Page 6 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Collins beamed on, oblivious. “Indeed, she has praised his estate at Pemberley as one of the finest in all England. The grounds are said to be most extensive. The house itself is built of stone of excellent quality. And he, I am told, is a man of strict morals and great dignity—a model for all young men of fortune.”

“Truly, I am overwhelmed,” Elizabeth said dryly, resting her chin in her hand with deliberate unconcern.

Kitty gave an exaggerated wrinkle of her nose. “He sounds dreadfully stiff.”

With an airy sniff, Lydia tossed her head. “Strict morals. How tiresome.”

Jane only frowned slightly, unwilling to contradict them but clearly uneasy with the tone.

Mr. Bennet leaned back, studying his cousin with amused detachment. “I see you are already quite the authority, Mr. Collins.”

Collins puffed up a little. “Only what I have gathered from Lady Catherine herself. I think it important for young ladies to know the worth of such a gentleman, even at second-hand.”

Mrs. Bennet, however, seemed to have heard only one thing. She clasped her hands fervently. “Ten thousand a year, did you say? My dears, you must all be agreeable and civil when he calls. Do not drive him off with your giggling. Ten thousand a year!”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane and sighed.

Elizabeth could not help smiling. “Mr. Darcy sounds...interesting.”

Mr. Bennet raised one eyebrow at her. “Interesting, yes. And well worth your best curtsey should he visit. Though you may have to endure some silence in the bargain.”

The discussion had nearly made them forget dinner altogether.

But catching the hungry, expectant look on Mr. Collins’s face, Mr. Bennet delivered the final judgment with dry relish.

“Well then. Let us hope he appreciates sincerity over simpering. Or we shall be ruined before we begin. Now, let’s eat, please. ”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched in spite of herself, and even Jane smiled.

Meanwhile, Sophocles, roused from his doze under the table, stretched luxuriously and turned his back on the whole discussion—offering his own unbending verdict on the matter.

***

Mrs. Bennet could not sleep. It was quite impossible.

She tossed and turned like a general uncertain of how best to place his troops before a crucial battle. For truly, what was a mother of five unmarried daughters if not a field commander, charged with strategy, vigilance, and an utter refusal to leave anything to chance?

Normally she prided herself on knowing precisely how to receive a guest—especially if he might be a potential suitor. One, she could manage with ease. Two, she told herself sternly, should still be child's play. Why, she could handle a dozen if need be!

After all, Mr. Bennet was steady and predictable enough; the girls were usually obedient when properly directed; even the servants responded crisply to Mrs. Hill’s authority.

No—the real difficulty was Mr. Collins. It would be easier, she thought grimly, to arrange a battery of cannons on the lawn than to control him in front of the visitors.

She made up her mind in the darkness, and with sudden resolve, gave her husband a sharp shake.

“Mr. Bennet! Wake up. We have a problem.”

From beside her came a muffled, disgruntled sound as Mr. Bennet turned over. “What is it now, woman? Is the house on fire?”

She sniffed. “Worse. Cousin Collins!”

There was a pause. He sighed. “You’ve had a nightmare. Drink a glass of water and go back to sleep.”

“Nonsense. I haven’t closed my eyes all night. He is a problem, and you must solve it.”

“Me? Now? At this hour? Even the glow-worms are asleep, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Listen carefully. Tomorrow Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are calling. Correct?”

“Yes, yes. So what do these young gentlemen have to do with our cousin?”

“It is obvious! I will not have your cousin chasing off one suitor, let alone two.”

Mr. Bennet gave a dry chuckle in the dark. “He seemed eager enough to meet Darcy personally—”

“You see? Exactly! He will talk and talk, say heaven knows what—hint about choosing one of our girls—”

He yawned loudly. “You exaggerate, my dear. Better to keep Kitty and Lydia from giggling or batting their lashes at the guests. As for Mary, I shall caution her not to lecture them on morality or offer scripture.”

Mrs. Bennet slapped the coverlet in frustration. “That will not do. We must be rid of Collins. And of that wretched cat.”

There was a moment of silence as Mr. Bennet considered this.

Finally, he spoke with mild amusement. “Very well. After breakfast, I’ll suggest our cousin take Mary, Kitty and Lydia to visit the Philipses in Meryton. As for Elizabeth, I shall ask her to confine Sophocles in his box until the gentlemen have departed. Does that suit?”

Mrs. Bennet let out a deep sigh of relief. “Perfect, Mr. Bennet. I knew I could rely on you.”

