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“As you no doubt heard, I have four sisters in want of husbands, and Lady Catherine likes to be of use. If I get desperate, I may go crawling to her for help. She loves to be right and despises me for ignoring her almost entirely for the past year. If I give her something to gloat about, she will help me, but not if she becomes aware of your presence, which will distress her. If we are done, I really have things to do, so I bid you good day.”

Something about that seemed to pain him, so he might be the one who needed to work on his inscrutability. I turned back to my work, but he surprised me again.

“I would like to offer my help.”

I imagined he was trying to see how much he could discompose me, but I doubt he got much that time.

I simply replied as politely as I could, “I thank you for the offer, but I shall manage my own affairs.”

Apparently, he was more stubborn than I thought, as he tried once again.

“Please, Mrs… Elizabeth. I truly would like to assist you.”

With my mask firmly in place, I decided I had not been uncivil enough, so I tried another tack.

“The Smyth estate is five miles north, Jones’ is ten miles east, and Lord Mawbry just to the south. They have shooting at this time of year. Pray, relieve your tedium elsewhere.”

Just in case that was not clear enough, I turned my back on him and returned to spreading grain. At least that would fill my belly later, and I assumed talking to my back would be enough to finally make him leave.

He surprised me again by asking in almost a whisper, “May I ask why you refuse my help, but would accept Lady Catherine’s?”

Becoming annoyed and slightly alarmed by his persistence, I decided to finish things. “Are we speaking in confidence?”

“Always.” As if I should just naturally trust an eavesdropper.

“Lady Catherine is a bit of a meddlesome busybody, but I understand her enough to know what she will do. In the end, she will not be able to resist the temptation to extract her pound of flesh. I trust her because I understand her. She could not stand the thought of me believing her incapable of something as simple as placing a few ladies with husbands, and giving me my just deserts will add a nice touch. I trust her—within limits.”

He chewed on that for a few seconds. “I assume this means you do not trust me?”

“No sir, I do not. I imagine I should soften that with something like ‘I am sorry to say,’ but I no longer dissemble for politeness’ sake.”

He struggled for perhaps half a minute, looking confused, and asked pointedly, “May I ask why?”

I was finally starting to lose my carefully controlled temper.

“Why do you care? My trust, or lack thereof, will in no way affect anything other than your pride, of which you seem to have an adequate supply. Once we finish this conversation, we are unlikely to ever meet again, so I see little point in the discussion.”

His face fell yet again, perhaps not enjoying being on the receiving end of someone’s indifference, but he seemed a logical enough man to understand such a plain assertion of well-established fact; though to be honest, I expected his anger to make a showing sooner or later.

“I care what happens to you, Elizabeth. Will you not at least give me that?”

So, it was to be Christian names, was it? I had not given him leave, but perhaps he was more sensible than he seemed. He was going out of his way to avoid either of the surnames I despised, so I had to grudgingly give him a tiny bit of credit. That bit of impropriety might be his finest moment.

With more charity than I was feeling, I said, “All right, Mr Darcy, I will give you that. Pray, take my word that the best thing you can do is return to Rosings and forget this entire episode.” Then I turned back to my work.

“Elizabeth, please! My cowardice is screaming at me to take you at your word and run; but for once in my life, would you allow me to be brave? I have been a selfish being all my life, but let me just this once go beyond that. Will you please tell me why you distrust me so?”

He seemed to be waiting in breathless anticipation, apparently unable to comprehend that anyone could hold a grudge against him.

I stood staring at my pig and my poultry for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should just insist he leave, or give him the honest answer he seemed to crave. In the end, I decided to just put him out of his misery and be done with it, so I told my story to the pig.

“Do you know my very last happy memory?”

I paused long enough to see if he might guess.

“It was, oddly enough, just over a year ago at Mr Bingley’s ball at Netherfield. After my first two horrible dances with Mr Collins, which I saw you and Miss Bingley smirking at, I had one with John Lucas. We were old friends with no expectations, and we could just happily enjoy the simple pleasure of a dance done well. That is the very last satisfactory memory I have.”

He had the temerity to ask, “You do not consider our dance a happy memory?”