Colonel Fitzwilliam was enormously delighted to discover his fastidious, impeccable cousin in another pickle, especially since he had just managed to get Jane and himself out of one. Fitz considered a little white lie was merely a-version of the truth, and he had charmingly explained to Miss Edwards that they only veered off the main path because he wanted to present Jane with tulips and had not realized those particular flowers were out of season. The military man had, of course, successfully plucked the only two lips he truly sought. As the soldier watched Darcy and Miss Elizabeth both go red in the face, he gloated over having enough fodder in his haystack to needle Darcy for a month of Sundays.

Darcy’s haughty mask was in place, and he huffily said, “I will have you know that Miss Elizabeth and I are on a bona fide rescue mission up here. So, Richard, if you were about to say something derogatory, you would most certainly be barking up the wrong tree. Unfortunately, our little rescuee is a tad reluctant and has a most ungrateful cattitude.” He frowned up at the ginger ball of fluff crouched several branches away.

The Colonel volunteered some advice. “One of you needs to climb another level higher, reach up, grab onto the kitten’s limb … I mean pull down the branch, while the other one cat-ches the little fur ball.”

Lizzy protested, “But, Colonel Fitzwilliam, if the person holding down the branch loses their grip, it will spring back; and the kitten will indubitably be cat-apulted into Kent. Your suggestion has the potential to be quite a cat-astrophe, sir.”

Darcy agreed. “Elizabeth is right, Fitz. But I am curious. Do you have any other purr-fectly brilliant ideas in your military catalog of strategy for rescuing a cat on a log?”

“Ah … no. You shall just have to purr-severe, Darce; and here’s a word of warning about curiosity. They say it killed the cat, and they were not kitten.”

“Ha, bloody ha. I think … Elizabeth!!! What on earth do you think you are you doing, madam?” As Lizzy disappeared onto the branch overhead, Darcy was horrified his cousin might catch a glimpse of her ankles, calves, thighs, or … “Richard, turn around at once; and do not even glance up here again. Elizabeth!!!”

Lizzy peered down at him. “Mr. Darcy, before the others arrive we either need to abandon our mission or accomplish it. I have chosen the latter. So when I latch onto Ginger, I will gingerly pass the kitten down to you. Since you are so vastly experienced at this animal rescue business, you can carry the contrary clawed critter to the ground.”

“Ginger, Lizzy? How utterly uninspired. You, my dear sweet lady, definitely need assistance with the naming of pets.” Although he scoffed at the cat’s moniker, he agreed to her plan. Darcy scrambled to balance upright on the branch, raised his arms, and prepared to receive the kitten.

Elizabeth glanced down at her fiancé and said, “I did not realize Ginger was to actually become someone’s pet; and by all means, he does deserve a more distinguished name and a home. Be that as it may, just whose household do you intend to grace with his presence? Mama and Papa have never permitted us to have animals in our residence. Hmm, I wonder whether they are concerned about household pets taking over the world. Why the puzzled look, Mr. Darcy? Have you never heard of reigning cats and dogs?”

Lydia squealed and pointed. “Never mind, Mr. Darcy and Lizzy! The kitten has jumped down and is now running along the path. Here, kitty, kitty, here kitty!”

“I am here, Lydia. There is no need to call out in that ridiculous manner.”

Catherine Bennet gasped as she caught sight of her second eldest sister and the normally sophisticated Mr. Darcy in the oak tree. Her attention was instantly sidetracked by the arrival of Miss Edwards and Baines. One and all were amazed to witness the gangly footman as he gently cradled the little orange ball of fluff in his arms.

Darcy called down, “Baines, there is a proverb that goes, ‘You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats.’ It appears you have been favoured with the friendship of Cato, the Philosofur.”

Lydia asked, “But why did the cat suddenly jump down and run from the tree?”

“Perhaps it was afraid of the bark,” suggested Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Darcy alit from the tree and gently caught Lizzy as she leapt from a lower branch. He reluctantly released his hold on her waist, turned to his cousin, and said, “Fitz, punsters such as you deserve to be drawn and quoted.”

Lydia whispered to Kitty, “People tend to tell worse puns as they get older. That is why we call them groan-ups.”

