T he sounds of muffled yelling jolted Darcy from his repose. What is going on?
He quickly sat up in bed and looked around the room, his mind scrambling to make sense of the noise. Another shout revealed the noise to be coming from outside. Some young fool probably racing horses again .
In truth, he had not really been asleep. As was his habit, he had awoken some time earlier, his mind too accustomed to rising early in the country. His bed was too comfortable to wish to leave it, so he had burrowed deeper in the blankets, allowing himself a rare moment of stillness before the day.
Mornings were his sanctuary, a brief reprieve before the duties of the day pressed upon him. As he had lain somewhere between consciousness and dreamland, his mind wandered to the day ahead. Business meetings correspondence, dinner with Georgiana, perhaps even a quiet evening of reading—his tasks always organized themselves each morning in his mind into a neat schedule that helped lift the burden on his shoulders.
Now, any semblance of peace was shattered.
An urgent knock came on his door from his changing room, followed by the familiar voice of his valet, Bates. “Mr. Darcy, sir! Are you awake?”
“Yes, come in.”
Darcy swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching his stiff muscles. Walking to the window that overlooked the garden on the south side of the house, he frowned at the peculiar color of the morning’s fog.
Bates entered, his usual composed demeanor replaced by an anxious expression. He carried a candle, which was unusual for this time of the morning in the middle of the summer. Darcy’s sharp eyes immediately caught the tension in his valet’s movements as he set the morning tray on the table.
“What is the matter?”
The man hesitated, clutching the edge of the tray. “Sir, I… there is a fire, at the docks. It started in the night and is spreading westward. The winds are carrying it…”
Darcy stiffened, his hand stilling as he reached for the glass of water. “How far?”
“It is not yet near Mayfair,” Bates assured him quickly, though his tone lacked conviction. “But the smoke, sir—it is… alarming. And people from that part of town are gathering in Hyde Park to escape.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened as he remembered the narrow passageways and other unsafe conditions of the docks when he had inspected them only months prior.
“I knew this would happen,” he muttered in a low, bitter voice.
Bates blinked, but before he could speak, Darcy waved him off. “Fetch my clothes. I will dress now.”
Bates hurried to comply, and within just a few minutes, Darcy was striding down the stairs to the foyer, Bates just a few steps behind him with the abandoned tray carrying toast and tea. A footman hurried to open the front door, and Darcy stepped outside.
The scene before him was nothing short of unprecedented chaos.
People ran in every direction, clutching bundles and leading frightened children. Wagons piled high with belongings creaked noisily as they rolled past, their owners shouting instructions over the din.
And above all, a tremendous cloud of thick, black smoke billowed up from the east, casting an ominous shadow throughout the city as the rising sun struggled to shine through.
For the first time, Darcy realized the enormity of the disaster. He drew in a deep breath, and his lungs immediately protested the foul air’s entry into his body. His breath rattled in his chest as he choked. Struggling to regain control, he steadied himself against the doorframe.
“Sir?” the footman asked in alarm.
Darcy waved the man away, then hailed a man who was walking quickly past. “What is happening?” he rasped.
“The bridge is blocked, so everyone is being told to gather to Hyde Park.”
Darcy nodded curtly, then retreated back into the house as another bout of coughing overtook him. His chest burned, and his hands shook slightly as he made his way to his study. Collapsing into his large chair behind the desk, he rang the small bell to summon the butler and housekeeper.
The fits left him fighting for air. Between gasps, Darcy issued instructions. “I doubt the fires will actually reach here, but we should prepare just in case. Mr. Harcourt, you shall oversee the arrangements. You know what to do.”
Harcourt gave a curt nod. Darcy turned his attention to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Porter, we will provide aid to those who need it. The kitchens are to prepare as much bread and sustenance as possible to distribute in Hyde Park.”
“Sir, with the price of flour—” she began.
“I will cover the expense; it will not come from the household budget,” Darcy said a reassuring smile. Her relaxed shoulders told him he had guessed her hesitation correctly. “I imagine there will also be a great need for clothing and blankets.”
She nodded and stood up straight. “We will do our best, sir.”
“Are there any of the staff who needs to check on the welfare of their families?”
Harcourt and Mrs. Porter exchanged a glance. “I can make inquiries, sir,” Harcourt finally said. “I am sorry that I do not know right now.”
Darcy waved a hand and coughed before speaking. “Let me know if anyone needs to be excused from their duties. If there are several who wish to leave, set them up in rotation schedules so we can still render aid to as many in the Park as necessary.”
As the two begin to leave, Darcy called out, “Harcourt? Send footmen to the Park and surrounding streets. I want to know what is being done, who is organizing relief efforts, and where the greatest need lies.”
Harcourt bowed his acknowledgment and followed Mrs. Porter from the room. Darcy frowned and turned his attention to his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. The housekeeper’s mention of the rising cost of food due to the war with France and tensions in America had sparked a concern. He quickly penned a note to his uncle, Lord Matlock; the docks burning would have repercussions far beyond London.
