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"Boy," intoned the Master of Pemberley testily. "What have you to say for yourself?"
The lanky teen in dusty, horse-smelling clothing grumbled, "Nuthin'."
"I beg your pardon," he replied, in a voice that wasn't begging at all.
Louder, his stablehand said, "I did nuthin' the miss didn' wan' me to." Lanky, freckled, and fifteen, Johnny the lad never had a propensity for getting on Darcy's nerves. Till now.
"That's missus to you, boy." The tension in his breast refused to ease. "Mrs. Darcy. Who, might I remind you, is my wife."
Skinny, overlong arms crossed and a tousled head turned away, with a lip jutting in a petulant pout. It irked Darcy immensely to recall that an hour before, that lip had tried to do more than pout. That irritation could only be aggravated by the boy's answering words. "You're too old for 'er."
Mr. Darcy's voice rose incredulously. "Excuse me?"
"You 'eard me. How old 'r ya? Forty? She better off with a young 'un, like me. I betcha I can provide for 'er as good— no, better— only that ya were lucky enough to be born with Pemberley. I bet ya don' even know how ta saddle yer own horse!"
"Have you always been this garrulous?"
"Hmph! Ya mean to intimidate me with yo' fancy words. I'll have ya know a' know what tha' means! Talks a lot, tha's what. The miss herself tol' me."
Dearest Elizabeth. Darcy closed his eyes. You know I adore your lively talents, but this...
"Hey!" came an indignant cry. "Ya hear me? She likes me! She flirts w' me! Husband? Psh! You're but a boring ol' man! A wish-wash!"
Darcy pressed his forehead to his fist and took a deep, stabilizing breath.
"Johnny..."
Darcy looked up sharply. Johnny jumped from his seat. There Elizabeth was in the doorframe, beautifully dressed and peering in with a half-exasperated, half-apologetic expression.
"Miss Lizzy!" He darted over to Elizabeth before Darcy could catch him— he was not old, simply taken by surprise— so he settled for hovering dangerously over the boy's shoulder. "See, Miss Lizzy," the boy jabbered away. "'M talkin', practicin', like you told me to! C'mon, Miss Lizzy, ain't I a better convasationalist than this old guy? See? He can't say anythin'! Not ta me!" Hands lifted in supplication. "C'mon, Miss Lizzy, I saved all ma wage money. Ya can run away w' me! We can go t' Gretna Green!"
All the apologies on Elizabeth's face only barely contained Darcy. He was not contained when the boy grabbed her bare hand and kissed it.
Two days later, Elizabeth was sending the boy a slab of chilled meat with a note to firmly disabuse the poor stablehand of his lover's notions. It was marginally easier than persuading (guilt-tripping) her husband to at least give that particular helping hand references before he was sacked.