Page 32 of Mr. Darcy Comes to Town

Harry’s large head swiveled around. He chuffed. “Are you done visiting with the cat already?”

The black and white sheep dog also turned his head, saying in a quick, excited voice, “I hate cats! Kill the cat.”

“You’ve never killed a cat,” Harry told him in his slow, ponderous way. “The barn cats are still alive.”

“They stay out of my way, that’s why.”

“This is Davey,” Harry told Jeffry. “He likes to run, too. And he herds the sheep. He likes Lizzy.”

“Lizzy is a good human,” Davey announced, yipping in his excitement.

“What’s up, boy?” the shepherd asked, straightening and looking about them. “Is it a fox?”

“Oops,” Davey whispered. “I forgot I was working. Go away, Harry.”

“I will. Jeffry,” Harry said, “meet me on the other side of the wall.”

Harry jumped over the four-foot stone wall. Jeffry popped onto his back the moment he landed.

“Time to go home?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Jeffry replied. “Oh, dear. I do not think Basile will help us.”

“Stubborn?”

“Yes, yes. He wants his human to get what she wants, and Caroline Bingley wants Mr. Darcy. The poor woman.”

Harry said nothing, and they reversed their steps back to Longbourn House without exchanging many more words.

*

“What about this one?” Bingley asked, choosing a delicate deep-blue and light-pink teacup which the proprietor had placed on a piece of black velvet as though it was a jewel. “It does not match what we already have, but it is exceedingly pretty.”

Darcy picked it up and examined it closely. “It is pretty, no doubt. But the shape is different.” He set their sample cup from Netherfield down on the velvet and placed the proposed choice beside it for comparison. “I think your sister would prefer that the shapes match.”

“I have just the thing, sirs,” the lean, tall proprietor, who appeared to be around fifty, promised in an overly refined accent. He reached beneath his counter and pulled out a wide-bowled cup, trimmed in gold, and having a pastoral scene painted upon it. “I can provide you with twelve of these cups, with their saucers, of course.”

“That is a good number,” Bingley observed. He set the first cup to one side and they examined the new cup next to the one they had brought. “I like it. The color intensity is similar.”

Darcy nodded. He picked up the new offering and examined it carefully before addressing the proprietor. “May we see the saucer?”

“You may, sir,” the man said, bringing out the matching item. “As you can see, sir, it has the nice high lip that allows those who like to sup from their saucers the volume to do so.”

“I see that,” Darcy said. “I think this one will do. What do you think, Bingley?”

“I preferred the one before, actually, but I think Caroline will like this last one better.” Bingley looked at the proprietor. “I will take them. Can you have them delivered today?”

“Where to, sir?”

“Netherfield Park, Meryton.” Bingley looked anxious. “They will arrive safely?”

“They will, sir. You have no need to worry. It has just gone eleven, sir. You can expect them to arrive before five. We can return your sample at the same time.”

“I am most pleased,” Bingley said, taking out his wallet.

Darcy picked up their sample and repacked it in the straw-lined box provided for it by the Netherfield housekeeper. Their business concluded, Darcy, with Bingley behind him, stepped out of the shop, titled, Messrs. Brooks and Hardy, Purveyors of Fine Goods, and bumped directly into an officer in a red militia uniform. The epaulette, worn on the right shoulder only, indicated the officer’s rank.

“I beg your pardon, lieutenant,” Darcy said automatically. Then, he met the man’s eyes and immediately recognized him. “You,” he huffed on a strong exhalation of disgust.