As he pressed his signet ring into the hot wax to seal the letter, Georgiana entered with wide eyes. “Brother, what is happening? Is Aunt Catherine coming?”
He gaped at her, prompting another coughing fit. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Well, the servants are rushing about the house as if the devil were chasing them. It only made sense.”
Biting back a chuckle so as not to irritate his lungs further, he reached out a hand and motioned for her to sit. “There is a fire spreading rapidly from the docks. From what I can tell, it will not actually come all this way, but there are hundreds fleeing to Hyde Park.”
She gasped. “Oh, those poor people.”
“I want you to stay in your rooms with Mrs. Annesley until I personally come to get you.”
“Surely it is not so dangerous—”
“It is,” he said sharply. She flinched, and he groaned internally, softening his voice. “If the situation does worsen, the house could be overrun by desperate people. I will not risk your safety.”
Her face paled, and she nodded reluctantly. “Very well.”
“I have assigned footmen to guard your door,” he added, “and a maid will attend to anything you need. Stay there, Georgiana. Promise me?”
“I promise,” she whispered, leaving the room with a fearful glance towards the smoke-filled windows.
By late morning, Darcy’s voice was nearly gone, the smoky air exacerbating his childhood weakness that typically only emerged in the coldest months or when he overexerted himself.
“Sir, please allow me to send for Dr. Thompson,” Bates begged.
“Absolutely not,” Darcy snapped, though his weakened voice carried little force. “There are many out there who are in need of a doctor’s assistance. I can manage until the disaster has passed.”
“Then at least let us prepare willow bark tea, sir.”
Darcy made to object, but the pleading look on his valet’s face caused him to sigh and nod reluctantly. “Very well, Bates; if it will quiet you on the matter.”
Bates snapped at a passing maid and issued the order. Knowing it would be a few minutes until it could be prepared, Darcy retreated to a guest room on the upper floor, where the east-facing windows provided are clearer view of the disaster unfolding on the city. He stood for a long while, watching the flames devour the area along the docks and creep towards Mayfair. The distant roar of destruction, combined with the cries of alarm and the urgent shouting of fire brigades, would not be a sound he would soon forget.
As the flames finally began to slow, Darcy maintained his silent vigil, his head bowed in silent prayer. Lord, forgive me. I should have stopped this. Have mercy on us all.
∞∞∞
It took almost an entire day for the fires to be quenched; the amount of smoke in the air was suffocating. It was not until the following morning that Darcy was able to leave his home and personally go to Hyde Park to see what needed to be done. Coughing lightly into his gloved hand, he surveyed the scene before him.
In a scant twenty-four hours, the area had been transformed into a refuge, no longer the pristine retreat of London’s upper class, but a sprawling encampment of makeshift tents and huddled groups. Fortunately, he saw evidence of order beginning to take shape amidst the chaos; white canvas shelters had been erected, and soldiers and city officials moved between clusters of displaced families.
The air was thick with smoke, along the stench of unwashed bodies and waste and the dull roar of wearied murmurs mixed with the occasional wail of a suffering child.
Darcy’s jaw tightened as he made his way through the crowd, several footmen and maids trailing behind him, handing out baskets of provisions. At least there is some organization , he thought, looking at a soldier placing up a barrier. The sheer number of people seeking aid, however, made the relief efforts appear almost insurmountable.
A commotion ahead drew his attention, and he hastened his footsteps to ascertain the cause. Near a grouping of supply carts, a tense argument was unfolding. A soldier, his red coat dulled by soot, stood rigidly before a young woman who held her ground with unwavering defiance.
His breath caught as he approached close enough to take her in. She stood near a grouping of supply carts, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, the dark fabric of her gown streaked with ash and soot. Strands of chestnut hair had escaped their pins, curling wildly in the damp air, framing a face that was—
Magnificent.
It was not a word he had ever used to describe a woman before, but it was the only one that fit.
The world seemed to narrow around her. She was not simply beautiful—though she was, in a way that struck deep, past logic and reason. No, it was something more. The fire had left devastation in its wake, yet she stood amid it all like a force of nature, steady and unshaken.
And she was arguing.
The woman—who was decidedly not a servant, nor the sort of lady one typically found overseeing relief efforts—stood her ground, her posture rigid with defiance. She had rolled up her sleeves despite the morning chill, and her voice was firm as she looked up into the soldier’s face towering above her.
“You cannot expect her to move!” The woman gestured towards a huddled figure on blankets near the carts. “She is severely burned, barely conscious, and in a great deal of pain. Where is your humanity?”
The soldier, his patience visibly fraying, squared his stance. “Miss, we need to clear this area for additional supplies. There is room in the tents—”
“He will not survive being dragged across the park like a sack of grain,” the woman countered, her chin lifting. “He needs careful handling, not rough hands and haste.”
The soldier’s jaw tightened. “Miss, I have orders.”
