Page 4 of The Heroic Mr Darcy’s Bad Manners

Elizabeth

Longbourn, late August 1811

“May I have my green morning dress?” Elizabeth asked Betty.

Betty was the long-suffering lady’s maid shared by all five Bennet sisters.

“It is in the scullery, being washed as we speak.”

It was Elizabeth’s favourite, but she supposed that another would do just as well. It was not as if she was expecting any visitors.

“Oh well, I shall take the blue one.”

“I am sorry, but that too is being washed,” Betty admitted with a frown developing between her brows.

“The yellow?” Elizabeth questioned with less hope.

Betty shook her head.

“This is very strange because I am absolutely certain that I have not worn it since it was cleaned last week.”

“I was a little bewildered when all your dresses were in the laundry basket. I should have asked you,” Betty admitted ruefully.

“I can assure you that it was not I who put them there. Do I have any gowns at all?”

“Yes, the white is in your dressing room.”

“The one which is too short, too tight, and has a large, irremovable stain running almost from top to bottom?”

“Yes.”

The mortification upon realising her blunder was turning Betty’s face crimson. She obviously understood what a mistake she had made, so Elizabeth saw no reason to admonish her. The choice was simple: she must wear the tattered gown or pull down a woollen winter dress from the attic. One glance out of the window disabused her of the latter suggestion; the sun shone brightly without a cloud in sight.

She let Betty help her into the awful garment and went to the breakfast room. She paused on the threshold. Lydia was already seated, which was unusual because her youngest sister preferred to sleep late. Her suspicions rose when Lydia giggled, and Elizabeth was utterly convinced when her youngest sister laughed aloud.

“Did you put all my dresses in the laundry, Lydia?”

“Why would you believe it was me? I always get the blame, even when I am innocent.”

Elizabeth raised her brows and glared at her sister.

“It was a great lark. I suppose I should regard your accusation as a compliment. I am, after all, the only one creative enough to think of it and brave enough to do it.”

Lydia grinned, and Elizabeth looked at her father, who slowly lowered his newspaper, looked at her, smirked, and dived behind the paper again.

Elizabeth huffed and seated herself in a vacant chair. She buttered her roll with unnecessary force, took a tiny bit of her favourite preserve on her finger and tasted it. She would not put it past Lydia to have added salt or something even more unpalatable to it, but the plum jam tasted delicious.

“Will you read to me after breakfast?” Lydia asked as if she had done nothing wrong. “Papa insists that I learn Roman history.” She pouted, but the Bennet patriarch was unmoved by his youngest’s antics. “I learn much quicker when listening to you read, and I can add new ribbons to my old bonnet. That way, we shall have completed two tasks at once.”

“I cannot. I intend to go on a vigorous walk,” Elizabeth replied firmly. Lydia should have thought about that sooner, preferably before pranking her.

Mr Bennet lowered his paper again. “In that dress?” he wondered aloud.

“I do not mean to be seen,” Elizabeth promised. “I shall not walk on the road, and I certainly have no intention of venturing anywhere near Meryton. I plan to take the western path towards Netherfield, and that house has stood empty for nigh on a year.”

“As long as you avoid detection, I suppose I must allow it.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Elizabeth ate a hearty breakfast before she rose, grabbed her bonnet from the ante room, and hastened out of the door.

The air was warm, and the sun was shining in a clear blue August sky. She set out at a brisk pace but soon realised there was no reason for haste and slowed her walk to a leisurely stroll. She passed the path leading to Oakham Mount, which would leave her too exposed to passers-by in her current attire, and chose to venture farther towards Netherfield. She had not walked that far since the previous year and thought it a splendid idea to see whether anything was amiss. Avoiding her exasperating sister for as long as possible was another incentive.

Uncle Henry had purchased Netherfield after his sister married the late Mr Bennet and had used it himself in the intervening years when he visited from Ireland. Recently, however, he had chosen to stay in London more and more, and although he had muttered about leasing the estate to someone who would occupy it, the event had never happened. Netherfield had stood empty now for nearly a year. A visit to the forsaken house would give her something to write about in the next letter to her grandmother. That would in turn oblige her to return a letter, and if fortune was on Elizabeth’s side, she would mention Mr Darcy.

