When Elizabeth’s Cat Chose Darcy (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

NEITHER TOLERABLE NOR CHARMING

Elizabeth

I had been insulted before. One does not grow up the second of five daughters in a household of limited means without developing a certain resilience to slights.

What I had not anticipated was being insulted twice by the same man in the space of a quarter-hour.

The first was barely tolerable, but the second blow shredded what was left of my dignity.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me begin with the Meryton assembly, and with the preparations that preceded it, and with Mr. Bingley, who arrived in Hertfordshire like sunshine after a long, grey winter and promptly set every mother’s heart aflutter with his five thousand a year and his easy manners.

The afternoon before the assembly, the Bennet women were in our customary state of cheer and trouble—scattered across the upstairs chambers in various stages of beautification.

Cinnamon, my orange cat, claimed the center of my bed where she observed our preparations with the air of a creature who had witnessed many such evenings and found them all equally absurd.

Her tail flicked periodically. Commentary, I suspected.

After all, what sensible creature would forgo a good nap for the sake of ribbons and curls?

Mama stood behind Jane, her fingers making quick work of my sister’s pale gold hair.

Our talented mother could dress hair as well as any lady’s maid, manage accounts as well as any steward, and had told us so often enough that we believed her.

She had been brought up by a baker’s daughter and a solicitor, and she had never forgotten the practical skills of a less-than-genteel upbringing.

Skills you may need someday, she had often told us, should circumstances change.

She was not immune, however, to speculation about fine gentlemen.

“He smiles too much, this Mr. Bingley,” she observed, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “A man who smiles that freely either has nothing behind the expression, or he’s hiding something.”

“Perhaps he’s simply happy,” Jane said, turning in her seat. “Some people are, you know, happy without complication.”

“Perhaps.” The corner of Mama’s mouth curved. “Or he has yet to encounter the Bennet sisters and their devastating effect on masculine composure.” Her gaze shifted to me. “Lizzy, stop fidgeting. You’ll wrinkle your muslin before we’ve left the house.”

I stilled my hands, though my second-best dress still felt inadequate to the occasion.

Not that I particularly cared about impressing Mr. Bingley—he would surely prefer Jane’s serene beauty to my more combustible variety—but one liked to feel equal to an evening, especially when the whole of Meryton would be on display.

“What of his friend?” I asked, adjusting a curl that had already escaped its pin. “Mr. Darcy? The one from Derbyshire?”

Mama’s tone cooled markedly. “Ten thousand a year, if the rumors are to be believed, which means he’ll either be insufferable or invisible—the very rich so rarely manage anything in between.” She secured the final pin. “Come sit, Lizzy. Your turn.”

I took Jane’s place on the bench, watching in the mirror as Mama remade my earlier attempts at self-arrangement.

“Do you think he’ll dance with Jane? If Mr. Bingley is as amiable as everyone says—”

“If he has eyes in his head and any sense whatsoever, he’ll dance with Jane twice and spend the remainder of the evening maneuvering into her vicinity.

” Mama’s eyes found mine in the glass, and something passed between us—that comfortable understanding I had always shared with her.

“But don’t pin your hopes on sunshine gentlemen, Lizzy.

The ones who smile too easily sometimes love too easily as well, and that kind of warmth can melt like the morning mist.”

“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

“I’m speaking from observation, which is considerably safer.” She twisted a strand of my hair, examining it for texture. “Your father smiled at me like that, once.”

It was more than she usually said about Papa. She had married for position—a gentleman with an estate, such a step up from her tradesman roots—and had learned, with each daughter born, that nothing was as secure as she had imagined.

Five girls. No son. No heir to break the entail that bound Longbourn to the male line, which meant that upon Papa’s death, our home would pass to a distant cousin none of us had ever met—a clergyman called Mr. Collins, whose letters suggested a man of great self-importance and very little sense.

“There,” Mama said, stepping back to examine her work. “You look lovely. Now go. Find your sisters, make certain Lydia hasn’t hidden something scandalous beneath her petticoats, and remind Mary that nobody wants to hear sermons at an assembly.”

Cinnamon vaulted onto the dresser, gave Mama’s labor one blinkered nod of approval, and returned to licking her paws.

Being the second daughter of five at our town’s assembly meant I could position myself along the wall while Jane took center stage for introductions.

