Page 6 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Meryton Assembly

Darcy

“I have finally got the beast to go on straight!” cried the rider, tugging on the reins with equal parts triumph and frustration. “Blazes, but they were in a temper tonight!”

The carriage gave a violent jolt as the horses resumed their course, though not without an indignant toss of their manes.

“Perhaps they share our sentiments,” Miss Bingley observed dryly, peering out into the dusk with a pinched expression. “Even the horses appear loath to attend this rural frolic.”

“I am certain they merely caught the scent of country freedom,” Bingley replied with a cheerful shrug. “Do not malign the good sense of animals. They likely wished to avoid the assembly’s crush.”

Darcy bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from cursing aloud.

The carriage had lurched violently only moments before, the horses rearing in protest and dragging the vehicle perilously close to the verge.

That they had not yet tipped into a ditch was a small miracle.

In his estimation, it could not be coincidence.

He had spent the entire day indoors, determined to avoid the smallest chance of mishap.

He had taken breakfast in his room, declined every suggestion for diversion, and remained in studied isolation—refusing a walk, a game of pall-mall, even the simple comfort of a ride.

And yet, despite such precautions, the moment he agreed to join the others for the assembly in Meryton, disaster struck. Again.

The horses had settled at last, though their tossing heads and skittish pace still suggested unease. He was not surprised. If his own sense of foreboding proved true, it was no stretch to believe that even the animals had taken offence at his presence.

It was as though he were reliving that cursed journey to Hertfordshire.

The memory came unbidden—so similar was the sensation of dread.

His thoughts turned, with a wry sort of fatalism, to the biblical tale of Jonah—oft repeated by the vicar of his youth.

Should the Bingleys decide to cast him from the carriage as the mariners had done with that unfortunate prophet, he had little doubt their journey would proceed with greater ease.

He sighed heavily and leaned back against the squabs, ignoring Miss Bingley’s continued murmurs of disdain.

This had been a mistake. He had allowed himself a flicker of hope, foolish as it seemed.

The day had passed without incident, a rare gift of calm, and, despite his resolve to be more cautious the previous night, he had dared to believe that an evening among strangers, with music and polite conversation, might offer some measure of relief from the relentless unease that had plagued him of late.

It was not his habit to seek company in such places, but the string of misfortunes he had endured made him yearn, however slightly, for a return to normalcy.

Now he wished he had remained at Netherfield.

They were late. Of course, they were late. And being late meant the worst possible outcome: stepping into the assembly hall after the dancing had begun, to the scrutiny of every eye and whispering tongue in the room.

Their entrance drew precisely the sort of attention Darcy had hoped to avoid. The moment they stepped across the threshold, a hush fell over the assembly. Though the music continued, the heads turned, the conversations paused, and every eye seemed fixed on their party as they crossed the hall.

Darcy’s shoulders tensed. Of course they would arrive precisely at the wrong moment, just as the dancing was to commenced, during the height of interest. It was the very hour in which new arrivals were most conspicuous, most discussed.

He knew this from long experience. That he should be paraded in late like some curiosity on display was nearly unbearable.

Bingley, obviously a subject of interest judging by the number of eyes upon him, bore the scrutiny with ease. He moved ahead to greet a stout, well-dressed gentleman with an enthusiastic air and a ruddy face that bespoke equal parts good nature and pride.

“Darcy,” Bingley called, beckoning him forward. “Allow me to present Sir William Lucas. He is our host this evening and a pillar of the Meryton community.”

The name did ring a bell. Bingley, during his visit to Darcy’s chambers that afternoon in an attempt to persuade him into some diversion, had discussed several of the more prominent members of Meryton society.

If memory served, this Sir William was the gentleman who had once engaged in trade before returning to Hertfordshire upon receiving his knighthood.

“Oh! The pleasure is mine entirely,” the knight exclaimed, his voice carrying just a touch too far.

“We are honoured to welcome Mr. Bingley’s party, and most particularly a gentleman from Derbyshire.

Such an elegant county. I had the privilege of travelling there once, long ago. Splendid country, splendid.”

