Page 11 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

His efforts had borne fruit most remarkably, causing him to wonder whether misfortune had truly been trailing his steps, or if, as Bingley suggested, it was merely fear that had rendered him clumsy.

Thus slightly emboldened, he had permitted himself a modest indulgence that morning.

A ride. He had risen early, donned his riding coat, and taken his horse from the Netherfield stables with the intent of clearing his head.

The air was brisk, the fields open, and for a time, he felt something near contentment.

The stallion moved well, and Darcy allowed the reins to slacken slightly, allowing the animal to choose the pace.

It was not meant to be a long ride, only enough to burn off the anxious energy that had clung to him since the assembly.

He thought upon it all. The parents of Miss Pritchard, had responded to his missive, assuring him that all was forgiven and that no lasting harm had been done.

Yet it seemed to Darcy that he, rather than the unfortunate young lady whose torn gown had revealed scarcely anything, if Miss Bingley's insistence were to be credited, had borne the greater humiliation.

Bingley had urged him to move past the incident, but Darcy could not shake the sense of being the subject of every lingering glance.

When he inquired of his valet what the servants thought of him, the man had assured him of their continued respect, though they too had heard of the mishap at the assembly.

Darcy, however, felt certain more was left unsaid.

And then, there was the matter of Miss Bennet.

Even amid his unease, he had dreamt of those fine eyes, blue, clear, and searching, for two nights in succession.

In those dreams, she was kind, her presence a balm.

But reality, he feared, held a different view.

That she had overheard his slight, spoken with such careless arrogance, was, in his estimation, the most unfortunate event to have occurred since his arrival in Hertfordshire.

The path he followed was narrow, flanked by tall hedgerows and the occasional elm.

He had not intended to ride so far, nor did he recognise the lane with any certainty.

When at last he shook off his thoughts, he looked about him.

It bore the appearance of a track known better to villagers and walkers than to riders.

Yet the air was brisk, and his horse seemed content, so he permitted it to continue at its own leisure.

All was calm until it wasn’t.

A flutter of birds, startled from a bush, sent the horse into a fit.

The stallion bucked once, then charged, its movements wild and erratic.

Darcy struggled to steady it, pulling hard on the reins, but the beast was in no mood to obey.

It bolted, veering off the path, hooves pounding against the dirt, and before he could prepare himself, the ground rose to meet him.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying flat on his back, the breath knocked out of him and a chill creeping up his spine. His coat was askew, his left boot half twisted in the stirrup, and his dignity trailing somewhere several yards behind.

And then he saw her.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She stood nearby, still as a statue, her expression carefully composed. But there was no mistaking the flicker of amusement in her eyes. She did not laugh, not yet; but she very well could have, and he would not have blamed her.

Darcy pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his sleeves with more pride than success. “I am very sorry if we startled you, Miss,” he said, struggling to bring formality to his voice.

She stepped slightly forward, her eyes resting upon his form with what might have been genuine concern. The startled flicker in her gaze suggested she had only just realised it was he. “Are you injured, sir?”

“No,” he said. “Only my pride, I believe.”

Her lips parted, and this time the smile came freely—gentle, not mocking. The sort of smile that warmed rather than wounded.

Darcy followed her gaze to the grey, who now stood beside her, calm as a hound at its master’s feet. It lowered its head again, and Elizabeth reached out, as though it had asked for her attention.

He did not know whether to be offended or grateful. “It seems the horse has chosen its allegiance.”

“If so,” she said, lightly stroking the beast’s neck, “you may rest easy. I am a most loyal keeper of secrets.”

The remark silenced him. She knew. Of course she knew. The assembly, the overheard insult, the awkward compliment disguised as an apology. She had witnessed it all. And now, rather than mock him, she offered him this kindness.

“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” he said at last.

“You are most welcome, Mr. Darcy.”

“May I accompany you on the rest of your walk? I doubt my horse will allow me to ride or even hold him if you are not nearby.” The words left Darcy’s mouth before he quite realised he had spoken them.

