Page 9 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Longbourn

Elizabeth

No sooner had the Bennets returned from the assembly than the drawing room at Longbourn was revived with the bustle of six women in various degrees of exhilaration, all of them eager—some more than others—to recount the triumphs and tribulations of the evening.

Mrs. Bennet settled herself into her favourite chair with an air of supreme satisfaction and fanned her face as though she had personally overseen the arrangement of every dance.

“Well, Mr. Bennet,” she began, without invitation or preamble, “it has all gone exactly as I had hoped! Jane was admired above every other young lady in the room. There is no doubt of it. Mr. Bingley danced with her thrice—thrice! And looked at no one else with near as much attention.”

Jane, seated modestly by the fire, blushed and kept her eyes upon her gloves.

Mr. Bennet, who had been rereading the same page for the past ten minutes with no real effort to understand it, murmured something unintelligible and turned another leaf. He was long accustomed to such speeches and had learned the wisdom of offering minimal resistance.

"I told you," declared Mrs. Bennet, her fan slicing wide arcs through the air, "I told you he would he’d be captivated by Jane.

And now I am quite certain of it. His fortune is not to be sneezed at, to be sure, but I daresay that even without it, he would still have been the most agreeable gentleman at the assembly. "

“Indeed, Mama,” Elizabeth replied dryly, “though I imagine it was Jane’s beauty, rather than any maternal prediction, that secured the invitation.”

Mrs. Bennet ignored her.

“I should be very much surprised if he did not call within the next few days. Oh! We must be sure to have some seed cake in the house. Jane, dear, do try to wear that blue gown again when next he comes. He admired it greatly—I could see it in his eyes.”

Jane smiled faintly. “He was very kind, Mama.”

“And attentive,” Mrs. Bennet insisted. “He scarcely took his eyes off you the entire evening.”

Elizabeth cast a glance toward her sister, who now seemed quite unable to meet anyone’s gaze and wore a small, distracted smile.

Her cheeks remained a delicate shade of pink.

There could be no mistaking it—Jane was taken with Mr. Bingley, and even the mere mention of his attentions throughout the evening caused her to blush most becomingly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Bennet went on, “and then there was his friend. Mr. Darcy.” Her tone shifted, as though the very name soured the air. “I declare, I have never seen a man more full of himself. He spoke to no one, danced with no one, and looked as if every person in the room gave him pain to behold.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea and said nothing.

“And awkward,” Mrs. Bennet added with relish.

“Not just proud, but completely lacking in grace. Did you see what he did to poor Miss Pritchard’s gown?

Nearly ripped it straight from her back.

If not for the quick thinking of Mrs. Long’s niece and two other women, we would have had a full scandal on our hands.

Imagine it! A lady bared in the middle of the assembly. ”

“It was only a torn hem, Mama,” Elizabeth said mildly. “Nothing was revealed beyond a strap of her undergarment. Besides, he did offer an apology.”

“Only a torn hem?” cried Mrs. Bennet. “You are too generous, Lizzy. That poor girl looked ready to faint. And him—stammering like a fool, all pale and horrified. I daresay he has not had to account for himself in a very long time.”

“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth said, unable to suppress a small smile. “But I suspect it was not pride that guided him this evening. He looked rather more like a man beset by demons. Internal ones, that is.”

Mrs. Bennet snorted. “What he’s beset by is a superiority complex.”

Lydia, who had contributed little beyond tales of officers and dancing thus far, chimed in. “Someone said he refused to dance with Lizzy when Mr. Bingley suggested it. He said there was no lady handsome enough to tempt him. I heard Miss Bingley repeat it near the punch bowl.”

Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “Did she? Well then, I suppose my reputation has suffered a mortal blow.”

Kitty giggled. “Are you terribly wounded?”

“Crushed,” Elizabeth replied, her hand rising to her brow in feigned despair. “I shall never recover.”

“Well, Elizabeth thinks the gentleman not entirely insufferable. I shall take that as high praise,” said Mr. Bennet, finally glancing up from his book. “And if we are quite done roasting him upon the spit, might I be allowed to enjoy the remainder of my evening in peace?”

But Mrs. Bennet was not finished, and it took a full five minutes more before she allowed herself to be herded upstairs.

Later that evening, in the calm quiet of Jane’s chamber, Elizabeth assisted her sister in unpinning her hair. It was then she broached the subject of Mr. Bingley again, believing Jane would be far more inclined to speak freely in private than before the assembled family.

“I liked him,” Jane admitted softly. “He was everything one could hope for. Cheerful, attentive, respectful.”

Elizabeth smiled. “And not possessed of ten thousand a year, so Mama is already halfway to planning the wedding.”

“He still earns more than most people. I believe Mama can live with that, though she is rather too forward in expecting so much from a gentleman with whom we have shared only three dances.”

“Indeed. At this rate, she shall have you married by Tuesday and settled in a manor by Thursday. I daresay Mr. Bingley ought to be informed of his own intentions before the week is out.”

Jane laughed, then fell silent. “And what of Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth paused. “What of him?”

“I only ask because—well, Charlotte told me that someone overheard what he said. About not being tempted to dance with anyone. With you.”

“I heard it too,” Elizabeth said. “I was closer than anyone realised.”

Jane turned to her. “Did it hurt you?”

Elizabeth considered. “It surprised me. At first I was insulted. But after… well, I do not think he meant it in the way it sounded. There is something odd about him. Not unkind, just… unsteady. I do not know what to think. Not yet.”

She said nothing of the compliment she had heard afterward, nothing of eyes called fine, of admiration whispered too late.

Jane said nothing more, and the sisters retired. But Elizabeth lay awake for some time, the image of Mr. Darcy lingering behind her eyes—tall, silent, and so very out of place.

