“I regret we allowed our pretense to last three whole days, Darcy, and that our activity resulted in calamity.”

“While unfortunate, I would hardly categorize the loss of a hen-witted canary as a calamity; and it was your idea we wait that long before making an appearance.”

“Mrs. Long absolutely considers the loss of her fine-feathered friend calamitous, and it was certainly your idea we wait three days.”

“Bingley, I will not stand here debating these issues with you. I have a much, much more important matter to settle. Nevertheless, I fully intend to inquire as to where one might procure a canary. Where does one get hold of such a creature?”

“Perhaps you should ask Herne. Your faithful hunting dog simply fetches them as they fall from the sky.”

There are times I question why I have chosen to befriend Charles Bingley, and this is one of those times. Despite our easy camaraderie, we are definitely not birds of a feather; and the man has a well-hidden cruel streak.

Yesterday morning a very obliging grouse was perfectly lined up in the sights of my trusty Manton. It was game, unlike a certain canary. Mrs. Long’s ill-fated pet may have escaped its cage, but it could not escape the path of lead fired from a wildly flailing fowling-piece. How could one’s shot not swing wide when one’s so-called friend suddenly calls out, “Darcy! Is that not Elizabeth Bennet scampering about in yonder field?” Bah!

I excuse myself, walk away, realize the music and set have ended, and begin to panic when I cannot catch sight of Elizabeth. Has that countrified, chaw-bacon scut of a partner absconded with her? The unmistakable and welcome sound of her laughter reaches my ears, and I breath again. She is safely ensconced nearby, chatting with Sir William and Lady Lucas. Catching Elizabeth’s eye, I nod and smile with all the charm I can muster. She does not flinch but warmly returns my gesture, and it is all the invitation I need.