Chapter One #3
“It is an odd tree, is it not?” Bingley mentioned, nodding at the trees. The lamb’s bleating increased in volume. He raised his voice. “Are there any other fruits or nuts that should not be picked off the tree, but from the ground?”
“I have no idea,” Darcy admitted. “Here, now, pull up and fetch that lamb out of the box. You hold him while I drive.”
Bingley obligingly drew his carriage to a stop and handed over the reins. “I hope he can control his waters.”
“He is just an animal,” Darcy reminded him, accepting the reins.
His friend opened the box and returned to climb into his seat, holding the white lamb up to his chest. A scrap of sheep skin had been wrapped around the animal’s bottom.
“Just in case,” Bingley said, grimacing.
“How much further must we go?” Darcy asked, setting the horse in motion.
“Not far.”
The lamb snuggled his head under Bingley’s coat.
“Do sheep drool?” Bingley asked, frowning.
“Angels of mercy do not grumble,” Darcy admonished.
Bingley’s eyebrows shot up, and he lifted his nose in the air. “I was merely seeking information.”
“Uh-huh,” Darcy said, smirking.
“Humph.” Bingley pointed his nose toward a red brick wall. “This is the place. And there are the gates.”
Driving to an inch, Darcy turned through the gates and onto a short drive.
The manor house, not so large as Netherfield, but nothing to be ashamed of either, had been formed from a deep red brick.
White painted window frames brightened the facade.
Darcy drew to a stop beneath a semi-circular porte-cochere that was supported by smooth white columns.
The door opened and a butler stepped out onto the porch.
“Good morning, Hill,” Bingley said, leaping down. “I have brought a patient around for Miss Elizabeth. This is my good friend, Mr. Darcy.”
Hill bowed. “Good morning, sirs. Please, come through.”
They passed through the portal into a handsome front hall. The butler entered, closed the door, and led them past the stairs, and through to the double entrance doors that led into an orangery.
The smell of animals hit Darcy the moment the doors opened.
He entered, examining the space as he did so.
Large and small cages inhabited shelves beside a rabbit hutch and an aviary.
Several small aquariums also occupied the space.
Several orange and lemon trees dotted the orangery, a testament to its former use.
The animals all turned to stare at the newcomers.
Most disconcerting.
A red fox appeared to concentrate exclusively on the bundle in Bingley’s arms.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Hill called out.
An outer door opened at the same moment.
A lady entered, dressed in a serviceable gown with a shorter skirt than was strictly appropriate, displaying manly boots beneath.
She wore a multi-pocketed taupe-colored apron and a light brown pelisse.
A large hairy dog of indeterminate breed entered at her side.
Her windblown chestnut hair, captured beneath a straw bonnet, had drifted free to hang loosely down her pink cheeks.
“No, you do not have to make friends with every fox you meet,” she was saying, seemingly talking to the dog. “However, you may not fight with Clive as long as he is in my care.”
Does he talk back to her?
The dog chuffed and shook his head, making his collar jingle. He noticed the newcomers and stilled, then sat back on his haunches, eyeing them in a cautiously friendly way.
“Nevertheless,” she said, her tone admonitory. Noticing his attitude, she glanced up, caught sight of them, and stopped short. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Bingley.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said, approaching. He bowed and she curtsied. The butler stood to one side, waiting for additional orders.
“Who have you there?” she asked, turning and shutting the outside door.
“This is my friend, Mr. Darcy.”
Miss Elizabeth gave Darcy a small curtsy, smiling. “Welcome, sir.”
Darcy bowed his shoulders.
“This is Harry,” she said, introducing her dog. “Mr. Bingley, have you brought me a lamb?”
Bingley pulled the animal out from under his coat and showed him to Miss Elizabeth. “This little fellah’s mother died not long ago. Even though he is weaned, he hardly eats anything.”
Miss Elizabeth took the lamb and nestled him to her chest. She lifted her apron and wrapped it around the lamb. A mouse squeaked, squirmed out of the folds, and scampered up onto her shoulder.
“He misses his mother,” she said in a kindly but matter-of-fact tone. “Are you saving him so you can eat him when he is larger?”
Bingley appeared nonplussed. “Uh…the culling of the flock is the responsibility of my shepherd.”
In a rather sensible way, she checked the hind end of the lamb. “He has been castrated. Perhaps your shepherd means to keep him for his wool. Leister Longwool sheep have beautiful wool.”
“So, I have been told. What can we do to help him thrive?” Bingley asked.
“Follow me,” she said, opening the outside door. The dog followed first, then Bingley and Darcy trailed after her, closing the door behind them.