Page 15 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Netherfield

Darcy

“What do you mean?” Bingley asked, once Darcy had fallen silent.

It was barely dawn, the first light casting long shadows across the study. The scent of strong coffee mingled with the morning's damp. The two gentlemen were seated in Bingley’s office, where the master of the house had been attending to his correspondence.

“I have encountered more than my share of misfortune this past month,” Darcy said. “It feels as though nothing has gone according to my favour. Yet yesterday, we were partnered, and I won twice in succession.”

“You have always been fortunate, Darcy,” Bingley replied with a light laugh. “I am quite certain that, had I partnered with you, we should have claimed both victories as well.”

Darcy cast him a look of mild reproach, and Bingley smiled knowingly.

“You do not comprehend it,” Darcy said. “When Miss Elizabeth is near, the very air about me seems altered. Circumstances improve, as though fortune itself bends in my favour.”

Bingley’s brows drew together. “Improve in what way?”

“I become luckier, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that misfortune fails to prevail, even when it attempts to strike.”

Bingley gave a small sigh. “Are we returned to this matter of omens and soothsayers?”

“It is no idle superstition,” Darcy replied, his tone quiet but firm.

Darcy began to recount his encounter with Miss Elizabeth upon the eastern path, detailing how his horse, formerly restless and unmanageable, had grown markedly calm the moment she approached.

With no hesitation, she had laid a gentle hand upon the animal, speaking softly, and then passed the reins to him with such ease that the creature, now docile, obeyed as though it had never shown a hint of defiance.

He spoke also of their meeting in the library, explaining how, despite the collapse of the bookshelf, he had sustained no injury and suffered no embarrassment, as no one had witnessed the incident save Miss Elizabeth herself—whose composure and kindness had made the event less mortifying than it might have been.

“And then, last evening,” he added. “You saw how we partnered at whist and won twice. It is as though her very presence alters the tide of my fortune.”

Bingley grimaced slightly, as though weighing the matter with some seriousness, before shaking his head.

“Darcy, I grant that you have endured a peculiar streak of mishaps of late,” he said, “but I still maintain that you ought not allow the pronouncements of some questionable soothsayer to govern your choices.”

“Bingley, you know my character,” Darcy replied. “Am I one to be swayed by idle nonsense?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Do you have a coin to hand?”

With a curious look, Bingley reached into the drawer of his writing table and produced a shilling, which he passed to Darcy.

“I never lose at a simple game of heads or tails,” Darcy said, examining the coin. “And even if I did, what are the odds of doing so ten times in succession?”

“Rather slim,” Bingley replied.

“Good,” said Darcy. “I call heads.”

He flipped the coin and allowed it to land upon Bingley’s desk. It showed tails.

“That could happen to anyone,” Bingley said with a shrug.

“Be patient, my friend.”

Darcy called tails and flipped the coin once more. This time, it landed on heads.

He continued the toss, calling the coin with care and flipping it again and again.

Six more times he tried, and each time he failed to predict correctly.

By the ninth attempt, Bingley's expression had changed; a deep frown now shadowed his brow, as though he were beginning to lend more credence to Darcy’s talk of ill luck.

After the tenth successive miss, Darcy gave a rueful smile and passed the coin to his friend.

“Your turn,” he said. “I wager you shall win within two or three tries.”

Bingley called heads and flipped the shilling. He was correct on the first toss. He succeeded again on the second, missed the third, but won on the fourth.

“There,” Darcy said, his voice quiet but resolute. “The fortune teller was right.”

Bingley slumped further into his chair, his posture altered with visible unease. His features bore the mark of concern.

“So my future may turn upon the words of a fortune teller? That is a troubling thought, Darcy.”

At that moment, it struck Darcy with sudden clarity. The fortune teller’s words. He sat up straight, the cup of coffee in his hand forgotten for a moment, his gaze distant as he struggled to bring the memory into focus. His nose twitched slightly with the effort of recollection.

What were those exact words?

He had been so preoccupied with the fortune teller’s forewarning of misfortune that he had failed to consider the entirety of her message. Not once had he reflected upon it in full.