He gave a drowsy grunt. “Glad to oblige, my dear. Now go to sleep and dream of triumph.”

She did precisely that—falling into slumber within moments. And in her dreams there were endless balls, her daughters courted by eager suitors, and—most satisfyingly of all—a grand coach carrying Mr. Collins far, far away . To the Indies, rather.

***

The second day at noon, following the proper exchange of notes—Mr. Bingley having sent a short, courteous message announcing his wish to pay his respects, and Mr. Bennet replying with equal civility to confirm the hour—saw Netherfield’s new master and his friend Mr. Darcy arrive at Longbourn for their first formal visit of courtesy.

The Bennet household was in a mild but determined flutter by noon.

Mrs. Bennet could not possibly forgo the best opportunity she had seen in years: the chance to inspect and evaluate two potential suitors at once.

She would not have missed it for the finest jewel in the world.

Or probably not. Never mind— practicality must prevail.

By the time the chaise of four carriage rolled up to Longbourn’s modest gravel sweep, the best hall rug had been shaken, the silver tea service laid out, and Mrs. Bennet was peering anxiously from behind the parlour curtain.

When Hill showed the gentlemen in, she was standing primly by the door, all gracious smiles.

“Mr. Bingley! How very glad we are to see you at last. And your friend, Mr. Darcy, is it? Welcome, sir, to Hertfordshire.”

Bingley bowed with unstudied warmth. “You are very kind, madam. We are most obliged by your welcome.”

Darcy inclined his head politely. “Madam.”

Mrs. Bennet fluttered her hand as if bestowing benediction. “You are both very welcome indeed. Pray make yourselves at home. Hill—tea at once!” She beamed at them, practically vibrating with restrained triumph.

Mr. Bennet’s dry voice interjected from the hallway. “If you gentlemen will pardon us a moment, I hope you will do me the honour of joining me in the study. We like to observe some old-fashioned courtesies here.”

“Delighted!” Bingley cried, clearly eager.

Darcy gave another small bow. “As you wish, sir.”

Mrs. Bennet made a tiny, defeated sound but managed to say, “Yes—yes, of course! I shall just…see about the cake. I do insist on bringing you a slice myself before you go.”

With that promise she swept away, no doubt to issue frenzied orders in the kitchen.

***

The study was a comfortably cluttered room lined with books and crammed with well-worn, inviting chairs. Mr. Bennet gestured them both to seats.

Bingley settled in with boyish enthusiasm. “Such a charming house, Mr. Bennet! Really everything one could want in a country seat.”

Mr. Bennet arched a brow. “A generous opinion, sir. I only hope you will still think so when you see the west wing’s roof. An inconvenient nuisance that should be remedied next week when the builder comes—though it vexes me more than all the Meryton ball preparations combined.”

Bingley laughed. “I am sure it only adds character!”

Darcy’s mouth twitched, but he quickly mastered it before replying carefully, “It strikes me as a very comfortable house. One that has clearly been lived in, rather than merely displayed.”

Mr. Bennet regarded him with open amusement. “A discerning observation, sir. I always prefer visitors who know the difference.”

Bingley gave his knee an enthusiastic slap. “Hear, hear! There’s nothing worse than company who expects your drawing room to look like a museum.”

“Or insists on advising you on how to arrange your shelves,” Mr. Bennet added gravely, glancing at Darcy for any flicker of reaction .

A trace of real amusement softened Darcy’s eyes. “I shall refrain from offering architectural advice, sir.”

“Excellent,” Bennet declared, lifting his teacup in mock salute. “That will recommend you greatly to us all.”

They were still exchanging witticisms when Mrs. Bennet swept back in, bearing a plate with deliberate and ostentatious care. She could easily have sent Mrs. Hill or a maid, but then she would have missed the entire performance.

“I hope you will forgive me for intruding, gentlemen, but I simply could not allow you to leave without trying my special almond cake. It is an old, trusted—and quite secret—family recipe.”

Mr. Bingley’s face brightened with genuine delight. “Madam, it looks excellent!”

Mr. Darcy accepted his slice with measured, impeccable politeness. “Thank you. It is very good.”

Mrs. Bennet beamed at them both. “You are too kind, gentlemen!”

Bingley leaned forward eagerly. “I am so glad to have such neighbours. Unfortunately, etiquette insists we return to Netherfield before long.” He added with an apologetic laugh, “My sister could not accompany me today—she is still struggling to settle in and claims she slept dreadfully last night. She has no idea what she missed here; I am certain she would have been charmed, and even she could not complain about cake this good—even with her very discerning tastes.”