Darcy murmured a suitable reply. If Sir William knew he hailed from Derbyshire, then it stood to reason the entire neighbourhood did as well.

The maid at Netherfield had likely discerned as much, and maids were notorious conveyors of information.

He wondered, fleetingly, whether news of his recent mishaps had travelled just as quickly.

Yet before the thought could settle, his attention was drawn elsewhere—his gaze caught by movement nearby.

She stood just beyond Sir William, speaking to a friend.

Her gown was of modest cut, a rich lilac that should have been too bold for the room, yet it suited her so well that he was momentarily struck still.

Her curls bounced lightly as she turned, her mouth quirked in amusement at something just said. And then she glanced his way.

Dark eyes met his, open and searching, with no pretence or false modesty. Just curiosity. Honest, unconcealed, and altogether disarming.

Darcy swallowed hard.

Sir William, with the vigour of a man pleased by his own importance, turned toward her. “Ah. Mr. Darcy, may I introduce my daughter Charlotte and our dear neighbour Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Elizabeth. The name struck him like a chord half-forgotten.

Miss Bennet curtsied. Darcy bowed. The moment ought to have been simple. He should have asked her to stand up with him. It would have been the polite thing, the expected thing.

He did not.

To do so would mean placing himself under observation, dancing under every gaze, risking some new embarrassment, some fresh reminder that he was a man shadowed by mischance. And worse, what if, when his misfortune came for him, it was not he who suffered, but she?

By some miracle, he had thus far avoided spoiling the evening—save, of course, for the incident with the unruly horses. He had no intention of tempting fortune further.

So, he bowed once more, made some vague excuse about greeting another acquaintance, and retreated to the edge of the room alone.

From his vantage point, he watched as Bingley stepped forward to make the acquaintance of an older woman accompanied by Miss Elizabeth Bennet and four other young ladies. From the resemblance in features, Darcy surmised that the elder woman was likely their mother, and the others, her daughters.

Judging by the smile on Bingley’s face and the particular attention he paid to a very handsome lady—who, by her appearance, seemed somewhat older than Miss Elizabeth—Darcy had little doubt he was requesting the honour of a dance.

His assumption was soon confirmed, for the lady accepted, and the two made their way toward the floor just as the set began.

He observed Miss Elizabeth laugh lightly at something Miss Lucas said, then noted as another gentleman approached, offered his suit, was accepted, and led her out in turn.

Darcy remained at his post by the wall, unmoving, painfully aware that he had never wished more ardently to dance.

Yet he reminded himself that it was far better to remain cautious than to surrender to impulse and make a spectacle of himself— particularly if his misfortune chose this night to make another mark.

The dancing continued for three full sets, and Darcy remained firmly planted near the edge of the room, unmoving. His eyes fixed on only two persons: Bingley and his partner, and somewhat against his better judgement, Elizabeth Bennet, who, quite surprisingly, had not danced again after the first.

He could not help but notice how her gown caught the light, how her expression shifted gently with each polite conversation. She laughed once, and the sound, carried faintly over the music, lodged itself in his chest.

He wished he might claim a set with her. But he warned himself against it. The risk was too great. One misstep—one unfortunate accident—and her name might be dragged into whatever ill fortune now dogged him.

While he observed the room, Miss Bingley attempted to engage him once, all sweetness and saccharine charm, but he excused himself with mention of an old riding injury that left his feet aching. She did not press the matter.

After the third dance concluded, Bingley, flushed with success and light of heart, came to collect him.

“Come, Darcy. Why attend such a lovely event if you mean to stand about like a stone sentinel? I hate to see you stand all by yourself in such a manner. It is not in your nature to sulk in corners.”

Darcy attempted a smile. “Your partner seems very charming, and you appear to have enjoyed her company well. You danced the first and third set with her, did you not?”

“That is Miss Jane Bennet. A finer lady I have not met,” Bingley said with glowing admiration. “I do believe I have never seen such beauty in all my days.”

Darcy gave a small nod and said nothing more, hoping silence would make Bingley drop his subject. The fourth set was forming. From the direction of Miss Bennet’s gentle gaze, it was clear Bingley had already claimed her hand.

