Page 4 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Netherfield Park

Darcy

Darcy awoke with a start, every muscle protesting the indignities of the night just past. The pale light of morning filtered through the draperies, casting a muted glow over the otherwise respectable furnishings of the chamber in which he had passed the night.

And yet, despite the elegance of his surroundings, he felt quite as though he had spent the night on a battlefield.

The bed had groaned ominously upon first receiving him and surrendered altogether around midnight, one leg giving way with a snap.

The result was a slanted mattress that pitched him towards the floor each time he dared shift position.

It was not so much sleep he’d had as a prolonged exercise in staying upright.

He managed to rise from the bed without tumbling to the floor entirely, muttering a soft curse beneath his breath as he did so.

His valet had not yet arrived that morning, though Darcy could scarcely fault him.

Had the bed not proved so inhospitable to sleep, he doubted he would be awake himself, given the rigours of the previous day’s journey.

When he entered the breakfast room, he found Bingley already at the table, beaming over a pot of coffee.

“Darcy,” Bingley said, a frown gathering upon his brow at the sight of his friend. “You look as though the night did not favour you. Are you plagued by sleeplessness or bodily discomfort?”

Darcy lowered himself into a chair with the caution of a man who had wrestled furniture in the dark. “One leg of the bed broke shortly after I lay down. I have spent the night contorted at an angle more suited to a hillside than a mattress.”

“Heavens. Why didn’t you ring for your valet?” Bingley winced.

Darcy, pouring himself a cup of coffee, replied with dry resignation. “After the day he endured, I thought he deserved rest. I deemed it unkind to rouse him for a carpentry issue.”

Bingley nodded, a half-smile playing upon his lips. “You are generosity itself. Nevertheless, I shall send for a carpenter at once. No guest of mine should risk injury by bedding.”

“Do see that the carpenter is of the quieter sort. I do not think I could endure the sound of hammering today.”

“If the man so much as breathes too loudly, I shall dismiss him,” Bingley promised with mock solemnity. “But truly, I am sorry for your night. Did you manage any sleep at all?”

“Very little,” Darcy replied. “There was also a mosquito.”

“A mosquito?”

“One,” Darcy affirmed grimly, “but of singular purpose. It whined at my ear, danced before my face, and I suspect, took an inordinate liking to my left ankle.”

Bingley chuckled, clearly trying to stifle further laughter. “A foe worthy of you, Darcy. I daresay the mosquito will be dining out on that tale for weeks.”

“At least one of us found the evening agreeable.”

“Shall we then say the entirety of yesterday was most peculiar for you?” Bingley asked with a wry smile.

Darcy huffed. “It would seem that from the moment I set out for Hertfordshire, the very fates conspired against me. I can only hope the tide turns soon, or I may be compelled to retreat to London.”

“Come now, Darcy,” Bingley said, gesturing dismissively.

“You are the most fortunate man of my acquaintance. Surely a single day of seemingly ill-timed events ought not to ruffle your composure. For once, you merely experienced life as we lesser mortals do. But I daresay the remainder of the day shall prove far more to your liking.”

Just then, a footman entered, bearing a bundle of well-travelled trunks.

“Sir, the coachman recovered these near the Seven Mile Stone,” he reported. “Your luggage, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy straightened with surprise. “Indeed? That is... remarkably good news.”

“I knew it would turn up,” Bingley said, delighted. “See, fortune smiles upon you again.”

Darcy cast a wary glance at the trunks, half-expecting them to burst into flames for irony’s sake. “If nothing leaps out to bite me, I may agree.”

“Come now,” said Bingley, rising. “You must take a hearty breakfast. Eggs, ham, toast—enough to restore a man to himself. And after that, perhaps a walk, a shave, and a fresh cravat. You’ll feel fit for anything.”

“Even an assembly?” Darcy asked, his voice low and unenthused.

“Especially an assembly,” Bingley replied with a wink. “Tomorrow, my friend, Hertfordshire shall see that Fitzwilliam Darcy may suffer mosquitoes and splintered furniture, but he shall not be bested.”

Darcy shook his head with a smile half-won by coffee and Bingley’s determined good humour. If fortune truly had returned to his side, breakfast was an acceptable beginning.

The maid soon entered the room, and the two gentlemen moved towards the far end, where two chairs stood near the hearth, to finish their coffee.

Just as the maid withdrew, having arranged the breakfast table to her satisfaction, the remainder of the household entered the parlour.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst moved with unhurried grace, taking their places with the ease of ladies accustomed to well-appointed comfort.

