Chapter 13 #2
“Nor do I,” he said, allowing the faintest smile, “but perhaps I may be persuaded—once—if the victory is yours.”
Her cheeks tinged with color as a gentle laugh escaped her and gave him a look that was part amusement, part admiration. “Very well. We shall see, Mr. Darcy. Let us see how you rise to the challenge. I should not like you to forfeit so soon.”
This time, he threw Elizabeth an apologetic look as her sister returned to tug him away.
Darcy followed Miss Lydia into the drawing room, wondering whether any other gentlemen present could claim such delight at the prospect of playing a child’s game—solely for the chance to sit beside a certain lady.
He suspected not.
The laughter in Haye Park’s drawing room rang like cheerful bells as the group gathered into a circle, cushions scattered on the floor and chairs pulled close. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth, and half-eaten ginger biscuits and spiced cake lay neglected on side tables.
“The Minister’s Cat!” Lydia cried gleefully, bouncing in place.
“We must play. It has been too long since we enjoyed such a merry party present for parlor games.” She darted forward, weaving through chairs and card tables like a child set loose in a confectioner’s shop.
“Kitty! Mary!” she called, arms flung wide.
“We are playing the Minister’s Cat! Everyone must join! ”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, beaming. “Kitty, will you explain the rules?”
“Of course,” her sister replied, already giggling. “We must describe the cat with an adjective beginning with the letter given. Any mistake, hesitation, or repetition, and you are out!”
Darcy, all pretended sobriety, composed himself with exaggerated solemnity. “A game of vocabulary and precision? I shall do my utmost to refrain from humiliating myself.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “I dare say you will manage it, sir.”
The game began with A.
“The minister’s cat is an amiable cat,” Jane offered sweetly.
“The minister’s cat is an arrogant cat,” declared Sanderson, puffing out his chest.
“The minister’s cat is an abominable cat,” Elizabeth pronounced with mock severity, earning a chuckle from Captain Denny.
“The minister’s cat is an ambidextrous cat,” Darcy said smoothly, allowing the corners of his mouth to lift. Elizabeth’s answering glance suggested she had noticed.
Round followed round, and players began to falter as the letters advanced.
Miss Lydia lost at C by calling the cat both cheerful and charming—Miss Kitty had already used both.
She pouted, then scampered off to the side with Denny in tow.
John Lucas was undone at F, describing the cat as “fantastic” after Arnold Goulding had already said the same, which earned groans and laughter.
Goulding himself stumbled on H, blinking furiously before blurting, “The minister’s cat is a.
..a...heavenly cat!”—but he had already lost the rhythm.
Miss Kitty managed to reach J before dissolving into helpless giggles, forgetting her word entirely.
“Out, dear sister,” Miss Mary said primly. “The minister’s cat is a judicious cat.”
Sanderson fared better, glancing often toward Mary with a smile that seemed to please her and brought a deep blush to her cheeks. She even missed a beat once, though no one called her out. At P, however, Sanderson faltered.
“The minister’s cat is a...a...pleasant cat,” he said with confidence.
“Used already,” cried Bingley, clapping his hands. “By me, good sir, at the very start of P!”
Sanderson groaned theatrically but settled near Mary’s chair without protest. “Miss Bennet,” he said with a mock bow, “you are my champion now.”
Miss Mary ducked her head, a pleased smile tugging at her mouth as she resumed with the letter Q.
Darcy leaned nearer towards Elizabeth. “Do you suppose his admiration is idle or intentional?”
Elizabeth tilted her head, her eyes still fixed on the pair. “I cannot say. But Mary seems...receptive.” Her countenance darkened. “If he toys with my sister’s heart…” She broke off, the warning clear without completion.
“Indeed,” Darcy murmured. “Such sport would be intolerable.”
At the letter U, Miss Mary faltered. “The minister’s cat is ubiquitous—no, untimely—no, unified—”
“You are out. Mary!” Miss Kitty cried, gleefully striking an invisible bell.
Miss Mary flushed and rose, a touch breathless, while Sanderson immediately offered his arm. They withdrew together, and a low murmur passed through the room.
“That leaves three,” said Bingley, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we raise the stakes? A friendly wager?”
“What do you propose?” asked Jane, half amused.
“A plate of mince pies from the sideboard to the victor, and the honor of being declared the cleverest in the room.” He glanced about. “But beware—Darcy is known for his absurdly long words. Four syllables or more whenever possible. He will likely trounce us all!”
“I cannot help it if the vocabulary is at hand,” Darcy returned with dry amusement. “One uses the words one knows.”
“You must not let him intimidate you, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley teased. “You have the nimblest mind among us.”
The three advanced swiftly—V, W, X. Elizabeth triumphed with xebec, and Darcy countered with xiphoid. Bingley, however, sputtered helplessly at Y.
“The minister’s cat is a...a yellow cat?”
“Out!” Elizabeth and Darcy chorused.
The room erupted in laughter, and applause rang out.
“And now,” said Bingley, grinning, “the final round. Will it be Miss Elizabeth Bennet or Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy who reigns supreme?”
“Z is upon us,” Miss Lydia whispered loudly, with every intention of being heard. She had reappeared with a rather flushed Captain Denny a few moments before.
“The minister’s cat is a zealous cat,” Darcy began.
Elizabeth did not blink. “The minister’s cat is a zany cat.”
Darcy’s lips quirked. “The minister’s cat is a zodiacal cat.”
“The minister’s cat,” Elizabeth said with relish, “is a zetetic cat.”
A beat. Darcy opened his mouth, closed it, and bowed his head.
“I concede. Z has defeated me.”
Applause rang out around them.
Elizabeth’s eyes danced with triumph. “Even four-syllable words may meet their match, sir.”
Darcy extended his hand to help her rise. “You have earned your mince-pies. But I shall demand a rematch—perhaps on the morrow—over bullet pudding.”
She placed her hand in his, her fingers lingering—light, gloved, but unmistakably lingering—as she replied, “I accept.”
The brief pressure stole his breath. Victory was hers, but the touch was his undoing.