Mister Darcy's Dogs

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Caroline would never strap a fox to her chest,” Bingley said.

  “Of course not!” I pushed a wisp of hair from my eyes. Obviously toffs did not possess a sense of silly.

  I felt Darcy’s eyes on me. His look one of bemusement tinged with superiority.

  Chapter 9

  Two hours later Jane, Darcy, Bingley and I tumbled into the cottage, dirty, thirsty, and exhausted. Derby and Squire collapsed like deflated balloon dogs on either side of the front door.

  Being a brilliant dog psychologist, I understood they preferred the watchdog job to hunting Gucci scarfs. They needed to complain to their master. I petted their warm heads, snapped my fingers, and lead them into the kitchen to the whippets’ water bowl.

  The whippets were all over the bassets, smelling and questioning. I could feel the animal telepathy as the Derby and Squire communicated their adventure. The evil female eluded us. She’s out there somewhere. We’ll get her.

  Where was Caroline? I stood at the sink and pulled aside the white organdy curtains. The Maybach was still parked in the drive. I could see two silhouettes in the car. The chauffeur was in the driver’s seat. The pencil-thin shape in the back seat must be Caroline.

  I poured four large glasses of chilled water, passed one to Jane, and was handing another to Darcy when Lydia jumped in my face. “Don’t say no until you hear me out,” she said.

  Squinting a shut-up-dear look, I passed a glass to Bingley and gulped down my water. Next time I would be prepared for hunt training. I should have thought to bring water. Horses would have been a nice touch. This was all so new to me.

  Lydia positioned herself to block my exit from the kitchen. “We want to meet Georgiana in London tomorrow and do a little shopping.” She spoke quickly, trying to bury my objections in an onslaught of words. Lydia possessed a voice born to annoy. High-pitched and scratchy like nails on a blackboard.

  “Where did this idea come from?” I edged past her and followed Darcy into the parlor. Bingley and Jane were seated on the sofa within touching range. Jane sneaked a look at him. He caught her and smiled. My older sister would make a good wife and companion for a man like Bingley. His actions over the last two days had shown him to be a caring man, although he came with some god-awful baggage, Caroline Bingley.

  Georgiana and Kitty occupied the armchairs. Neither girl offered to give up her seat; that left the loveseat for Darcy and me to share. It would have been a tight squeeze.

  “Do take the loveseat,” I said to Mister Darcy.

  We started that polite thing, neither of us taking the seat, and each offering and reoffering the seat. It became a parody of British manners.

  “Mister Darcy, you are in my home. Please be seated.”

  “Our manners may have lessened in society, but I refuse to take a seat when a lady is standing!” Darcy said, taking my politeness as a personal affront. He stood between the loveseat and the fireplace, from the stubborn look on his face it was apparent he was not about to be moved.

  I sat on the loveseat with a sigh of resignation.

  Lydia began again to hammer on about taking Kitty and Georgiana on a shopping jaunt to London. She whinged on and on to wear down my resistance. Once she gets an idea lodged in her curly head she becomes a tenacious terrier. I contemplated the pleasure of duct-tapping her mouth shut.

  The anger left Darcy’s face, replaced by a subtle conciliatory smile directed at me.

  Lydia caught the smile thing and refocused her energies on Darcy. “Georgiana wants to visit Sloane Square. Kitty and I could show her a lovely time. And we’d be very careful of strangers.”

  Will Darcy possessed a frown that would put off the most aggressive appellant. But Lydia, bless her heart, cannot read people. She wants what she wants when she wants it.

  She turned back to me. “Both Kitty and I have our birthday money from Uncle Edward. You did promise to take us shopping. We chatted with Miss Caroline and she offered to chaperone us. We’ve already made plans to meet her in Sloane Square, tomorrow.” She put her hands on her skinny hips and stuck out her lower lip in a pout.

  “You will do no such thing!” Darcy’s anger swept the room in one icy glare as if a conspiracy was afoot. He warned me not to extend invitations to Georgiana, and now my sister had gone and done it. The air fairly sizzled with his fury. Where did that conciliatory smile go?

  You could have heard a dollop of clotted cream drop. No one spoke.

  Georgiana kept her eyes trained on her brother. The man may have built a stone wall around his heart but his little sister had the scaling ladder. I watched, fascinated, as she kept two tears from overrunning her lower lashes. Neat trick.

  Darcy’s expression softened. “Georgiana, I cannot accompany you tomorrow as we have the dogs to train. The hunt is the following day. Why can’t this shopping spree wait until next week?”

  Lydia advanced on Darcy, hands still on her hips. “Because we made plans with Miss Caroline for tomorrow.” As an afterthought she threw in the Diana exhibit closing at the end of the day… like she really cared for something that she couldn’t buy.

  Darcy, clearly not a man easily cornered, held his temper as Lydia continued to act the brat.

  Georgiana entered the pleading. “Will, you never let me do anything, not since… well, you know. I am eighteen years old. I made one mistake, and you’ll have me pay for it until I’m ninety and using a Zimmer frame.”

  A smile played on Darcy’s lips. “Once you have passed age sixty-four, you can feel free to gad about without supervision.”

  Georgiana thumped the armrest on her chair and turned her head.

  “I could chaperone,” Bingley said. “Perhaps Jane would join me? Three adults should be a sufficient number of chaperones for three teenage girls.”

  Darcy wrung his face with his right hand, still holding the water glass in his left. It appeared he was weakening. “I don’t want distractions while we are training the dogs. I will worry continuously.”

  A brilliant plan leapt into my mind. “We’ll only need a half day of field work, based on your plans for the hunt. What say we take the dogs to the field in the morning and join the girls on their shopping trip in the afternoon?”

  Darcy considered my suggestion and nodded. “So be it. I will see you in the morning. Georgiana come along.”

  Lydia held the door open, clearly pleased with her nagging skills. I peeked over her head for a sign of Wickham or his car. Gone, thank goodness.

  “Thank you for your time.” Darcy took my hand. For a moment I thought he might kiss it. He dared not be so bold. I wondered what his lips would feel like against my skin. Were they soft, hard, chapped, perfect?

  He shook my hand. His touch was not that of a criminal, but then to the best of my knowledge, I’d not shaken a villain’s hand before. Tomorrow could be very telling.

  Bingley tore himself away from Jane. They parted reluctantly.

  Once the Maybach pulled from the drive, I urged Jane to the kitchen and closed the door. It was time she knew of George Wickham.

  Chapter 10

  Jane stared at me, struggling to understand the story of the spy in the shrubbery. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The concern on her face caused me a stab of guilt. “What if George Wickham truly is with Interpol? Will Darcy is an extraordinarily rich man. That much money rarely comes from legal enterprises.”

  “Lizzie, you sound like Father. Not all fortunes are derived through corruption. You must get over your prejudice.”

  “You didn’t see his flat. He has an indoor waterfall and a dog park and–”

  “If you truly think he’s a criminal, don’t continue to train his dogs.”

  “My instincts tell me he’s a good man. My prejudices scream otherwise.”

  Jane’s mouth opened in mock dismay. “So we left the girls alone in the cottage with a man hiding nearby in the bushes? What if they had found him? The poor man!”

  I laughed. My sister’s sword of sar
casm was almost as sharp as mine.

  She turned from me, stepped to the refrigerator, and took out a paper wrapped package of codfish. “Well, you’d best decide how to play this hand, morning will come soon enough. And you’re to spend the entire day with Darcy.” She smiled.

  “You are not fooling me, dear. That grin on your face is for Bingley. You’ll be co-chaperone for an entire day tomorrow. I really am very happy for you.”

  Jane breaded and fried the fish. I took up the potato masher with a vengeance and beat the vegetables to a creamy pulp. Adding pats of butter for eyes and nose, I pretended the face was Caroline and smooshed her hoity-toity expression.

  I barely ate my dinner, moving the fish and mashed potatoes around my plate in tiny swirls. Mister Darcy was on my mind. George Wickham, too.

  Kitty and Lydia handled after-dinner cleanup, their whispers more irritating than their magpie chatter. Something was in the wind with those two, but I couldn’t quite catch it.

  I fed the house whippets and then stepped outside to feed the greyhounds. Once the greys were done eating, weather permitting, I would let them run two at a time in the backyard. They had paired off early, bonding into couples. Did nature or nurture dictate coupling?

  Each set played dog tag, running around me as I leaned against the willow tree. Almost a century ago, lovers carved a set of initials surrounded by a lopsided heart in the trunk of the tree. I wondered if they remained in love, remained a couple. Enough, Lizzie. Time for a quick wash and then bed.

  The water pressure in the cottage was notoriously low. I wrestled with the handheld showerhead that stubbornly bent in the opposite direction, spraying me in the face. I felt like Alice with the flamingo, playing croquet in the Queen’s garden. No matter which way I turned, the showerhead twisted in the opposite direction. The more I tried to relax, the more I tightened into a coiled spring. I was exhausted by the time I climbed out of the tub.

  Sleep did not come until after midnight, bringing with it a horrible nightmare.

  I dreamt that Wickham, in hot pursuit of Darcy, followed him into a dark tunnel. Paddington Station. Wickham crept silently behind his prey with the intent of pushing him onto the tracks.

  I watched in horror but could not scream out. At the very last minute, Darcy threw a climbing hook into the air. It lodged somewhere in the beams. Hand-over- hand, he went up the rope. He looked down at me with the most hurtful expression. No words were spoken but I knew he was disappointed in me. I woke at the sound of a train rumbling into the station.

  The noise was my alarm. I popped it off and performed a cat-stretch. Darcy would be here by ten, with Bingley coming in a separate car to pick up the girls. It would be easy to become spoiled by all this chauffeuring. No trains, no tubes. Tubes! I shuddered recalling the dream. Had I let Mister Darcy down by not informing on Wickham? I had just enough time to run a Google search before the others awoke.

  Wrapped in my pale yellow robe, I pinned my hair in a clip, donned my slippers, and headed down to the sitting room. The computer sat on a small desk behind an antique screen, hidden from view. The rarely used gadget took a bit to wake up. I wondered if the computer needed a cuppa.

  I entered Darcy’s name in the search engine. Nothing. Not one reference. Surely a man with his obvious wealth left a footprint? I tried variations on his first name – Will, William, Fitzwilliam, and just plain Darcy. I cringed when it occurred to me he might use a service that informed him of snoopers who Googled his name.

  Once the search cleared, I entered “George Wickham.” Again there were no records. Did a negative prove a positive? Did this confirm Wickham’s claim of a secret investigation? Not wishing to waste another minute, I cleared the search and shut down. Just in time. Lydia and Kitty came bounding down the stairs, their high-pitched voices sounding like un-tuned violins.

  I thought it wise to sit in silence for a moment and listen. They were unaware of my presence. By nature I am not a snoop but Lydia required a third eye to govern her lack of common sense.

  “She is so lucky to find such a romantic beau. So handsome! So worldly!” Lydia chirped.

  Kitty cut in, breathless. “I’m too excited to eat breakfast. Perhaps a slice of toast with my tea will be okay.”

  “I would happily take him from her in a heartbeat!” Lydia said, lifting the whistling kettle from the stove.

  I stood at the kitchen door. When they went into hyper excitation I had to listen carefully as one word ran into the next. They might as well have been chattering in Pig Latin. Lydia’s face flushed as I stepped into the room.

  “Who’s romantic?” I asked.

  “No one!” she snapped, clattering the kettle back on the stove. “I mean, the hero in a novel we’re reading.”

  I gave her the squint-eye. “Is there some mischief afoot?”

  “You are way too suspicious, Lizzie. You must learn to be more trusting.”

  Chapter 11

  After a quick splash-dip shower and a vigorous toweling, I donned my grannie undies, cargo pants, and a lightweight cable pullover. My hair held back in a clip wasn’t quite right. The part of me that didn’t believe Darcy was an international criminal wanted to look girly. I yanked the clip out of my hair and let my curls fall wildly to my shoulders. A touch of lip gloss, a pinch of my cheeks and I was ready to go hunting.

  I dashed down the stairs, tripping over the hungry whippets and sliding over the last three stairs on my bum. Scrambling to my feet, I reassured the hounds they would be fed immediately. Dogs, like men, need constant reassurance. I patted their heads. Yes, I remember you from last night. Yes, I know what you expect. Yes, it’s coming.