“And I have sense,” she shot back.
The corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched, despite himself. Her fire was unlike anything he had ever seen. Where most ladies of his acquaintance might shy from confrontation, she stood firm, unwavering. There was a fierceness to her that demanded to be acknowledged.
The soldier, however, was not amused. “This is not your decision.”
Before the conversation could escalate, Darcy stepped forward. “I believe the lady is correct.”
Both the soldier and the woman turned to look at him. The soldier stiffened upon recognizing the fine cut of Darcy’s coat and his air of authority. “Sir?”
Darcy inclined his head toward the injured woman. “If he is as badly burned as Miss…” He glanced briefly at the young woman.
“Bennet,” she supplied, her voice crisp.
“Miss Bennet claims,” he continued, “then moving him improperly could worsen his condition. Would it not be wiser to summon a physician before making that determination?”
The soldier hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod before stepping back. “I will send for someone.”
Darcy barely acknowledged him. His attention was wholly consumed by the woman before him.
She turned to face him fully, and for the first time, he saw the full depth of her eyes—rich and dark, alive with intelligence.
“I had it handled,” she said, her voice even.
Darcy let out a short breath that could have been a laugh. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
She gave him a long, measuring look, as if assessing whether he was an ally or an obstacle. Then, seeming to decide on the former, she nodded once in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”
Darcy inclined his head. “It was only sense.”
Before she could reply, a sharp, ragged cough tore through him, doubling him over slightly. He turned away, pressing a fist to his mouth, his chest seizing with the effort.
When he finally straightened, he found Miss Bennet watching him, one brow arched.
“You should not be out here,” she observed.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Neither should you.”
Her lips quirked, but she did not argue the point. “Is there something you require, Mr.…?”
“Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
She gave no sign of recognition, merely inclining her head. “Then, Mr. Darcy, can I help you with something?”
Stay here and continue speaking with me until the world rights itself again.
But instead, he said, “On the contrary, I was about to ask if you required anything.”
“I thank you, but no. We will be leaving soon for my father’s estate. Thank you helping me assist this woman.” She turned to walk away.
“Wait, she is not with you?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, she stumbled into the park late last night.”
“You argued with a soldier—for a stranger?”
She tilted her head, considering him as if the question were strange. “Of course.”
Darcy studied her, astonishment flickering through his thoughts. She had argued—boldly, passionately—with a soldier over a woman she did not even know. How many others in her position would have turned away, claiming it was not their concern? He had never seen such conviction in a lady before.
“Why get involved?” he asked, his curiosity overriding his usual reserve.
Her fine eyes met his, unwavering. “Because she could not speak for herself.”
The simplicity of her words struck him deeper than he expected. He had heard countless justifications for action in his lifetime—duty, honor, pride—but this was different. No self-righteousness, no need for recognition. Just… an innate, immovable sense of rightness.
The ladies of his acquaintance concerned themselves with embroidery and drawing-room gossip, not standing their ground against uniformed men for the sake of an unknown woman. Even the most charitable among them donated funds and spoke kindly of their efforts—but they did not act.
Yet here stood Miss Bennet, covered in soot, defying orders with no apparent hesitation.
Before he could form another thought, she gave him a polite nod. “Thank you again, Mr. Darcy. Good day.”
And just like that, she was gone.
He turned slightly, his eyes following her form as she walked away, moving with sure steps across the field. Her skirts skimmed the trampled grass, and the hem of her stained gown was coated six inches in mud. But as he watched her go, he was unable to shake the feeling that he had just encountered someone singular—someone unlike anyone he had ever met.
Then, she reached a small gathering of people. Without hesitation, she bent and lifted a tiny child—a baby, really, swaddled in a worn but clean blanket—holding him close, murmuring down at him
His stomach clenched.
A child.
His mind leapt to the most obvious conclusion— her child . She was married.
Of course she was. A woman like that, a woman of such striking beauty, such command, would not have remained unattached for long.
A strange weight settled on his heart. He did not understand it, nor did he try to. Instead, he forced himself to look away, coughing into his fist as the thick air once again reminded him of the current situation.
It was an absurd reaction—what should it matter to him? And yet, as he stood there, feeling the rasp of smoke in his throat and the distant hum of voices in his ears, all he could focus on was the way she held the child, how naturally she moved among the people who looked to her for guidance.
Of course she was married. A woman like that—strong, resolute, breathtaking—would not be left to navigate the world alone.
She was a remarkable woman.
But she was not for him.
His fingers curled at his sides, and he exhaled slowly, willing away the tightening of his chest.
“Sir?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Darcy turned sharply. One of the footmen he had sent out earlier had returned, waiting for instructions.
“Yes,” he said, steadying himself. “Find out where the most urgent aid is required and report back.”
The man bowed and hurried off, leaving Darcy to cast one last glance in Elizabeth’s direction before forcing himself to turn away. There was work to be done, but for the first time in a long while, he did not know what to do with himself.