Page 20 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Wickham’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Indeed, sir. But those who might have offered me protection or advancement soon withdrew their support. Such is life, more often than not.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened thoughtfully. She leaned forward slightly. “Or perhaps,” she suggested lightly but pointedly, “you gave them reason to behave so unkindly?”

Wickham’s fingers tightened minutely on the stem of his glass. He managed to keep his voice polite, though there was a spark in his eyes. “Miss Elizabeth, you are frank indeed.”

Jane, trying to smooth over the charged silence, asked Wickham gently, “Did you know Derbyshire well, sir?”

Wickham’s face altered just a fraction—his pleasant mask tightening before settling back.

“Very well, Miss Bennet,” he replied carefully. “Though not as a landowner, I assure you. My station there was... somewhat dependent on the generosity of others.”

Elizabeth caught it. The pause. The faint edge. She watched him, but he simply smiled at Jane with practiced amiability.

Mr. Bingley, ever eager to make things smooth, jumped in brightly. “I have always heard Derbyshire praised! A friend of mine speaks of Pemberley as if it were the jewel of the north.”

Wickham’s eyes flickered again. This time his smile was narrower.

“Pemberley is very fine, so I heard. Vaguely.”

Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen.

Mr. Bennet, though apparently reading his plate with great concentration, lifted one eyebrow in mild interest. He set down his spoon. “That is very cryptic of you, sir.”

Wickham’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Best, I think, not to burden dinner with old disputes.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, studying him. Wickham turned his gaze aside, schooling his expression back to innocence.

Just then, Mr. Denny—determined to rescue the table—leaned forward and said warmly: “I have rarely enjoyed a broth so well prepared, Mrs. Bennet. Your cook deserves the highest praise.”

She beamed. “Yes, indeed,” she cried. “Our Hill is famous for her gravies. Anyway, we spare no trouble when entertaining gentlemen.”

Kitty and Lydia tittered at the emphasis.

But Elizabeth found her appetite dulled. She turned again to Wickham, determined to draw out what he so carefully hid—but just then, disaster intervened.

Sophocles, who had been slinking quietly under the chairs, made his move.

With one sudden, feline leap, he landed square on the edge of the table—right among the serving dishes.

There was a collective gasp.

“Good God!” Mr. Bennet shouted, half-rising.

Sophocles chose that precise moment to leap straight across Wickham’s path. He landed deftly, one front paw catching the edge of the soup dish and sending its contents splashing spectacularly into the young officer’s lap.

Wickham, who had been leaning forward suavely toward Elizabeth, received the brunt of it—hot broth sloshing into his lap.

“Damn—!” Wickham bit off the oath, springing back with a half-strangled yelp.

Chaos erupted.

Kitty squealed. Lydia shrieked with unhelpful laughter. Jane rushed for a napkin.

Elizabeth clamped a hand over her mouth to hide a bubble of horrified, half-guilty laughter.

Mr. Bingley looked as if he were torn between helping and breaking down laughing.

Mrs. Bennet cried, “Oh! Oh, dear heavens—Hill! HILL!”

Mr. Bennet rapped his knuckles firmly on the table, voice ringing with dry command.

“Enough!”

He fixed Sophocles with a glacial glare. The cat had already retreated to the mantel, tail flicking with majestic indifference.

“Madam,” Mr. Bennet addressed his wife coolly, “perhaps the creature sensed some impropriety afoot. He is not often wrong.”

Elizabeth could not hide the startled, strangled laugh that escaped her.

Wickham was dabbing hopelessly at his soaked waistcoat with Jane’s offered napkin. His forced, strained smile did not reach his eyes.

Mr. Denny tried valiantly to salvage the moment.

“Capital reflexes, Wickham,” he managed gamely. “Might be useful in battle.”

Wickham’s answering laugh was brittle.

Mr. Bennet settled back in his chair with regal composure.

“Well. Now that the cat has given his judgment, perhaps we might move on to the second course?”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, despite herself. She stole a glance at her father and found the ghost of a wink waiting for her.

The rest of the meal was conducted with cautious civility, punctuated by Wickham’s damp discomfort and Mr. Denny’s valiant attempts at cheerful small talk.