  Two bowls of dry kibble disappeared in a blink. Duly fed and patted, I let the whippets out the kitchen door. They zeroed in on the fenced greyhounds to share their morning gossip. I wondered how much had happened in dog world while I struggled through my nightmare. It sounded as if it had been an exciting night. Sorry I missed it. I pulled on my Wellingtons and filled two buckets of dry dog food.

  Balancing the pails, I let myself into the greyhound runs. The trick of it was to not be overrun by my enthusiastic wards.

  The greys had just finished gobbling their food when the Maybach pulled into the drive and came to a crunchy stop on the gravel. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the passenger door.

  Bingley alighted and handed Georgiana to the edge of the seat. She slid out, enthusiastically waving at me, her smile lighting up the misty morning. She wore a white tea-length linen dress, white shoes, and a cream-colored wide-brim hat.

  Georgiana was followed from the car by two slender legs encased in designer shoes with Caroline Bingley attached. The greyhounds barked and the legs quickly withdrew to the safety of the car.

  An oversized Range Rover rolled onto the drive, crunching the stones with its big mud-eating tires. Darcy’s chocolate brown eyes were visible behind the steering wheel. He pulled the vehicle to the right of the Maybach.

  The driver’s side window was open. Derby and Squire hung over his shoulder, their floppy ears dangling in the air. Darcy’s shoulder glistened in drool as he stepped from the Rover. I’d forgotten how tall he was and how rather good looking for a total jerk. A funny little tingle ran up my spine like fingers on piano keys. I shivered. I searched the bushes for signs of the man from Interpol.

  Darcy lifted the bassets to the ground one at a time. I was surprised they weren’t riding in car seats or at the least wearing doggie Wellies. With two deep woofs of thanks, they shook themselves then loped to the greyhound fences and joined the barking party.

  Lydia and Kitty were out the cottage door in a sprint. They wore dresses in a soft shade of pink and, at a distance, appeared to be two noisy blossoms as their shrill voices cut the air. They ran full speed and slammed into Georgiana in a group hug that involved jumping up and down and laughing as if they hadn’t seen each other in eons.

  Humiliated by their unladylike behavior, I cut my eyes to Darcy. He glared at the trio. I
worried for Jane and Bingley. Keeping Georgiana safe but happy would be like walking on thin ice.

  Darcy’s sister did look the part of a princess in her white ensemble. Lydia and Kitty in their pink cotton frocks could almost be her bridesmaids. Chilling fingers of premonition tickled my spine.

  I felt eyes peeling the skin from my face and snuck a glance at the Maybach. Caroline Bingley sat giraffe-necked, sending angry glares my way. Poor dear, as much as she wanted to insert herself in my day with Darcy, she couldn’t bear the dogs. How ever was she chosen to cover a foxhunt with her fear of dogs? She’d have been much happier at Ascot doing a running commentary on the outrageous hats while sipping tea with Lady-What’s-Her-Face.

  Caroline’s predatory behavior toward Mister Darcy made it clear she was not concerned with reporting the hunting habits of the upper-crust. That bird was in hot pursuit of a rich husband preferably one that looked like Will Darcy.

  Georgiana returned to her seat in the car. Lydia and Kitty zipped into the Maybach without so much as a goodbye hug. Poof! They were hidden from sight. I waggled my finger, calling them out of the car.

  Expelling exaggerated breaths in typical teen annoyance, my sisters stepped out, heads down.

  Darcy stood at my side, his arms crossed against his chest. I wondered what it felt like to be held by those arms. I must stop doing that dreamy thing. It was pointless as the man was clearly an uber-elitist snob with chocolate eyes and interesting lips.

  Hands on my hips, I confronted my sisters. “Look up at me,” I said.

  Kitty raised her head. I gasped.

  Lydia slowly lifted her noddle. It wasn’t the defiance in her eyes that sent the hairs on my neck dancing since she could barely open them for the eye-goo, her lashes stuck together. The red circles on her cheeks resembled smack-spots.

  Darcy gagged. Bingley gawked. Jane groaned.

  My sisters looked like tots who’d gotten in their mum’s makeup or just plain tarts. There were times when I was sure Lydia had been left on our doorstep in a basket, the progeny of some wayward vaudeville queen.