But Bingley, undeterred, leaned in with mischief in his eyes. “Just behind you sits Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She is my partner’s younger sister. I imagine she would make a fine partner, as clever as she is pretty.”

The name struck a chord, again. Darcy's breath caught.

And still, he could not do it.

Too many things could go wrong. A stumble, a torn hem, an insult misconstrued. Misfortune had followed him too closely of late. It would be the height of selfishness to drag her into its wake.

“There is no lady in the room handsome enough to tempt me, Bingley,” he said lightly, accompanied by an indifferent shrug, hoping that such sweeping dismissal would satisfy his friend and send him on his way

But even before Bingley responded, Darcy saw the shift in his expression. The slight widening of the eyes, the way his gaze darted over Darcy’s shoulder.

And then Darcy turned.

Miss Elizabeth sat scarcely four paces behind him.

She must have heard every word. Her brow arched, her expression poised between surprise and disdain.

Her lips pressed into a line that could scarcely be called a smile.

When Bingley had said she was behind him, Darcy had not anticipated she was quite so near.

Darcy’s stomach dropped.

It had not been his intention to demean or diminish her, but merely to rid himself of Bingley’s persistence by any means necessary. And now, the very lady who had first caught his eye in the room was regarding him with such pointed disdain, it might have pierced stone had it been a dagger.

He turned back to Bingley at once. “I am feeling singularly unlucky,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could restrain them.

“What?” Bingley laughed. “Darcy, do not be absurd. You are the luckiest fellow I know. Back at Oxford, we all said you had a charm hidden in your coat.”

“Well, the events of the past week have proved otherwise,” Darcy replied under his breath.

Bingley opened his mouth to protest again, but Darcy cut him off. “Miss Elizabeth has fine eyes and a remarkable manner, but I fear if misfortune is to find me this night, it may take her down in its tide should I presume to approach.”

Bingley frowned. “Darcy, a few mishaps do not mean the heavens are conspiring against you. Perhaps it is the fear of disaster that has made you clumsy.”

Darcy looked toward the center of the room. The set was beginning, and Jane Bennet had taken her place.

“Your partner awaits,” he said simply. “Do not keep her waiting, Bingley. As for the rest, let us speak later. I believe the coachman could use company.”

He did not wait for Bingley’s reply. With deliberate steps, Darcy turned and began making his way toward the door.

His mind lingered on Elizabeth Bennet’s expression. That sharp, unamused stare. He had not meant to slight her, and yet he had. No clever apology now would erase the slight sting of overheard disdain.

Oh misfortune , he thought bitterly. What pact have I made with you?

But he had not reached the door when a gasp went up.

He froze. Several voices followed in quick succession.

Turning his head slightly, he realised what had happened.

His boot—thick-soled and square-toed—had caught the hem of a lady’s gown. He had not noticed at first, but as he stepped forward, the delicate muslin gave way with a sudden rip. The lady, who had not felt the tug, moved too soon, and the tear worsened.

Only the quick reflexes of two nearby matrons spared the young woman from total humiliation, drawing their shawls about her and guiding her quickly from view. The lady herself, flushed red and clutching her torn bodice, vanished behind a screen of sympathy and shock.

Darcy stood still, mortified. He wished he could command the ground to swallow him in that moment.

“I am—deeply sorry,” he said at once, bowing low. “I had not seen—please forgive me.”

“It is quite all right,” one of the ladies murmured, her tone too gracious to be true. “Such things do happen.”

But Darcy detected the sharp edge beneath her civility.

He had already overheard more than one whispered remark that evening, murmured speculation on his supposed pride, born, it seemed, of his reluctance to engage socially.

And now, it appeared he had only served to confirm those suspicions, whether by his own misstep or by the unrelenting hand of misfortune.

He turned and found Bingley watching him from across the room. His expression said nothing, and everything.

And then, across the crowd, his gaze met Miss Elizabeth’s once more.

She did not laugh.

Unlike the others—who tittered and whispered—Elizabeth only stared. Her brows lifted slightly, and her mouth parted in astonishment, but no smile followed.

Darcy gave a small bow, more apology than form, and turned back toward the door. This time, no one stopped him.

He would wait with the horses.