Bingley said something—perhaps a question, perhaps a remark—but Darcy could barely hear it.

His attention was wholly diverted, striving to recall, in order, the sequence of occurrences at the fair.

The images returned to him one by one. The fluttering ribbons.

The monkeys in waistcoats. The jugglers tossing pins into the air.

The sailors passing by. And then, at last, the fortune teller.

Very soon… your path will twist.

Darcy shook his head. Those words had lingered with him, but they had not stood alone.

Fortune turns, Mr. Gentleman. The wind changes for you… and only the right heart may steady it.

Darcy's eyes flew wide, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. The porcelain trembled against the saucer as his hand began to shake

The right heart .

How had he failed to see it? The woman had not spoken only of misfortune. She had pointed toward its remedy. The misfortunes were never the destination, but rather the path. They had not led him into ruin, but toward the right heart. Towards love.

"Darcy?" Bingley's voice cut through his revelation, tinged with concern. "You've gone quite pale. Are you feeling unwell?"

But Darcy could only stare ahead, seeing not the familiar office but Elizabeth's face as she had looked the previous night of the game, her dark eyes sparkling with intelligence and mirth. The right heart . How perfectly, terrifyingly apt.

His fortune had indeed begun to turn, and he had been too proud, too stubborn to see beyond the failures and incidents. The misfortunes, the string of bad luck—it had all been leading him to this moment, to her. The fortune teller hadn't been speaking of doom at all, but of destiny.

"Good God," Darcy breathed, setting down his cup with such force that coffee sloshed over the rim.

"Darcy!" Bingley's voice was sharper now, and he half-rose from his chair. "What the devil has gotten into you?"

"The right heart," Darcy whispered, his voice barely audible. "The fortune teller said only the right heart could steady it. The wind, the change in fortune..." He looked up at Bingley with eyes that seemed to see everything anew. "It's Miss Elizabeth. She's the right heart."

Bingley sank back into his chair, his mouth slightly agape. "You mean to tell me you believe this fortune teller has somehow... predetermined your attachment to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

"Not predetermined," Darcy said slowly, as if working out the words as he spoke them.

"Foretold. The misfortune was never the point.

it was the path. Every mishap, every stroke of bad luck, it's all been driving me toward her.

" He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement.

"And when I'm with her, when she's near, everything changes.

The luck returns because I've found what I was meant to find. "

"This is..." Bingley paused, clearly struggling with the implications. "This is rather a lot to accept, Darcy. You're speaking of fate, of prophecy. These are not concepts I would typically associate with your character."

Darcy laughed, but it was a sound without humour.

"No, they are not. But tell me, Bingley, can you explain those coin tosses?

Can you account for the pattern I've described?

My horse calming at her presence, the library incident that should have been a disaster but felt like providence?

" He leaned forward, his intensity unmistakable.

"I am a rational man, but I cannot rationalise away what I have experienced. "

Bingley was quiet for a long moment, absently turning the shilling over in his fingers. Finally, he looked up. "Supposing—and I do mean supposing—that there is truth in what you say. What does it mean? What do you intend to do with this... revelation?"

Darcy stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the grounds toward Longbourn.

“I do not know,” he admitted. “I cannot claim certainty, but I will not pretend indifference either. I like Miss Elizabeth. Her eyes are… fine, and her manner most engaging. She is not like other ladies. There is no pretence about her, and in conversation, she is both quick and thoughtful. Her attentiveness to her sister’s comfort speaks of a deep devotion to family—something I value greatly.

I believe, in truth, that she and Georgiana would find much in common. Perhaps even friendship.”

“But?” Bingley prompted, watching him closely.

“Her family,” Darcy replied simply.

“And what of them?”

“I observed her mother at the assembly. She is a rather loud woman, almost lacking in discretion. And your sister made mention of their inferior connections yesterday at breakfast. I do not hold such things against people as a rule, but you are well aware of my family’s expectations.”

Bingley’s expression turned to puzzlement, his eyes widening.

