Page 12 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

"Add some apple juice to the crust. A few drops are sufficient. The scent carries much better than plain bread and the bird will be driven to investigate."

"And how did you come to know this?"

"The gardener at Pemberley keeps finches in the glasshouse. I have retrieved several from inconvenient locations."

There was a brief pause as she considered his statement and rose to her feet. She went back into the house, returning shortly after with a cup of apple juice. She dipped a piece of crust in, just as he advised. Then she extended the crust towards the lower branch and was still.

The bird tilted its head curiously.

Lydia opened her mouth to speak. Elizabeth, without glancing at her, raised one finger. Lydia’s mouth snapped shut.

The animal descended. It landed on the crust, pecked once, twice and stayed. Elizabeth moved with deliberate care that would not have disgraced a field naturalist and brought the crust in a slow, even arc toward the open cage door.

The bird, absorbed in its apple-scented bread, went along. Then the cage door was shut, the latch securely held.

Jane let out the breath she had been holding. "Oh, thank goodness."

Elizabeth rolled her shoulders, a look of pure satisfaction on her face. She seemed to recall his presence and turned to him almost begrudgingly.

"Thank you."

The words were delivered with some consideration for proper manners. Yet he found this more pleasing than an effusive show of appreciation would have been.

"It was nothing."

"Your advice was helpful and timely and I will not pretend otherwise."

The other Bennet sisters offered their thanks as well, Lydia doing so with a look of appraisal while Jane’s appreciation was made with clear sincerity.

If they were curious about why he was present in their townhouse, none of them showed it. It was the Season, after all, and house invitations and visits were common.

Darcy turned back towards the house, but he did not go in immediately. He stood at the doorway with a feeling of purposelessness whose origins he could not name. And he was aware, endlessly, of Elizabeth Bennet’s presence behind him. To say she intrigued him was an understatement.

He had been resolved to dismiss her from their first meeting, especially when it became obvious that she didn't hold him in much regard. He often succeeded in this until they crossed paths and he found himself blurting one or more curious questions to her.

Even now, in their brief encounter, he had noticed little details about her that were better kept in his head. Such information included the refined ways her hair curled along her back and the bright rosiness in her cheeks. She was like an art piece he couldn't stop cataloguing or asking leading questions about.

The reason for such interest in an ordinary young lady was something that circled around over and over.

Most people, in his experience, were legible with enough attention: their social habits, modes of self-presentation and methods of deflection all devolved, given time and observation, into a recognisable pattern. And the pattern, once established, did not require further examination. He was, by nature, a man who found other people exhaustible.

But Elizabeth Bennet was not resolving into a pattern. She deflected his questions with practised ease, and then crouched on a gravel path with breadcrumbs, entirely unconcerned with how she looked while doing it. She was sharp and patient. She accepted his advice only when she had assessed it as sound, with a pragmatism that outweighed her personal feelings about him.

He could not place her. He had tried, and she did not stay placed, and he was irritated by this because it resisted the approach he habitually applied to people.

But the part he found least convenient was the realisation that he was also intrigued by that.

When he returned to the drawing room, the conversation had progressed to the topic of the Italian versus German opera. Mrs Bingley was expressing her views in a tone of authority and Mrs Bennet concurred, occasionally offering embellishments.

Darcy resumed his sitting and contributed nothing. Through the window, he could see out into the garden, which was empty. The sisters had likely gone in as well, to attend to their respective interests.

He wondered what Elizabeth in particular was doing at the moment. Was she still concerned about the bird? Or was she reading, which he’d once overheard her declare as a hobby?

Mrs Bingley’s laughter rang out, a piercing sound, ushering him out of his thoughts back to the present.

Chapter Six

Darcy