***

Netherfield Park

Darcy

Darcy did not listen to the full extent of Miss Bingley’s impassioned defense on his behalf—how Mrs. Pritchard, the young woman whose gown he had torn, had plainly stepped into his path with intention, hoping to capture his attention and perhaps his fortune.

Caroline went so far as to suggest the girl’s action was not clumsy but calculated, a vulgar attempt at entrapment.

Darcy, however, was under no such delusion.

Whatever faults he could be accused of, he was not so vain as to believe the misstep was not due to his newfound misfortune.

No. The shame was his entirely.

He said nothing while Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst continued their observations, now shifting their conversation to the parade of young ladies at the assembly and the desperate manoeuvrings of various mothers.

Mrs. Bennet’s name, unsurprisingly, surfaced with particular disdain.

Mrs. Hurst claimed she had witnessed the woman physically pushing her eldest daughter into Mr. Bingley’s path.

While Bingley good-naturedly refuted this claim, he spoke of Miss Bennet’s beauty, though his sisters were quick to temper such admiration by referencing the poor connections of the Bennet family.

Darcy had heard enough.

He excused himself quietly and ascended the stairs, his feet heavy, his mind darker still. At the third step, he stumbled—not quite a fall, but near enough to quicken his heart. Was it misfortune again, he wondered, or merely distraction? He righted himself and pressed on.

In the solitude of his chamber, Darcy fell heavily into a chair. The room was dim, the fire barely lit, but the glow was sufficient to illuminate the frown etched deep across his brow.

He had imagined every possible humiliation that might befall him in Hertfordshire.

He had taken every precaution to avoid precisely the sort of spectacle that had now occurred.

That Elizabeth Bennet had witnessed both his graceless fall and his unfortunate remark was unbearable. He could think of no worse fate.

What more can you devise for me, Misfortune? he thought bitterly.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock—light, hesitant, then again, more firmly.

“Darcy?” came Bingley’s voice from the other side of the door. “Are you well?”

Darcy hesitated. Then, rising, he opened the door.

Bingley stepped forward, concern visible beneath his habitual cheer. “You left so suddenly,” he said. “Caroline believes you have been grievously offended by the assembly.”

Darcy offered a thin smile. “The assembly was not the cause. It was my misfortune that rendered it intolerable.”

“Misfortune? I thought you had dismissed that superstition. I refrained from mentioning it in coach, lest my sisters or, worse still, Hurst create a spectacle.”

Darcy motioned to a chair. “Please sit, Bingley. I must speak with you.”

And so he did. In hushed tones, Darcy relayed the curious incident he believed had set the whole affair in motion.

How he had taken Georgiana to the fair at her earnest request, indulging her desire to walk amongst the crowd and examine the booths, though such places were far removed from his usual preference.

How, while escorting her through a narrow lane, he had accidentally jostled a hooded woman, sending a bundle of yellowed, curling cards tumbling from her hands.

How he had immediately offered an apology, only to be met by the woman's piercing gaze and a pronouncement, spoken with eerie certainty, that his fortune was turning.

“And ever since I made my way to come here,” Darcy finished, “things have gone wrong.”

Bingley paused, then shook his head. “Common Darcy, you cannot believe such nonsense.”

Darcy looked away. “I do not believe it. Not truly. But I cannot ignore it.”

“You are among the most rational men I know, and yet here you are, unsettled by the words of a fairground charlatan.”

“It is not her words that trouble me,” Darcy said quietly, “but the truth in them. Since that moment, nothing has gone right. Every step feels as if it might crack the earth beneath me.”

Bingley laughed. “You sound like a character in a gothic tale. This evening was unfortunate, yes. But a torn gown, a few whispers, and awkward glances do not mark the ruin of a man.”

Darcy remained silent.

“I understand the impulse to assume some curse of misfortune follows you. After your journey, the bed, the mosquito, the broken teacup, and now tonight…”

“You omit the horses’ reluctance to pull the carriage this very night,” Darcy interjected.

Bingley waved a hand dismissively. “That had nothing to do with you.”

“I wish I could be certain.”

Bingley sighed. “It is all sheer coincidence. The Darcy I know will recover swiftly.”

“Do you know how lucky I usually am?”

“I have some idea,” Bingley replied.

“No, you do not. I cannot recall losing at anything. When the worst occurred with my sister last year…” He paused, biting back the memory. “I was fortunate to find her in Ramsgate before she boarded that ship with that scoundrel.”

“You described it as a fortunate rescue,” Bingley replied.

“So these all cannot simply be coincidence,” Darcy sighed. “Once might be an accident, but repeated for over a week? How does one explain losing at cards three times in a row to a half-drunk Hurst?”

Perhaps uncertain how best to respond, Bingley waited until he perceived Darcy's composure return, if only slightly, before redirecting the conversation.

“I will confess,” he said at last, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet appeared less than pleased at you tonight. That, I daresay, may be the only genuine misfortune of the evening.”

“I did not know she was sitting so close behind me.”

“I assumed you did. Hopefully, she will not hold your remark against you forever.”

Darcy stood and moved toward the fire, gazing into its still embers. “It was not a simple remark. It was careless, and she heard it. And the rest—well, I have never been more exposed.”

Bingley rose and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Darcy, you are weighing this too heavily. Misfortune or not, you remain the same man. And Miss Bennet… she may yet surprise you.”

Darcy did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on the flames.

“You need rest. Sleep on it. Tomorrow, this will seem absurd. You are still Fitzwilliam Darcy, and no fortune-teller can undo that,” Bingley said before turning toward the door.

Darcy gave a faint nod, though it did not feel like agreement. When the door closed, he was left with only the fire, the silence, and the memory of a girl with fine eyes who now looked at him with scorn.