“My aunt, Lady Catherine, still entertains hopes of a union between me and my cousin Anne,” Darcy explained. “And my uncle, the earl, would not easily consent to a match he deems beneath the family’s station.”

“Hmmm,” Bingley murmured, idly scratching at the stubble on his chin. “And your sister?”

“Georgiana is the gentlest of creatures. I am convinced she would be charmed by Miss Elizabeth from the moment they meet.”

Bingley leaned back in his chair. “Then perhaps,” he said quietly, “you ought to consider the person whose opinion bears the most weight in this matter. Yours. It is your life, Darcy. Your happiness. And if anyone else’s judgment matters, it is Georgiana’s, since she will, in all likelihood, reside with your wife for a time before marrying herself.

If she finds Miss Elizabeth agreeable, then perhaps the disapproval of uncles and aunts should not be your chief concern. ”

Darcy turned from the window slowly, and for the first time since Bingley had known him, he appeared truly unsure.

“And what if I am mistaken?” he asked in a low voice. “What if all of this is the fancy of a man too long haunted by ill luck, searching for meaning where none exists?”

Bingley offered him a smile, warm and sincere. “Then you will have allowed yourself to care for a truly remarkable woman. And I can see no misfortune in that.”

***

Caroline

Caroline Bingley awoke earlier than was her custom, her temples pulsing with the remnants of a vexing headache.

Sleep had eluded her most of the night, thanks in no small part to the thoroughly disagreeable spectacle of Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet seated opposite each other, united in whist and, more disturbingly, in visible accord and happy when they won twice.

And then, as if that were not torment enough, he had spoken of her with warmth, referred to their accidental companionship in the library, and praised her as one of the most accomplished women he knew. The words rang in Caroline’s ears like a badly played violin.

She rose from bed and considered whether to summon her maid to fetch something for her headache.

Laudanum or perhaps a mild cordial might do.

But it was too early, and she didn’t think she wanted to see maids yet.

She then thought to seek her sister’s aid, but dismissed the idea almost at once.

Louisa was, in all likelihood, still in bed with Mr. Hurst. Caroline knew they had been making every effort to secure an heir, and doubted her sister would welcome an intrusion.

Perhaps Charles might have something of use. She had seen him sorting through his medicine cabinet in the study not long ago, when Jane Bennet first fell ill.

Slipping from her night rail, she pulled on a morning robe of soft muslin and bound her hair in a loose knot. She made her way down the corridor, her steps cautious but determined. Just as she reached the door to the study, voices from within halted her hand. She paused, recognising them at once.

Charles and Mr. Darcy.

Caroline had no intention of eavesdropping. Such behaviour would have been beneath a lady of her station, or so she told herself. Yet her feet did not carry her forward. Instead, she pressed herself lightly to the wall, listening, her breath shallow and her pulse quick.

Her eyes widened in disbelief as the conversation reached her clearly. She heard them speak of a fortune teller, misfortune, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and the right heart. Each word settled heavily upon her, forming a picture she had no wish to see.

Her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the small gasp that threatened. Could it be that Mr. Darcy believed Miss Elizabeth was somehow his good fortune? That she, of all people, was the right heart for him?

The idea was intolerable. If any woman were to be joined to Mr. Darcy, it would not be the daughter of a country gentleman of meagre fortune and indelicate connections.

It would be Caroline Bingley, who possessed all the right breeding, fortune, and style.

She had imagined it for too long to be dissuaded now.

Then she heard her own name, spoken with faint reproach, as Mr. Darcy recalled something she had said of the Bennet family. And to her further astonishment, Charles was now urging him not to let such matters weigh heavily in his mind.

The sound of a footstep behind her jolted Caroline from her thoughts.

Whether imagined or real, she could not wait to see.

She had lingered too long and heard too much.

Turning quickly, she walked away from the door, her steps swift and her mind alight.

Her headache forgotten, an idea now stirred, taking root in the fire of her indignation.

Whatever hopes Miss Elizabeth Bennet might entertain, Caroline would not allow them to bear fruit.