Sir William Lucas, ever the gracious host, welcomed the assembled guests with his customary enthusiasm, though in truth, few of our neighbors required any formal presentation.

Mrs. Long, her fan fluttering with conspiratorial whispers, stood in close conference with Mrs. Goulding, and Sir Williams’ sons, always reliable for at least one set, milled about with youthful energy.

I harbored no grand expectations where the fine gentlemen were concerned; they, too, were bound by the practical necessity of marrying well, which in our modest society translated to women with respectable dowries.

Charlotte Lucas, my dearest friend, caught my eye and made her way toward me, no doubt eager to share her arch observations.

The Netherfield party announced itself before Sir William could perform the honors.

Miss Bingley entered in a manner that suggested she breathed air at a higher altitude than the rest of us.

Her gown was the shade of burnt orange that fashion plates had been recommending all autumn, and her assessment of the room was swift and merciless—worn curtains, competent but not London-quality musicians, refreshments that leaned toward punch and cold meats rather than champagne and French pastries.

“Charming,” she pronounced, in a tone that suggested anything but.

Mr. Bingley’s smile was already in full tilt.

“He smiles before he’s even identified a single person worth smiling at,” Mama said to us daughters, nodding toward the doorway.

But my gaze skipped over the affable Mr. Bingley, for behind him, like a thundercloud attending a sunrise, came Mr. Darcy.

“Good heavens,” Charlotte murmured in my ear. “That’s ten thousand a year?”

“Apparently.”

“He bears the countenance of a man brought here at gunpoint.”

“Perhaps someone has. Mr. Bingley seems the type to resort to desperate measures in pursuit of company.”

Sir William, who had been stalking the doorway for precisely this moment, launched into his effusive welcome with enough enthusiasm to endanger his waistcoat buttons.

“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! Such a pleasure—such distinguished company—may I say, on behalf of all of Meryton.”

Mr. Bingley seized the older man’s hand with unaffected warmth. “You may say whatever you like, Sir William, and I shall savor every word. What a splendid room. Is everyone in Hertfordshire this welcoming, or have we been fortunate?”

Mr. Darcy said nothing. He inclined his head in the exact degree that courtesy required and returned his attention to the faded wallpaper that was apparently more interesting than any of us.

And Mama was already in motion. She efficiently arranged all five of us in what I privately called the Bennet Cascade: Jane at the forefront, serene and luminous; me beside her, attempting to look agreeable; followed by Mary with the perfect posture; Kitty hiding behind Mary; and Lydia gawking over everyone’s shoulders to inspect the fine gentlemen from head to toe.

“Mrs. Bennet,” Sir William beamed, “may I present Mr. Bingley and his party—”

“You may indeed.” Mama’s curtsy was impeccable—graceful and appropriately deep. “Welcome to Hertfordshire, gentlemen. These are my daughters—Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia.”

We curtsied in sequence—Jane’s effortless and lovely, mine adequate, Mary’s stiff but correct, Kitty’s slightly wobbly, and Lydia’s so enthusiastic she nearly toppled into Mr. Bingley, who caught her elbow with a laugh and declared her curtsy magnificent.

“You are very kind, sir,” Mama said, eyes crinkling with either amusement or strategy—with Mama, the distinction was not always clear. “I do hope you will enjoy Meryton. We are a small community, but a warm one.”

“I can see that already.” But Bingley’s gaze had already found Jane. “Miss Bennet, the dancing is about to begin, I believe, and I wonder if you might—”

Jane accepted with a graceful nod, and they glided toward the dance floor with the natural ease of two songbirds alighting on the same branch.

Miss Bingley watched them go with an expression suggesting she had swallowed a sour egg, while Mr. Darcy observed them with no expression at all, which was somehow worse.

Charlotte pulled my sleeve, and we retreated to our customary observation post along the wall.

“Your sister,” she said, with the satisfied tone of a woman whose predictions were proving correct, “has conquered him entirely.”

“Jane has merely smiled at him. If that constitutes conquest, Mr. Bingley’s defenses are in dire need of reinforcement.”

Our closely tilted heads and giggles kept us occupied enough to avoid being conscripted by any gentleman desperate enough to seek partners, not that there was an abundance of eligible men to go around.