CHAPTER THREE #2
The spaniel gave another tug, this one sharp enough to slip the loop from Elizabeth’s fingers.
“Pippin!” she cried, startled. “Come back this instant!”
But Pippin, having spied a distant movement beyond the hedge, paid no heed. She darted through the tall grass, tail streaming, ears flying.
“Pippin, no! Not again!”
Elizabeth darted after her dog, skirts brushing the wet grass, breath catching in the chill air. The spaniel vanished through the hedge, and the sound of joyful barking rang out a moment later.
Elizabeth reached the gap and stopped short.
Across the meadow path, a tall gentleman had turned at the commotion. His dark blue coat caught the sunlight, and beside him stood a fine greyhound, its silver form alert and still. Pippin, heedless of propriety, was already bounding round them in ecstatic greeting.
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. Her heart sank.
“Oh, heavens,” she whispered. “Of all the men in Hertfordshire… the proud one again.”
***
MR. DARCY LEFT NETHERFIELD that afternoon with his greyhound, Apollo, in pursuit of silence.
The morning had been an exercise in endurance.
Miss Bingley, still mortified by the provincial manners displayed at the assembly, had declared pointedly that “a dog always mirrors its master.” Darcy, whose boots still bore a faint trace of last night’s incident, had not disagreed.
Mrs. Hurst had pronounced the county “a place without one civilised drawing room,” while Bingley, too full of good humour to notice his sisters’ disdain, could speak of nothing but Miss Bennet’s angelic sweetness.
Before the chorus could begin again, Darcy took up his hat and walking stick and quitted the house.
The air outside was brisk and clear, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and turned earth.
Along the road beyond Netherfield, farmers guided their carts homeward, and a few townsfolk passed on errands toward Meryton, calling cheerful greetings as they went.
Darcy acknowledged them with polite formality, caring little whether his civility was returned or not.
He had already perceived, from the glances and whispers of the previous evening, that the neighbourhood considered him proud.
It was an accusation he could endure without unease, for he had found little in Hertfordshire to alter their opinion—or his own.
Yet memory was a fickle thing, and against his will it conjured a pair of fine, dark eyes that had met his so directly as she bent to retrieve her dog.
Apollo moved before him with long, elegant strides, his silver coat gleaming in the pale sun.
Darcy gave a faint shake of his head, half in reproof of his thoughts, and looked down at his hound.
“You see, my friend,” he said quietly, “Miss Bingley was not entirely wrong. A dog does, indeed, resemble its master. That little spaniel’s mistress must be of much the same temper.
Lively? Maybe. But surely disobedient, and quite impossible to ignore. ”
Apollo flicked an ear, as if in dignified agreement.
The day was calm, the sky soft with light. Darc\y turned onto the meadow path that bordered the Meryton road, and the hum of village life faded into stillness. The rhythm of his steps steadied his thoughts. He breathed deeply, content at last to be alone.
The peace did not last long.
A sudden rustling broke from the hedge beside him. Before Darcy could turn, a small brown spaniel burst through the brush, barking with ungoverned delight. In a single leap she collided with Apollo’s flank, and the startled greyhound gave a bound that sent his leash tangling round Darcy’s legs.
He staggered, caught his balance—almost—and landed neatly upon the damp verge.
“Good heavens!” he yelled.
The spaniel, all bright eyes and wagging tail, paused before him with the look of one well pleased with her own mischief. Apollo, regaining his dignity, stood very straight, pretending entire ignorance of the creature now cavorting at his feet.
Darcy had scarcely risen when a familiar voice called out, breathless and alarmed.
“Pippin! Come back this instant!”
He turned sharply. Miss Elizabeth Bennet appeared through the gap in the hedge, her cheeks flushed from haste, her curls blown loose by the wind. The moment she saw him, her step faltered.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, half in shock, half in dismay. “Oh dear—I beg you will forgive her. She slipped the leash before I could stop her.”
Darcy inclined his head, his tone even, though his mouth curved with faint irony. “Your companion appears determined to renew our acquaintance, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth hurried forward and caught Pippin’s collar, murmuring gentle reproaches. The little dog paid them no mind, instead stretching toward the greyhound, who now bent his elegant head to sniff her nose in cautious approval.
“I am exceedingly sorry, sir,” Elizabeth said, glancing up. “You must think her incorrigible.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on the dogs, whose tails were already moving in perfect accord. “I think,” he said slowly, “that her enthusiasm is—remarkable.”
Elizabeth blinked, uncertain whether to take offence or amusement. “Indeed? I should say it is mortifying.”
“I imagine she does not share that sentiment,” he replied, his eyes following Pippin’s lively circling of Apollo.
Elizabeth sighed, half laughing despite herself. “With the way you reacted to her behaviour last night, I did not think you the sort of gentleman to own a dog of your own.”
Darcy looked down at Apollo, whose patience remained unshaken. “He is a quiet companion,” he said. “A creature of order.”
“Unlike mine?” Elizabeth asked, her tone light but edged with irony. “You made your opinion quite clear last night, sir.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted from his hound to her face, his expression unreadable. “If I spoke with too little civility, it was the fault of a crowded room and too many watching eyes,” he said evenly. “I am not accustomed to being the subject of so much interest.”
Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, caught between surprise and disbelief. “You might find, sir, that a little civility improves such interest.”
He hesitated, the faintest line appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Or perhaps,” he said quietly, “it only invites more of what one would rather avoid.”
She could not quite decide whether it was arrogance or honesty that spoke.
To avoid replying, she bent to smooth Pippin’s ears, her gloved fingers brushing the spaniel’s glossy head. “And what is his name, sir?” she asked, her eyes drifting toward the greyhound.
“Apollo.”
Elizabeth’s brow arched slightly. “A most dignified name—and perfectly suited.”
Darcy’s lips curved, almost despite himself. “He does his best to live up to it.”
The two dogs had by now settled into a kind of gentle play, Apollo lowering his sleek head while Pippin circled him in bright, eager bursts. When she paused, he bent to nudge her softly, and she rewarded him with a wag of complete devotion.
Elizabeth gave a quiet laugh. “It seems they have decided to be friends, without seeking our approval.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “The wiser course, perhaps.”
Her smile faded into curiosity. There was something in his tone she could not easily place—neither jest nor condescension, but something else entirely. Before she could puzzle it out, a passer-by glanced their way, and she saw Darcy’s composure draw up like armour.
He turned to her with a polite inclination of his head. “I must be on my way, Miss Bennet. Come, Apollo.”
“Of course,” she said, stepping back with Pippin at her heel. “Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed slightly. “Miss Bennet.”
As he moved away, the afternoon quiet seemed to settle once more around her. Pippin gave a small bark and trotted a few paces after the departing greyhound before Elizabeth gathered her close again.
She looked down at the little dog, who gazed up at her with unrepentant affection. “You have a talent for choosing company, it seems,” she murmured. “Though next time, do try to pick a less complicated gentleman.”
Pippin wagged her tail as if in cheerful defiance. Elizabeth laughed softly and turned toward home, still smiling.
If Mr. Darcy had meant to surprise her by being almost civil, he had not succeeded, for he offered neither apology for his slight nor acknowledgement of his offence to Pippin at the assembly.
Yet he contrived an excuse for his conduct that sounded perilously like justification.
A most complicated man indeed—and Elizabeth was quite resolved not to think of him again.