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It was a profound injustice that Elizabeth had reached the age of one-and-twenty without ever having kept a puppy.
Great country houses were supposed to be teeming with dogs. One could scarcely read a novel without encountering a gentleman flanked by loyal hounds or a lady with a toy spaniel curled upon her lap. Yet Longbourn, despite its many charms, had remained tragically bereft of canine companionship.
Elizabeth still remembered the day she, at the hopeful age of ten, had first petitioned for a dog.
“Consider the advantages, Papa. You are always declaring yourself surrounded by women,” she pointed out cleverly. “A male pup would offer you loyal gentlemanly company, and at none of the expense of sending a son to university.”
Her mother’s eyes sparked with immediate interest. “Why, Mr. Bennet!” she cried. “The papers only say an ‘heir male’, do they not? Do not people leave fortunes to parrots? If we take in a male dog and you give him the Bennet name, could he not break that wicked entail?”
Her father did not bother to look up from his book. “I fear the law is frustratingly strict, my dear. Only a legitimate human son will do.”
Mrs. Bennet threw her hands up in the air. “No? Then why under heaven should I consider it? Five daughters is enough for my poor nerves without feeding a creature that tracks mud onto the floors, eats the good mutton, and still leaves us to be cast out into the hedgerows when you are gone!”
He turned another page. “I am much obliged to you for such an uncommonly sensible conclusion.”
Elizabeth, however, was not the type of girl to leave it at that. She resorted to her next stratagem: the deployment of her youngest sisters.
Lydia and Kitty were Mr. Bennet’s Achilles’ heel, because he possessed a mortal dread of noise. Knowing this, Elizabeth gathered her two youngest sisters, filled their heads with dreams, and sent them to her father’s library.
The scheme started off brilliantly. Her sisters threw themselves to the ground before Mr. Bennet, wailing in a fashion that would have put the London stage to shame. They wept, they stomped, they claimed they would absolutely die of broken hearts if they were not granted a puppy that very afternoon.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth was thwarted by two complications. First, her father simply locked the door and refused to emerge until supper. Second, her sisters’ canine dreams evaporated less than an hour later, the moment Mrs. Bennet mentioned new ribbons at the milliner’s shop.
There were several more similar attempts over the years, each met with equal lack of success.
And so, Elizabeth had grown up dog-less.
But things were different now. She was the mistress of Pemberley. She had an enormous estate, a household of her own, and, most importantly, a husband who was incapable of denying her anything she wished for.
Seated across from him now in the breakfast room, Elizabeth swirled her tea and studied her target. Darcy was methodically perusing The Morning Post, pausing only to mark a neat pencil line in the margin or take the occasional sip of his tea.
He liked things neat. He liked spotless floors. He liked his boots unchewed.
This promised to be a delightful challenge.
“Fitzwilliam,” she began innocently.
He lowered his paper. “Yes, my dearest?”
“I have a small proposition to lay before you.”
“I tremble to ask. Am I being consulted, or notified?”
“Do not be absurd.” She favored him with a smile, which he regarded with quizzical amusement. “I was recently considering the sheer extent of Pemberley. We possess several dozen rooms we scarcely set foot in, and acres of parkland practically begging for something to run across them.”
Now, as his brows knit in deepening suspicion, Elizabeth realized with chagrin that the words could have fallen straight from her mother’s lips.
She hurried on. “Do you not ever feel that it is just a little…empty?”
Darcy looked around the breakfast room. A footman stood at attention by the sideboard. Beyond the open doors, the corridors bustled with servants going about their duties. Just outside the windows, a small army of gardeners could be seen tending the grounds.
“‘Empty’ is not the first word that springs to mind, no,” he said cautiously.
“I mean to say, it lacks a certain…companionship. A presence to greet us at the door. Something small, fiercely loyal, and preferably with floppy ears.”
He stared at her.
“Elizabeth. Tell me you are not suggesting we acquire a dog.”
Provoking man. Why must he always see straight to the bottom of her schemes?
“Well, now you have quite spoiled my speech, sir. I was leading you there by very gentle increments.”
“Were you?” His lips twitched. “My apologies. Pray, do go on. Before you progressed to floppy ears, I believe you were taking an unusual interest in our rooms and acreage.”
“No, the game is up,” she said with a laugh. “I shall say it plainly. This house lacks for dogs.”
Darcy looked at her with a measured expression. “Elizabeth, this estate currently maintains thirty-seven dogs.”
“Thirty-seven? You have them catalogued?”
“Of course I have them catalogued,” he said, as if offended that she could imagine any animal on Pemberley lands existing unaccounted for. “There are twenty foxhounds in the kennels and two water spaniels for wildfowl at the lake. We also keep four pointers, two setters, and one mastiff.”
“Caesar should not count. He is closer to a bear than a dog.”
Darcy pressed on, warming to his point. “The shepherd employs four sheepdogs, the gamekeeper lodges two bloodhounds, and the granary is currently patrolled by two terriers. Pemberley is practically a kennel with a house attached. How can you possibly claim we lack for dogs?”
“Because not a single one of those is a companion. I could hardly invite one of the foxhounds into the drawing room to listen to me play the pianoforte, could I?”
Darcy blinked.
Slowly.
The silence that followed was that of his sensibilities grinding to a horrified halt.
“Listen to you…in the drawing room?” he repeated faintly.
“Naturally.”
“You wish to bring a dog…into the house?”
Each word was steeped in the scandalized outrage of generations of Darcys.