Mrs. Bennet did her best to recover the mood by praising the pudding effusively, while Kitty and Lydia exchanged barely suppressed giggles over the cat’s daring leap.

Elizabeth, for her part, remained watchful.

Mr. Wickham resumed his charming manner, but there was a flicker of tightness at the corners of his mouth every time Sophocles slunk past the hearth.

At last, dessert plates were cleared and coffee was served in the drawing-room. Conversation settled into a more restrained formality.

Wickham, though perfectly polite, seemed increasingly eager to be away. He stood, bowing with precision.

“My apologies for the disturbance earlier,” he said, voice silky, though his eyes darted once to the floor as if checking for any feline ambush. “You have all been most indulgent.”

Elizabeth dipped her head, schooling her expression into something gracious. “We are grateful you bore it so well, sir.”

Wickham’s smile strained just a fraction tighter.

Mr. Denny, ever the mediator, clapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “Come, Wickham. Best leave before your uniform is entirely ruined.”

“Oh, but you must come again soon—so sorry for the... accident!” Mrs. Bennet cried, flapping her handkerchief in faint distress.

“Another time, ma’am,” Wickham assured her, inclining his head stiffly.

Elizabeth caught her father’s sidelong look of grim amusement.

Mr. Denny gave a courteous bow. “A pleasure as always, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.” He offered Kitty a kind, almost fraternal glance.

The young officers and Mr. Bingley took their leave with the usual polite promises. Mr. Wickham’s bow in Elizabeth’s direction was correct but brisk. She returned it coolly.

When the door closed behind them, silence lingered for a beat.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, breaking it, “that went beautifully.”

Elizabeth barely smothered a snort.

Jane, ever gentle, tried for peace. “They were very civil about it all.”

“Civil,” Mr. Bennet repeated with mock solemnity. “Yes, that is the word.”

Before Mrs. Bennet could rally for a defence, there was another knock at the door.

This time it was Mr. Bingley alone. He stood in the entry with an apologetic smile, his hat tucked respectfully under one arm.

“Forgive the intrusion—I only wanted to thank you all properly for the invitation this evening.”

Mrs. Bennet beamed, her good humour instantly restored. “Oh, Mr. Bingley! Such manners. Come in, come in—though I fear the excitement has quite undone us.”

Bingley’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he stepped into the hall. “I heard Wickham’s coat may never recover. Tell me, Miss Elizabeth, was it truly the cat’s doing?”

Elizabeth lifted a brow, refusing to deny it. “Sophocles seems to have strong opinions on our guests.”

Bingley laughed, bright and untroubled. “A cat of discernment, clearly.”

Mr. Bennet waved him toward the hearth. “Join us for a moment more, Mr. Bingley. I promise the beast is in the kitchen now, awaiting judgment.”

Bingley grinned and settled himself. He cast a glance at Jane, who met it with shy warmth.

Elizabeth watched them, her own expression softening.

Mr. Bennet regarded the scene with narrowed but approving eyes. “Well. If nothing else, the evening was instructive.”

Elizabeth arched a brow at him. “Papa.”

He spread his hands innocently. “What? I like to know the character of my dinner guests. Sophocles has simply taken that responsibility onto his own furry shoulders.”

Mr. Bingley burst out laughing. Even Jane’s lips twitched.

Mrs. Bennet shook her head, though she could not entirely suppress a reluctant smile.

At last, Bingley stood, gathering himself.

“I must not overstay—I only wished to make sure no lasting offence was taken. And to say goodnight properly.”

He bowed carefully to Mrs. Bennet, and offered a warmer, lingering bow to Jane.

Elizabeth noted it, satisfaction quietly stirring in her chest.

Mr. Bennet gave a mock-sigh of resignation. “Goodnight, Mr. Bingley. Mind the cat on your way out.”

Bingley paused at the door with a last grin. “Thank you, sir. I shall tread carefully.”

When the door shut behind him, the room fell into an oddly contented hush.

Elizabeth found herself smiling into the quiet, one hand absently stroking Sophocles’s now-vacant chair.