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Fitzwilliam Darcy had been a guest at Netherfield Park for only a fraction of the time originally planned, and he was already starting to ponder how soon he could reasonably depart without doing lasting damage to his friendship with Bingley. He had to admit to himself that his relentless dissatisfaction had much more to do with his own worries than anything else; one country society was very like another, after all, and it wasn’t as though he was eager to put himself back into the grips of society in Town. Indeed, at any other time he should have been able to face the visit with equanimity, but Georgiana’s narrow escape—the bitterness of his failure to protect her, the anxiety of the lingering threat of exposure and disgrace, the pain of seeing her bowed under such misery—poisoned all he did. He knew that he was more than usually short-tempered and suspicious, ready to put the worst possible interpretation on any action or word. Even things that he used to view with neutrality or even mild enjoyment now grated on his nerves.
Such as, for instance, the music with which Bingley’s sisters had promised to entertain the party after dinner.
It was not that the ladies were not fine performers—they were every bit as accomplished as their exclusive seminary education had promised their father—but there was something uncomfortable about them lately, when they were all in company. Darcy had been accustomed to regarding them as unexceptional company; they were pleasant enough and elegant enough, could preside at tea and keep conversation going well enough, all the traits that one expected ladies to own. Miss Bingley in particular could be rather entertaining and witty, though at times a bit overly harsh in her opinions and a trifle too impressed with her own standing, but since coming to Hertfordshire she had grown downright shrewish towards Bingley’s neighbors, and her own attentions to himself had started to be disconcertingly pointed.
Surely, he thought, she could not seriously think of attaching him for herself; they would never suit, for one thing, and his family would be outraged if he even considered making such a connection. They were skeptical enough of his friendship with Bingley! But Miss Bingley did seem to be very protective of her status, as those seeking to rise in society often were; perhaps she thought she was protecting Darcy somehow.
He snorted. As though he was in need of such a service! He could very well protect himself from inappropriate connections. A man could enjoy a bit of lively conversation and a pair of vibrant eyes without instantly deciding to throw over all sense and prudence and declaring himself, for Heaven’s sake.
“Come along, Darcy,” Bingley said. “Finish your port and let’s rejoin the ladies. Caroline was most anxious to play this evening; she’ll never let me hear the end of it if I let you linger here half the night.”
“May as well get it over with,” Hurst said, from over his third glass. “Putting it off just prolongs the dread.”
Darcy finished the last swallow, trying to look as though he hadn’t been delaying on purpose. “Lead on, then,” he said, and followed Bingley out into the corridor.
He was greeted with a loud, joyful bark, the sound of nails scrabbling on the floor, and a soft, bitten-off exclamation as his dog rushed down the corridor toward him, dragging what looked like a young boot-boy along with him on the end of his lead.
“Pot!” he said. “Heel.”
The dog slid to a stop, his gangly long legs tangling up beneath him and nearly tripping the boy. His mouth parted in an eager grin, tongue lolling out as he looked up at Darcy with pleading eyes.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” the boy cried. “Only ‘e surprised me, and ‘e’s awful strong, and—”
“Yes, no matter,” Darcy said. “Billy, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Darcy sir, I’m awful sorry.”
“He’s a bit much for someone your size,” Darcy said kindly. “He’s still quite young, despite how big he is, and I’m afraid he’s not as well-trained yet as I should like, but he’s very good protection on the road.”
Billy’s eyes shifted from Darcy’s face to the dog’s tail, wagging so frantically that his entire hindquarters swayed to and fro. His face expressed some doubt as to Darcy’s assertion, but he only said “Yes, sir.”
Darcy fought off a smile, knowing that a great deal of said protection came from the dog’s prodigious size and deep bark—and the fact that the town-bred Bingleys tended to be nervous around any dog larger than a spaniel, and thus Pot’s presence prevented him from having to suffer the company of Bingley’s sisters going to and from Town.
“Here, let me have him,” Darcy said, taking the lead from Billy. “He can stay with me this evening.”
The boy relinquished his charge with obvious relief, and Darcy accepted it with scarcely less; Miss Bingley, he knew, would not want to risk dog hairs accumulating on her silk skirts, and thus he could exercise a bit less caution in choosing his seat than he normally must.
Pot fell into step with him eagerly, every line of his body exuding joy. He was a product of the Matlock kennels, a handsome black and white spotted German boarhound with startling blue eyes, and he’d been a gift to Darcy from his uncle the year before. Unfortunately for his intended glorious future as a leading light in the Pemberley hunting pack, the puppy had shown much more interest in hunting down belly-scratches than wild game. His entire youth had been filled with various scrapes and mishaps; he was the first dog to chase—and then be chased by—the geese on the lake; he had slipped away from the kennels and upset a tub of clean laundry being taken out to dry; he’d thought the lavishly plumed bonnet of one of Darcy’s neighbors was prey to chase when a gust of wind had carried it away during a visit. (Though to be honest, Darcy didn’t mind at all that the Misses Hardy were too affronted to return to Pemberley any time soon; their ambitions in his direction had become rather troublesome of late.)
To cap off his foibles, he completely refused to answer to his proper name (Apollo), only responding to what Darcy’s irascible kennelmaster had called him for the entirety of his puppyhood: Barmpot. Or, well, “ye daft wee barmpot,” if Darcy’s memory served.