“Well, yes,” Elizabeth said, fighting a fit of laughter. “It would defeat the purpose entirely if I had to march through the mud out to the kennels every time I wished to pat its head.”
Her beloved husband continued to stare at her. Elizabeth was fairly certain that he — he, who had never previously troubled himself with the material finery of the estate — was now mentally tallying the threat to every curtain, carpet, and cushion within his domain.
“My love, you cannot be serious. I implore you to consider the realities of what you propose. A dog brings mud to the floors, sheds over the furniture, and possesses…” he paused in mild distaste, “…an unavoidable odor.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, shaking with silent laughter. “A scent which could easily be remedied by soap and water, you fastidious man, you.”
“And where, pray tell, would this creature sleep? In the scullery? On the back stairs?”
Elizabeth gave him her sweetest smile.
“I was thinking at the foot of my bed.”
Darcy’s teacup was already down, which was fortunate, for had he been holding it, it would have undoubtedly shattered upon the table.
“Your bed.” He said it distinctly, as though reciting his own epitaph.
“Well, certainly,” she said. “Have you no pity, Fitzwilliam? I could hardly leave such an innocent thing abandoned to the cold and dark floor.”
Darcy closed his eyes for a full eight seconds. He rubbed at his temples. When he opened them again, he leveled a look across the table that was meant to settle the matter for all eternity.
“Two centuries of Darcys have inhabited this house, madam, without once permitting a dog between their bed-curtains.”
“Then Pemberley is long overdue to embrace the modern age,” Elizabeth declared cheerfully. “One must keep pace with the times, Mr. Darcy. Which brings us to the crucial question: a pug, or a Pomeranian?”
“Neither,” said Darcy firmly.
Very, very firmly.
“We are not bringing a dog into this house.”
Elizabeth gave it two days.
On the third day, as she sat in her sitting room embroidering a handkerchief, the door opened and Darcy stepped inside. He had just returned from an errand toward Lambton, and his riding coat still carried with it the autumn chill.
He stood near the doorway, looking remarkably serious even as a tiny black nose nudged its way past his top button.
Elizabeth paused, set her needlework aside, and eyed him with curiosity. “Is something amiss?”
“Nothing is amiss,” he replied.
His coat sneezed.
As Elizabeth fought back a laugh, Darcy cleared his throat deliberately, refusing to acknowledge the incongruity.
“I have determined,” he pronounced with great dignity, “that if an irregularity is to be introduced to this house, it is best not left to your unpredictable devices.”
With that, he unbuttoned his coat and reached in.
Tucked securely against the front of his waistcoat was a creature absurdly small and preposterously scruffy. It was a fox terrier pup, with wiry pepper-and-cream fur and paws no larger than acorns.
Elizabeth let out a cry that was entirely unbefitting the mistress of a great estate — a high, undignified sound of delight.
“Oh!” she gasped, flying out of her chair. “Oh, Fitzwilliam! He is absolute perfection! Thank you!”
“Do not thank me,” Darcy grumbled instantly, though his hands lingered protectively as Elizabeth scooped the puppy into her arms. “He is a thoroughly impractical acquisition, Elizabeth. The runt of the litter. Look at him. He weighs less than a teacup.”
The pup yawned, a pink tongue curling, before nuzzling against Elizabeth’s chest. Elizabeth made another sound of adoration.
“I am in constant terror of stepping on him,” Darcy continued, in an aggrieved tone. “A single careless stride in riding boots and I might crush the thing entirely. He can have absolutely no useful function on an estate. None whatever. He is too small to hunt; a pheasant would laugh at him. He cannot even guard; he squeaked at my horse and then fell backward over his own tail.”
Before Darcy could say another word, Elizabeth rose on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
“You are the most wonderful man that ever lived,” she said, laughing. “Admit it — you adore me.”
Any pretense of exasperation Darcy had left dissolved entirely the moment her lips brushed his cheek. A tender smile softened his face.
“I have never denied it, Elizabeth,” he said, as his arms drew her closer. “Not for a single breath since the day you became mine.”
Two days later, as Elizabeth was passing Darcy’s study, she noticed the door had been left slightly ajar.
Never one to pass an open door without a touch of curiosity, she cast a quick glance inside. The room was quiet save for the scratching of a pen, her husband entirely immersed in his correspondence. Upon the desk, directly beside Darcy’s inkstand, a coat had been carefully folded into a makeshift nest. Curled within was the puppy, fast asleep, nose under his paws.
Darcy finished a line and set down his pen, his hand drifting over to stroke the velvety soft fur behind the puppy’s ear.
A contented sigh escaped the pup as he nestled deeper into the wool.
Warmth swept across Darcy’s features.
“You do not earn your keep in the slightest,” he said fondly to the ball of fur. “Occupying my desk all afternoon, contributing nothing…what am I to do with you, hmm?”
The puppy stirred, one paw nudging blindly against Darcy’s hand. Darcy adjusted the folds of his coat with care, gently tucking him back in.
From the doorway, Elizabeth watched him, charmed beyond words by the sight.
Of course he loved the little creature. Darcy might present a stern and impenetrable face to the world, but Elizabeth knew his heart was generous to a fault. To those he loved, he gave without reservation — and to his wife, he was wonderfully and hopelessly indulgent.
Smiling, she stole quietly away from the door.
She had spent her childhood envying the characters in novels who were never without dogs, but now, none of their stories could possibly rival her own.