She smiled, and Darcy took it as a sign of interest or at least of appreciation.

“I am sorry to decline you, sir,” she replied gently.

“I left home early before my mama woke. I am sure she expects me back by now. More so, being unchaperoned, it would be inappropriate to walk with you alone, lest someone see us and begin a rumour. You, of all people, should know how swiftly the Meryton gossip mill turns.”

Darcy inclined his head. He needed no reminder. He had already been perilously close to scandal once. She was right, and her words suggested a care for his reputation that struck him more deeply than he wished to admit.

“I understand your reasoning,” he said with a quiet nod.

“Perhaps some other time, sir. If I am chaperoned or in public, where propriety may be observed in full.”

A pause lingered between them. Darcy wished to say something more, something of weight, but found himself uncharacteristically at a loss. At last, he managed, “You are very kind, Miss Bennet. I hope your walk continues in peace.”

“Do take good care of your horse. I hope it behaves now,” she said, with a small smile. She nodded politely and turned back toward the path. “Good morning to you, sir.”

As she walked away, the grey trotted back to his side, as if rebuked, now wholly docile. Darcy took the reins and mounted slowly, dust still clinging to his trousers and sleeves. From his seat, he glanced once more down the lane she had taken.

She had not responded to him with the disdain he had feared. Instead, she had expressed concern, calmed his unruly mount, and even alluded to a willingness to walk with him—had circumstances permitted.

Not for the first time, Darcy pondered what strange sort of man misfortune had made of him. And yet, just then, he could not think the morning entirely ill spent.

***

Longbourn

Elizabeth

That evening, Mr. Bingley called at Longbourn.

Mr. Bennet was in the parlour to receive him, but it was Mrs. Bennet who all but fluttered with delight at the visit.

Her eyes gleamed with triumph, her tone more musical than usual as she welcomed the young gentleman with all the warmth of a hostess who had long anticipated such a moment.

Mr. Bingley, for his part, seemed unaware of any designs upon him.

His attentions, though civil to all, settled more fully upon Jane.

He sat nearest to her, listened when she spoke, and smiled in that open and charming manner of his which needed no embellishment.

His fondness for her was plain to any observer, and Jane, though more reserved, responded with a softness in her eyes that Elizabeth had rarely seen directed at anyone outside their family.

Elizabeth watched them with quiet pleasure and a strange, sudden pang.

It was not envy, exactly, but something close.

Not for Mr. Bingley, of course, but for the absence of another gentleman.

Mr. Darcy had not accompanied his friend, and the emptiness his absence left behind was strangely more noticeable than she cared to admit.

She had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that he might appear.

She could not explain why. Only that seeing him again would have settled some of the thoughts that had lingered since that morning on the East Walk.

She wondered if he had spoken of their meeting to Bingley, if he had laughed about it in the retelling or kept it to himself as a moment too strange to share.

She had said nothing of it to anyone, not even Jane.

The incident remained tucked away, as if by preserving it in silence, she might better make sense of it.

When Mr. Bingley took his leave, Mrs. Bennet returned to her favourite topic of scorn.

Mr. Darcy, she declared, had proven again that he thought too highly of himself to condescend to ordinary company.

What sort of man, she asked no one in particular, would allow his friend to pay such a visit alone?

Elizabeth listened, but her mind did not echo her mother’s sentiments.

Mr. Darcy was proud, yes, but not in the manner Mrs. Bennet described.

His reserve had depth to it. It was not arrogance alone, but something quieter and more complicated.

She suggested aloud that perhaps Mr. Bingley had not informed his household of his plans, since none of his sisters had come either.

But her words did little to temper her mother’s resolve.

Even so, Elizabeth found herself less willing to agree. She did not know what kind of man Mr. Darcy truly was, but she was more certain now than ever that her mother had not painted an accurate likeness. He was not entirely cold. Not entirely indifferent, and certainly not foolish.

He was not, she thought, so easily understood. And that, more than anything, was what kept him in her thoughts.