Page 10 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

The East Walk

Elizabeth

Elizabeth could not recall precisely who had first christened her favourite walking path The East Walk , but the name had lingered in her family as though it had always belonged.

Perhaps it was one of her younger sisters, or perhaps her own invention uttered in childhood whimsy, but none besides herself and her family ever referred to it by such title.

It was a narrow lane that curved gently away from Longbourn’s grounds, bordered by wild hedges and elms that offered shade in summer and silence in winter.

It trailed eastward of the estate, from which Elizabeth presumed its name had been derived.

To Elizabeth, it had become a place of retreat—a quiet world apart.

That morning, the East Walk beckoned once more.

She had risen early, long before the household began to stir, and after bidding her father good morning and pressing a fond kiss to his cheek, she tied on her bonnet and slipped into the quiet of the morning.

Only Mr. Bennet observed her departure. He offered no remark, merely raising an eyebrow above his paper with an expression that blended fondness and mild amusement.

Walking was so habitual to Elizabeth that her family scarcely took notice of these solitary excursions, accustomed as they were to her fondness for such exercise.

Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her own making, Elizabeth found the solitude that her bustling household rarely afforded.

No Lydia shrieking about ribbons, no Mary droning on about moral instruction, no Kitty echoing every word that fell from Lydia's lips.

Even dear Jane, with her gentle disposition and thoughtful nature, sometimes felt like too much company when Elizabeth's mind was particularly restless.

The air was fresh, still tinged with dew, and the grass yielded under her boots with a pleasant hush. Elizabeth walked with a firm step, letting her thoughts drift as freely as the birds overhead. There was something about the rhythm of movement and the solitude of the path that invited reflection.

And there was much to reflect upon.

It had been two days since the assembly which had left her with more questions than answers. And while her mother had already fixed Mr. Bingley as a son-in-law in her imagination, Elizabeth’s thoughts lingered on another gentleman entirely. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

What a curious man he was.

Her first impression—so sharp, so unfavourable—had been softened not by anything he had done to redeem himself, but rather by what she had accidentally overheard.

That he had spoken ill of her beauty was undeniable.

That he had regretted it, perhaps immediately, was equally evident.

And then, there were the remarks that followed—muted words to Bingley, as if he feared even his good intentions might become a burden to those they touched.

She had not forgotten the look on his face when he realised she had heard him.

Nor could she forget the spectacle that followed—the torn gown, the gasps, the embarrassment. Where others laughed, she had not. She had seen a man trying, and failing, to remain upright in a world that seemed determined to tip him over.

In the two days since the assembly, Elizabeth had heard a variety of opinions regarding Mr. Darcy.

Her mother remained steadfast in her belief that he was an insufferable man, while her younger sisters thought little of him beyond his pride and reserve.

Mary held that a gentleman ought not to be judged by a single encounter, and Jane, ever disposed to see the good in others, insisted there must be merit in him if Mr. Bingley had chosen him as a companion.

Charlotte Lucas, too, spoke of him with less censure than might be expected.

Elizabeth, however, placed little weight on Charlotte’s assessments.

At nearly seven and twenty, Charlotte stood on the brink of spinsterhood, and it was not uncommon for her to speak with leniency of any eligible gentleman.

Mr. Bennet, for his part, rarely engaged in discussions concerning Mr. Darcy. He merely remarked that he would form his opinion when the gentleman gave him occasion to do so.

Elizabeth reached the midpoint of Hedgerow and paused. The sun, just rising above the fields, cast a soft light across the path. She picked a sprig of wild mint and held it to her nose.

There was a part of her that wished she could forget Mr. Darcy altogether. And yet, she found herself wondering about him far too often for comfort.

He was not a man easily dismissed.

Perhaps it was his acknowledgement of her eyes, which he had termed fine , or her manner, which he had found remarkable. Or maybe it was that particular look he gave her upon entering the assembly—one that, however fleeting, made her feel as though she were the only woman in the room.

Or perhaps, Elizabeth mused, in an effort to divert her thoughts from regions she dared not explore, it was her curiosity that lingered.

Why should a man of such fortune speak of misfortune with so much conviction?

What had befallen him to make him believe himself so singularly ill-fated?

More curious still, how had he spoken of ill-luck and then, almost immediately, found himself in a predicament bordering on scandal? That, surely, was misfortune enough.

A movement on the far side of the hedge startled her from her reverie.

A hare darted out and across the path, vanishing into the underbrush.

Elizabeth smiled. It was silly, perhaps, but in that moment, she imagined the hare as Mr. Darcy—always retreating, never still, and far more startled than he cared to admit.

She concluded it was time to begin the walk back to Longbourn.

There were letters to be read, breakfast to attend, and, no doubt, her mother would have formed yet another scheme for securing Mr. Bingley’s affections.

As the gentleman had yet to call, Mrs. Bennet’s disposition hovered uneasily between expectant delight and visible irritation.

Just then, the thundering of hooves broke the morning quiet. Elizabeth turned sharply, her heart leaping into her throat as the unmistakable sound of a galloping horse approached at alarming speed. A man’s voice rang out, commanding the beast to slow.

She could not make out the rider clearly, but his dark coat flared behind him, and his grip on the reins suggested more desperation than control. The grey stallion bore down the path at a reckless pace, its movements wild, its neck tossed high as though it meant to shake off the burden it carried.

Elizabeth froze, her mind swiftly calculating whether to flee into the thicket or throw herself aside before horse and rider collided with her.

But just then, the stallion jerked its head, whinnied with sharp defiance, and gave a violent shake.

The rider lost his grip and tumbled to the ground in an ungainly heap.

A soft gasp escaped Elizabeth’s lips as she beheld the fall, but before she could cry out, the horse slowed.

With surprising grace, it trotted toward her not in frenzy, but as though it sought her out deliberately.

It came to a halt before her, lowered its head, and gently nudged the air between them.

Startled, Elizabeth blinked at the animal. Was she meant to stroke its mane? Or should she concern herself first with the gentleman it had so unceremoniously discarded?

She stepped cautiously to the side, half to avoid the horse’s breath and half to catch a better glimpse of the fallen rider, who was now rising and dusting off his coat.

"I am very sorry if we startled you, Miss," he said, his voice strained, though not without composure. As he lifted his face, the sun caught his features and she saw him.

Her eyes widened with instant recognition. Mr. Darcy.

And then, quite against her better judgement, a smile broke across her face.

It was entirely improper to laugh. He had, after all, taken a rather violent fall.

But there was something so perfectly timed in the moment that she could not help herself.

She had just been pondering on his self-acclaimed streak of misfortune, and now here he stood, tipped by his own steed and covered in dust. Fate, it seemed, had a taste for irony.

She advanced a few paces, stopping at a respectable distance, the barest trace of amusement still flickering in her eyes.

"Are you injured, sir?" she asked, her tone polite, though her lips threatened treachery.

***

Darcy

There was so little misfortune could do if one kept to themselves. This was the mantra Mr. Darcy had lived by for the two days following the assembly.

He had taken it to heart most diligently.

Meals were eaten in solitude. Cards were refused.

Conversations kept brief and polite, if not entirely avoided.

He took his correspondence late at night when no one might interrupt, and declined every invitation, even from Bingley, to ride, walk, or visit.

He had even gone so far as to limit his time near reflective surfaces, for fear some mirror might shatter merely upon catching his expression.

No unfortunate incident had occurred in the past two days.