miss Elizabeth, Robert has never been awake to see a Sunday sunrise in his entire life. The only thing that has ever consumed his hats is the crushing debts of a bad wager at White’s.”
Miss Elizabeth let out a delightful, uninhibited peal of laughter.
It was the sweetest sound Darcy had ever heard. It washed over him, erasing the memory of the man he had been two weeks ago. He did not care about the noise of the parsonage; he did not care about Mr Collins’s cabbages. He only cared that the woman beside him was sharing a jest with him, as though he were a man worth her time.
HOWEVER, WHILE THEcousins experienced success at the parsonage, a storm was gathering back at the fortress.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat at the head of the dining table, her fork suspended mid-air, her eyes narrowed into two suspicious, glittering slits.
“I demand to know,” she boomed, “why the entirety of my household empties out every morning to tramp down the lane to the parsonage.”
Darcy froze, his soup spoon halfway to his mouth. Across the table, Robert set down his wine glass. Richard suddenly found the ceiling fresco very fascinating.
“We are merely taking the air, Aunt Catherine,” Robert lied smoothly, attempting to deploy his arsenal of charisma. “The parsonage lies along the most picturesque route. The glazing—I must congratulate you again—on the windows is a beacon of moral fortitude.”
“Do not attempt to flatter me with your drivel, Robert,” Lady Catherine snapped, immune for once to the viscount’s charm. “You have called upon Mr Collins for four consecutive days! Four! Mr Collins is a useful man, certainly, but he is not entertaining enough to warrant the daily attention of two peers and a colonel. What is the attraction? Is it the Lucas girl? Or that impudent Miss Elizabeth?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to defend Elizabeth—consequences be damned—but before he could utter a word, a soft, reedy voice cut through the tension.
“It is me, Mother.”
They all turned to stare at Anne de Bourgh. Anne, who usually ate her asparagus silently as a church mouse, set down her napkin and looked directly at her mother.
“You, Anne?” Lady Catherine frowned. “What do you mean?”
Anne executed a masterpiece of acting. She lowered her eyes, twisted her fingers in her lap, and allowed her voice to tremble slightly.
“I find myself... lonely, Mother,” she whispered. “You are occupied with the affairs of the estate, and Mrs Jenkinson means well, but her conversation is limited to the weather and my digestion. I find that I require genteel female company.”
Lady Catherine blinked, her aggressive posture faltering. “Genteel company?”
“Yes. Mrs Collins is a sensible, married woman. And Miss Elizabeth has a lively mind. Being in their presence... it lifts my spirits. It makes me feel less like an invalid.” Anne lifted her eyes with a perfectly timed, delicate cough. “Is it so wrong for me to wish for a friend?”
Darcy stared at his cousin in absolute awe. She was brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant.
Lady Catherine deflated. The mistress of Rosings Park, the woman who commanded tenants and clergymen with an iron fist, had only one genuine weakness: her daughter. Beneath the bombazine and the loud directives, she loved Anne with an overbearing but undeniable maternal devotion.
“A friend,” Lady Catherine murmured, her expression softening marginally. “Well. I suppose Mrs Collins is respectable enough. And if it benefits your health, Anne... I cannot forbid it.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Anne said meekly.
“However,” Lady Catherine rallied, raising a finger, “I will not have you tramping through the mud every day like a commoner. If you desire their company, you shall have it under my roof, where I can supervise the conversation.”
She turned her gaze to Darcy. “Fitzwilliam. When you call tomorrow, you shall inform Mr Collins that he and his menagerie are commanded to dine at Rosings on Easter Sunday. That includes the Bennet girl. We shall see if her manners have improved since her last visit.”