Blissfully unaware they were soon to receive an unwelcome visitor, Mrs. Bennet and her two eldest daughters were in the sitting room of their London townhouse busily choosing ribbons, beading, and other trimmings suitable for the brides’ trousseaux. The fact that Jane and Elizabeth had made very eligible matches and were truly in love with their husbands-to-be was, of course, deeply satisfying to their mother. Most gratifying was the undeniable fact the gentlemen returned their affection tenfold. However, Mrs. Bennet realized she would be quite melancholy when it finally came time to part with her dear girls; that said, having three more daughters and a son still under her care was, in some measure, a comfort. The woman could not image how bereft she would feel when the last child had finally flown the nest.

“Mama, are you crying?” A soft voice roused Mrs. Bennet, and she suddenly realized Jane knelt in front of her and had reached to clasp her hand.

“Most certainly not, my dear. Good heavens, why would I have occasion to weep? Is this not every mother’s fondest wish … to be planning her daughter’s wedding? I have been doubly blessed with the duty of overseeing the production of not one but two trousseaux, which, of course, would be incomplete without: ‘Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.’”[2]

“Speaking of all these purchases of attire, it is fortunate Papa’s own clothing has rather deep pockets,” said Lizzy.

A modiste in the city was already at work on the young ladies’ wedding clothes. When she had been needled for a completion date, the woman had hemmed and hawed before replying. “I am only doing sew-sew. I toile day and night, and eye-let my assistant, Velvet, do the crewel embroidery work. But the darn thread, together with the tight fit of the bodices, causes much seam-stress. I will not embellish the truth but must tack on a few extra days. So awl things considered, I have a notion you may pin your hopes on the garments being ready five days before the wedding.” The Bennet ladies had quickly cott-on to the dressmaker’s wordplay; and, without bias, they baste their trust on Mrs. Lovelace and Velvet.

Cato the Philoso-fur was quite comfortably curled up into a cozy little orange ball on Mrs. Bennet’s lap. Initially, the lady had flatly refused to allow the kitten admittance into the townhouse; nevertheless, she had been sweet-talked and cajoled, mostly by her handsome sons-in-law-to-be, into allowing the feline into her home. Almost immediately, the little cat had also worked its way into the woman’s heart; and the two had become inseparable, except when her three-year-old son was in the vicinity. On those occasions the cat became as nervous as, well, a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It was not because Robert was cruel; in fact, the boy loved the purring pet so much, he showered it with hugs and kisses. Robert had been instructed to hold the kitten gently, but the reluctant and squirming Cato’s philosophy differed from what the tot had been taught regarding the difference between gentle and taut.

The day Cato had first been introduced into the household, Mr. Darcy had picked him up and taken a look beneath its tail to confirm the kitten was, indeed, a male. The next morning, Lizzy had happened upon Lydia and Robert kneeling on the floor, struggling to inspect the poor cat’s belly. When asked what they were about, Lydia answered, “Well, Mr. Darcy picked Cato up, looked underneath, and then told us it was a boy. It must be written here somewhere, though I cannot find it.” Lizzy opened her mouth to explain but was gratefully spared when she glimpsed her father about to enter his study. “Papa, would you please come here? The inquisitive minds of your youngest children need some direction. Please excuse me. I am in a hurry to foist upon myself yet another painful bout of writer’s cramp. Being betrothed to the cream of the crop of la crème de la crème has some drawbacks. All the same, there is no use crying over spilt milk, so I am off to answer more letters of congratulations.”

Mr. Bennet was finally reconciled to losing Lizzy and Jane, yet not to Cato’s status as a permanent fixture in his house. The critter had hissed at him upon first acquaintance, scratched his arm when he benevolently tried to pet its head, and bit the hand that fed it when he had tried, the previous night, to evict the little cat from its place on the bed next to his wife. Thanks to Lizzy’s talk of dairy, her father was able to evade the risk of further feline-inflicted affliction as well as the need to point out the pet’s private parts to his progeny. His suggestion Cato might care for a saucer of cream was met with enthusiasm, so Lydia and Robert scampered off to the kitchen while the liberated kitten scurried in the opposite direction. Quite proud of his resourcefulness, Mr. Bennet smiled smugly as he returned to his den. The self-satisfied smirk was quickly wiped from his face when he discovered Cato had taken shelter in the gentleman’s own private lair, and Thomas Bennet could have sworn the creature was grinning back at him, snug as a bug in a rug, from behind the desk in the comfort of his own favourite chair.