Mr. Hurst followed at a more languid pace, his gaze fixed with quiet determination upon the dishes arrayed before him.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley offered, her voice warm and modulated as she reached for the teapot. “I trust your night afforded you some degree of rest?”

Darcy, stationed by the hearth with a cup already in hand, inclined his head with formal civility. “I managed tolerably well, I thank you.”

His reply, while courteous, permitted no further probing.

Miss Bingley, undeterred, bestowed a slight smile and turned her attention to her tea just after greeting her brother.

Beside her, Mrs. Hurst exchanged a knowing glance with her sister, as though expecting some detail from Darcy that never came.

Bingley glanced at his friend with mild concern.

A tension rested in Darcy’s shoulders that had not been present the evening before, nor during their brief exchange earlier that morning.

There was a drawn look about his eyes, though he bore it without complaint.

Sensing Darcy’s disinclination to speak of it, Bingley merely helped himself to the toast rack and said nothing.

“The breakfast is quite agreeable this morning,” Louisa observed, selecting a boiled egg with delicate fingers. “And it appears the weather has found a more generous temper.”

Darcy responded with a brief nod, offering no elaboration.

“It may interest you to know that Darcy’s luggage has been recovered,” Bingley said with affected lightness. “A footman discovered the trunks near the Seven Mile Stone.”

“That is indeed fortunate,” Mrs. Hurst remarked, reaching for the preserves. “One can hardly be expected to function without proper attire.”

“Quite so,” added Miss Bingley, as she poured a fresh cup and extended it towards Darcy. “Though I must say, Mr. Darcy, you present yourself so well that no one would suppose you had suffered any inconvenience at all.”

Darcy accepted the cup with a murmured word of thanks, making no response to the flattery contained therein.

“And how does your sister fare?” Mrs. Hurst inquired, changing the topic. “You scarcely spoke of her before retiring last evening.”

“She is in excellent health, I thank you,” Darcy replied, his voice softening slightly. “Georgiana is in London, taking the air.”

“How charming,” said Miss Bingley, setting down her spoon with careful precision. “We must hope she joins us before the Season comes to its end.”

“That is likely,” Darcy answered, placing his cup upon its saucer with deliberate care.

Conversation soon gave way to the gentle sounds of breakfast—porcelain against silver, the sound of soft chewing, the light rustle of linen, and the soft murmur of the fire.

Darcy reached forward to steady the teapot, his movement exact but ill-timed.

The edge of his coat brushed a delicate cup beside it.

It teetered, then toppled, striking the saucer with a sharp crack before shattering in full upon the polished wood floor.

The room froze.

Mrs. Hurst gave a faint gasp and raised a gloved hand to her lips, while Miss Bingley stiffened in her seat, her brows lifted in subtle astonishment. Louisa’s gaze darted from the fragments to Darcy’s face, evidently torn between shock and suppressed amusement.

Darcy himself did not move. His gaze remained fixed upon the broken remains, and his hand, still extended, withdrew with careful restraint to his lap.

A faint crease appeared between his brows—not of vexation, but of stunned disbelief.

To misstep so publicly, and in such company, was foreign to him.

It was Bingley who recovered first. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I never cared for that cup’s pattern.” He signalled to the maids to get it cleaned.

A maid soon arrived promptly, and with a swift curtsy, she knelt to gather the shards.

“My apologies,” Darcy said quietly, his voice low but steady.

“Not a bit of it,” Bingley replied, offering him an encouraging smile. “You’ve had a trying few days. A misjudged sleeve is no great tragedy. Come, take something to eat. Hurst swears eggs are a remedy for all manner of ills, though I suspect it serves merely as a pretext for a second helping.”

“Entirely accurate,” Mr. Hurst muttered from behind his paper, helping himself to another slice of ham.

Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch, though his gaze lingered a moment longer upon the departing maid and the shards she bore away.

It was nothing, he told himself. A broken cup was a trivial thing.

However, a quiet disquiet persisted. A pattern was ensuing.

A terrible journey with countless mishaps, a misbehaving bed, a relentless mosquito, and now shattered China. What next?

Still, he drew himself upright and took up his fork with calm precision.

Darcy continued the meal quietly and carefully, barely indulging in the table conversation about the upcoming assembly, the endless comparisons between town and country, and Miss Bingley’s pointed observations on the perilous vulgarities of provincial society.

His replies, when offered, were brief and perfectly civil, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere.