Page 3 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Netherfield Park

Darcy

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not envisioned his arrival in Hertfordshire as anything less than dignified. He had anticipated descending gracefully from his carriage, entering Netherfield with composed assurance, and greeting his friend and the assembled company with cool civility.

Reality, however, proved itself profoundly uncooperative.

Instead, he stepped into Netherfield Park looking as if he had fought a bitter war against dust, mud, and ill-tempered livestock—and had lost thoroughly.

His dark blue coat, tailored by the best hands in London, now bore evidence of every puddle and ditch encountered between town and country.

His carefully arranged cravat had fallen into a hopeless tangle of sodden linen, while his hair, always neatly groomed, lay plastered damply upon his forehead.

Darcy was convinced he had never before appeared so utterly wretched.

For a moment, the inhabitants of Netherfield merely stared, their expressions a tableau of astonishment as they arrived outside to welcome him. Bingley was the first to recover his voice, stepping forward briskly, his surprise tempered by earnest sympathy.

“Good heavens, Darcy!” he exclaimed, stopping short to take in the sight. “What in the world has happened? You look as though you have travelled the whole of England on foot.”

Darcy accepted the footman’s offer to relieve him of his hat, noticing with quiet resignation how gingerly the servant handled it.

“It feels rather as if I have, Bingley. My carriage wheel was spirited away by misfortune scarcely an hour after departing London. And the rains of Hertfordshire, I now discover, are singularly persistent.”

Darcy’s glance caught sight of Bingley’s younger sister suppressing a smile.

He was already well acquainted with both of Bingley’s sisters.

The elder, Louisa, had contracted a marriage of convenience with a certain Mr. Hurst, a gentleman who, from Darcy’s limited observations, showed far greater devotion to good wine, rich food, and the pleasures of cards than to any other interest. He had inherited a comfortable income from an entailed estate, a fact Darcy surmised had likely recommended him to Louisa as strongly as her increasing anxiety over her unmarried state.

The younger sister, Caroline, exhibited an enthusiasm for Darcy’s company that bordered on the excessive.

Her conversation, filled with lavish compliments and flattering attentions, betrayed her ambition of securing him as a husband, an aspiration Darcy viewed with quiet amusement and considerable disinterest, knowing it could never be realised.

Miss Bingley approached cautiously, her delicate features betraying polite shock. “Mr. Darcy! How utterly dreadful for you! Louisa, I told you something ghastly must have happened.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Hurst agreed in bored tones, her glance sliding from Darcy’s ruined attire to the trail of mud behind him. “But I confess, Caroline, your imagination never stretched quite this far.”

Mr. Hurst peered over his wife’s shoulder, squinting sleepily at Darcy. “Good Lord, Darcy,” he drawled. “Did you lose an argument with your horses?”

“The horses were the least of my difficulties,” Darcy replied dryly, shaking off his cloak. A small cloud of dust obligingly rose around him. “My driver contrived to take every possible wrong turn, each new route more creative and disastrous than the last.”

“I am so sorry,” Bingley said earnestly. “You should have sent word.”

“And how was I to do that?” Darcy replied, lifting one eyebrow in weary amusement. “Send up smoke signals from the nearest hillside? We spent more time in farmyards and pastures than on actual roads.”

Miss Bingley pressed her lips together to stifle her laughter. “What an ordeal, Mr. Darcy! I do hope at least your luggage survived.”

Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Survived might be rather optimistic. The trunk containing my evening clothes is currently enjoying its freedom somewhere in the fields beyond Hertford, I believe. My valet, bless him, spent a fruitless hour trying to convince a sheep to relinquish my best waistcoat.”

Bingley burst out laughing, clapping Darcy sympathetically on the shoulder. “Come, man! You must let us make you comfortable. Jennings!” he called sharply, beckoning the wide-eyed footman. “See Mr. Darcy’s remaining trunks immediately delivered to his chambers.”

“Yes, sir,” the footman replied uncertainly, eyeing Darcy as though unsure whether to address him as a gentleman or spectre.

“Perhaps,” Darcy said grimly, “you might also send someone along the road to locate my missing belongings before they become fodder for local wildlife.”

“Of course,” Bingley assured him, smiling cheerfully. “Jennings, see it done at once.”

“Yes, sir.” Jennings departed hastily, casting one last dubious glance at Darcy’s appearance.

Darcy sighed deeply, noticing Miss Bingley’s persistent look of astonished amusement. He offered her a slight bow. “Miss Bingley, I do apologise for making such a spectacle of myself.”

“Oh, not at all,” she protested quickly. “Indeed, it is all rather exciting. Hertfordshire has been exceedingly dull until now.”

“You do me great honour,” Darcy said stiffly, brushing futilely at his coat sleeve.

“I had planned such a pleasant evening to welcome you,” Bingley said apologetically. “A quiet dinner and perhaps some cards.”

Mr. Hurst perked up. “Cards would be just the thing, Darcy.”

Bingley laughed, nudging Hurst jovially. "You had best beware, Hurst. I have never yet seen Darcy lose at cards."

Mr. Hurst perked up visibly, eyes glinting with rare eagerness. "Indeed? Then it is high time someone amended that. I look forward to altering your perfect record, Darcy."

Darcy straightened slightly, fatigue giving way to composed assurance.

"You are most welcome to attempt it, Hurst," he said with calm precision.

"But I advise you not to mistake my travel-worn state for weakness.

I recently bested the most accomplished card player of the London regiment, and some say that I am perhaps the luckiest man in town. "

Bingley gave a cheerful laugh. “Ah, there he is—my old friend, restored at last. A warm fire, a decent coat, and a night’s rest will do wonders for a man.

We shall have cards and other diversions tomorrow.

And the day after, you must attend the assembly, Darcy,” he added, lifting a brow with mock solemnity.

“Nothing revives the spirits quite like a crowded room and a country dance or two.”

“An assembly?” Darcy echoed faintly.

“Indeed,” Miss Bingley said eagerly. “The entire neighbourhood is expected to attend. I believe it is their way of welcoming newcomers to their society, and you may make the acquaintance of Hertfordshire’s finest.”

Darcy’s face settled into a rigid mask of polite horror. “Surely, Bingley, you jest.”

“Not at all!” Bingley laughed. “Nothing revives the spirits like dancing and cheerful company. I hear there are many wonderful families to meet in the area –”

“Wonderful families?” Darcy interrupted sharply.

“Sir William Lucas has spoken of quite a few,” Bingley continued with undimmed enthusiasm. “I look forward to making the acquaintance of as many as possible.”

“Oh, indeed,” Miss Bingley murmured with disdain, “wonderful families of country people, eager to pounce on any gentleman from town and secure an advantageous connection.”

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose, as though to stave off an encroaching headache. “Wonderful families. Dancing. Assemblies. You cannot be serious.”

“Quite serious,” Bingley replied with a broad grin. “I am certain it will do your spirits a world of good.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, his patience beginning to fray like the hem of a well-worn cravat. “You forget, Bingley, I did not travel all this way to be flung into a country dance with a collection of strangers who take pride in their rustic wit and large families.”

Before Bingley could reply, Mrs. Hurst chimed in from the settee, where she had been nursing a glass of ratafia.

“It is but a provincial diversion, Mr. Darcy. No doubt the entire event will be replete with sprigged muslins, unfortunate bonnets, and gentlemen of the militia with nothing to recommend them but their red coats.”

“I hear there'll be wine,” Mr. Hurst said, almost nonchalantly.

Darcy looked at him flatly. “That, sir, is hardly an inducement.”

“I find it persuasive,” Hurst replied, before promptly falling into a slumber.

Miss Bingley, who had taken a seat nearest Darcy with suspicious alacrity, leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. “Of course, Mr. Darcy, no one could expect you to find much to admire in a country assembly. The fashions alone must be an affront.”

“Not merely the fashions,” Darcy muttered, then stood and walked toward the fire, hoping its warmth might thaw the creeping dread settling in his limbs.

Bingley followed him with a sympathetic smile. “Come now, old fellow. It need not be dreadful. You must at least be curious to see what sort of neighbours we’ve acquired.”

“Curious?” Darcy turned to him, his brow raised in incredulity.

“Bingley, I have just concluded a journey plagued by broken roads, missing luggage, and the singular humiliation of arriving in a state scarcely fit for public view. I speak now only because you have compelled me to do so. What I desire most ardently is a hot bath, a fresh change of clothes, and uninterrupted rest. So you must forgive me if my curiosity is, for the present, quite insensible.”

At this, Bingley laughed again, unbothered. “Well then, sleep soundly tonight.”

“Delightful,” Darcy replied, drawing out the word as though it left a sour taste in his mouth.

“I have already seen to your room,” Bingley added. “The footman is having your trunks brought up.”

As if summoned by the very mention, a knock sounded at the door, and a footman appeared, his arms full of travel-worn luggage.

“Ah, there we are,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Darcy, you must get some rest. Supper will keep till you’re settled.”

With a silent nod, Darcy followed the footman out, his boots echoing softly against the polished floor as he was led down the corridor.

He sighed, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of fatigue and frustration, the warmth of the fire receding behind him.

Wonderful families. Dancing. Assemblies.

He was not made for such rustic cheer.

And yet, as he followed across the narrow hallway and the muffled sound of laughter drifted behind him, he could not help but feel, deep in some reluctantly awakened corner of his mind, that this country gathering would prove anything but ordinary.

Still, as he stepped into the chamber prepared for him and caught sight of his travel-worn reflection in the looking glass, he resolved—firmly and sensibly— to try and enjoy it.