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Miss Bennet. The letters he had received from his sister during his stay in Kent had reassured him greatly. They were bright and cheerful and full of glowing praise for her new companion – her new friend.
    It seemed that the young lady was skilled in a great deal more than a game of quoits. Georgiana had written that Miss Bennet played the pianoforte with grace and spirit and sang very well. She was proficient in French, Italian and, shockingly, Latin. She had not learned the harp and her drawing skills left room for further improvement, but those deficiencies in her education had merely given Georgiana the delight of seeking to remedy them and sharing her superior knowledge with her friend.
    In her latest letter his sister had mentioned that she could hardly wait to show him the watercolours and charcoal sketches they had drawn together, and that there was a lovely piece she eagerly anticipated playing for him, an exquisite composition for the pianoforte and the harp. She had reserved the latter for herself – Miss Bennet was not fully confident about performing at that instrument as yet – but her piano accompaniment was exquisite and she sang like an angel.
    Darcy leaned back in his seat with a warm smile and bright expectations. Georgiana’s happy accounts showed that Miss Bennet was a good choice of companion. It seemed that cheerful times awaited him at Pemberley.
     
    * * * *
     
    “Mr Darcy. A pleasure to see you home again, Sir,” the butler welcomed him warmly. “Miss Georgiana will be thrilled to see you.”
    “And I her. Where is she?”
    “In the garden, Sir. Shall I send word?”
    “Nay, let her come in at her leisure,” Darcy replied and divested himself of the light travelling overcoat.
    His butler relieved him of it and Darcy was about to walk to his study when girlish giggles stopped him in his tracks. He turned instinctively towards the unexpected sound and all but gaped at the sight before him, hard-pressed to recognise his sister in the rosy-cheeked girl with clusters of wild flowers in her hair, her skirts rumpled and, gracious, four inches deep in mud.
    In her turn, Miss Bennet bore little resemblance to the young lady he remembered. Her attire was still sombre, but nothing else about her was. She was aglow with laughter and the unpretentious knot had been abandoned in favour of a much more flattering hairstyle. Curls framed her face, others bounced over her nape and a chain of daisies crowned her brown tresses. Nay, not brown but auburn, glinting in the late September sunshine. And then she spotted him and curtsied, the carefree laughter giving way to a slightly conscious smile.
    Georgiana noticed him at the same time and verily ran into his embrace, forgetting or disdaining all the precepts of ladylike deportment.
    “Brother! How long have you been at home?”
    “But a few moments. I have arrived just in time to see that wood sprites have taken over Pemberley,” he teased them with a smile, and Miss Bennet cheerfully returned it.
    “You might as well say gypsies, Sir. We were about to go up to change. A little longer and you would have found us more suitably attired and waiting in the parlour, prim and proper. I hope you would excuse the unorthodox welcome.”
    “I could not have wished for a better, Miss Bennet,” he replied with utmost sincerity.
    It was all that he could do to suppress his unseemly mirth when the young lady caught a glimpse of her own fetching reflection in one of the pier glasses and promptly removed the chain of daisies from her hair with another conscious smile towards him. It would have been equally unseemly to observe that she should have left it where it was, for it complemented her hairstyle and complexion admirably, so Darcy said nothing of the sort. Instead, he let them continue on their way and walked towards his study with a bounce in his step.
    Indeed, there were cheerful times in store for them all at Pemberley.
     
    * * * *
     
    After dinner Georgiana