He’d also become deeply attached to Darcy, and showed a regrettable tendency to go off his food and pine if he did not see him regularly, which had led to Darcy deciding to give him a trial as a travel companion.
Pot nudged his massive head up under Darcy’s hand, and Darcy sighed and ruffled his ears. There were worse things for a dog to be, he thought, than loyal and loving and a bit daft.
He settled himself in an armchair near the fire. Pot immediately sat on his feet and leaned his considerable weight against Darcy’s knees, his tail thumping on the floor.
Miss Bingley sniffed. “My goodness,” she said. “Are we to bring the cart horses into the drawing room next, Mr. Darcy?”
“You flatter my loyal hound, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, deliberately misreading her intentions. “I fear he is not nearly such a great size.”
Pot propped his chin on Darcy’s knee and looked up at him with limpid eyes until Darcy started stroking his ears again.
“Good lad,” Darcy said softly, ignoring the indignant huffs as Miss Bingley and her sister flounced to the pianoforte in a cloud of feathers and pique.
As befit a guest, he bestirred himself to watch with polite attention as Mrs. Hurst played a pleasant tune by Haydn. Miss Bingley, who was to follow, made a show of turning over the music sheets until all eyes were fixed upon her.
“It is a very great honor to perform for such honored guests,” she said. Darcy wondered idly if she were including Barmpot in her count, or if it was just too awkward to speak of an honored guest in the singular. “I flatter myself that I possess the ability to select pieces that are well suited to their audience.”
He felt a twinge of trepidation.
She seated herself with much rustling of silk and began to play. Upon the first chords, Pot stiffened and sat up straight, his ears pricking forward in attention, and Darcy felt a flood of dread sweep over him.
The song in question was an Italian love song, currently en vogue in town, but rather saccharine and clichéd. Georgiana had been set this song by her music master, and, having found it mawkish and trite, had made a joke of playing it in the most affected way possible. It had become a game: something she did to make Darcy laugh. A game she had encouraged Darcy’s dog to join in.
Miss Bingley drew a deep breath, met Darcy’s eyes intensely, and began to sing in a well-trained, fluting soprano.
Barmpot threw back his massive head and joined in with a piercing howl.
(“Sing with me, Barmpot,” Georgiana would giggle, adjusting one of Darcy’s old cravats around the dog’s neck. “Let’s give Brother a concert!”)
Miss Bingley tried to persist for a few bars, then floundered to a stop with a few discordant notes, rising from the pianoforte in high dudgeon. Barmpot, eagerly awaiting the praise and tidbits that Georgiana would award him for his trick, bounded across the room towards her, lead trailing behind him like a pennant, his tail lashing frantically and knocking a china shepherdess and a gilt snuffbox off an occasional table.
Darcy winced, but could not trust himself not to burst out laughing if he opened his mouth to try to call off his dog. He could feel the mirth rising in his throat at the scene: Bingley and the Hursts looking on in shock, Miss Bingley appalled, the dog bright-eyed and eager at his successful performance.
Barmpot set his front paws—as big as plates—on the pianoforte bench, putting him eye-to-eye with Miss Bingley. Darcy froze in horror for a second before lunging to his feet.
“Pot, no!” he cried, but too late, for Barmpot, overjoyed at the resumption of a favorite game, had already begun bestowing enthusiastic kisses on his unwilling accomplice.
Miss Bingley shrieked, flailed, staggered backwards, and tripped onto a chaise, her feathered bandeau falling down over one ear. Barmpot woofed in concern and made to investigate; Darcy, having crossed the room in a few desperate strides, managed to grab the trailing end of his lead and prevent him from applying any more canine ministrations.
“I sincerely beg your pardon, Miss Bingley,” he said, his voice tight. “The fault is entirely mine. I shall see to him immediately.”
“Take it away!” Miss Bingley wailed from the chaise, and Darcy wasted no time in doing so. He spirited Pot upstairs to his dressing-room, whereupon, it must be admitted, he buried his face in the dog’s neck and laughed until tears stood in his eyes.
The next morning, a red-faced Bingley gave him to understand that it would be considered a great favor if perhaps Barmpot might be housed in the stables for the remainder of his sojourn at Netherfield, and Darcy agreed, making his apologies again: though secretly he did feel rather sorry for Barmpot, who had after all only been acting in the way that Georgiana had encouraged him to do at home, and had not meant any harm. It was Darcy’s own fault for not keeping better hold of him.
Still, he was quite a large dog, for all his youth, and certainly his manners were more affectionate than polite.
Darcy would never want to frighten or offend a lady, but he couldn’t help feeling that perhaps it was just as well that the evening had turned out so. Miss Bingley had appeared determined to sing the entire love song while staring him straight in the eye; what was a man supposed to do in such a situation? It was unthinkable to be rude, but equally unthinkable to encourage her. Barmpot had really saved him from having to make a very unpleasant choice. And the resulting fracas had made it even more clear that he should take care not to encourage Miss Bingley’s designs upon his person, if she indeed still had any.
After all, he thought, he could never consider marrying a woman who did not get on with his dog.