It was to be hoped that he was searching for her, and making enquiries with Grandmother and Uncle Henry would be the best place to begin. If only they had remained in town… The heat, stench, and the return of undesirable acquaintances had unfortunately sent them packing to áth Dara, and the chance of Mr Darcy travelling as far as Limerick to seek her out was slim to none.

No. Her best chance was that he had enquired about her to someone who kept a correspondence with her grandmother or with Uncle Henry.

Elizabeth’s inattention was about to cost her dearly. She was walking on an exposed path along the side of a pond when two gentlemen riders approached from afar. They had not noticed her yet because their heads were turned towards Netherfield House whilst pointing and gesticulating. There was something vaguely familiar about the posture of the taller gentleman that set her heart racing in her chest. Could it truly be Mr Darcy?

In the next blink of an eye, she remembered her dreadful attire, and the need to escape notice was of the utmost importance.

Of course, there was only one place that would conceal her whereabouts but also offer an unobstructed view…

It was a decent scheme that struck her as her only choice, but it came at a price, and in this instance, it was her dignity that would suffer. It was neither proper nor wise, but she flattered herself that she was quite proficient, albeit out of practice. It must have been ten years since she had last climbed a tree. Yet, it was better than to be caught in this hideous, ill-fitting dress. A copse beckoned, and she ran until she reached a low-hanging branch and hauled herself up into the protection of the dense verdure. Her skirt caught and ripped as she climbed, but she did not have time to be cautious.

When she could no longer see more than a glimpse of the ground below, she deemed herself safe enough and found a sturdy branch to sit on with a picturesque view of the pond. The glance down made her cling to the trunk in sheer fright. She closed her eyes and willed her breathing to slow and her racing heart to calm. This had been a terrible idea. Heights had not bothered her at ten, but age had obviously made her fearful. The gentlemen were closing in, and she had better remain in her precarious position or face mortifying embarrassment. Between the two choices, a potential fall did not intimidate her quite so much as falling in Mr Darcy’s esteem. She had made her bed and must lie in it, but for the fact that she was sitting, and most uncomfortably so. If only she had had the wherewithal to position herself astride the branch, that would certainly have made her feel safer than she was now. She tucked her skirt under her bottom as the colour did not blend well with the trunk.

She could hear their voices, and they had moved close enough for her to distinguish their words.

“If you decide upon Netherfield, you will have to mend the fences first. Especially if your intention of breeding horses comes to pass. It would cost you dearly if one should escape. I wonder at the value of the endeavour if you will not be able to purchase the property in the not-too-distant future, though.”

Elizabeth would have recognised that voice in a chorus of a hundred people. It was Mr Darcy, and he spoke as if his friend was interested in leasing Netherfield. Uncle Henry must finally have put the property for let.

But why here of all places? Mr Darcy must have discovered her whereabouts and had come to find her under the guise of adviser to a friend looking for an estate. How clever of him to arrive with such a plausible excuse. He had thought about everything and made certain they could become better acquainted without raising too much suspicion in the neighbourhood. She was not surprised; the gentleman she had encountered at the Argyll Rooms was intellectually superior to everyone she had ever met.

“I agree. Mr Phillips answered evasively when I enquired. I shall not move forward with my business before I know for certain that a purchase is possible, but that will not prevent me from leasing the place. What do you say, Darcy. Do you approve?”

Elizabeth held her breath in anticipation. Mr Darcy’s reply would say much about his future plans—and his intentions towards her in particular.

“The house is modern and well kept, it is an easy distance from London, and the location is excellent for your purpose.”

Elizabeth’s heart soared in joy. The giddiness forced her to compose herself and to quash the desire to laugh. If she had not been caught in such an embarrassing situation, she would have scrambled down the trunk, welcomed him to Hertfordshire, and congratulated him on his astuteness. A quick glance towards the ground revealed a head of dark hair directly beneath her, and she prayed he would not look up or she would surely be discovered. The foliage was by no means rich enough to conceal her from below.

“It is a terribly warm day,” his friend lamented.

“Bingley!” Mr Darcy barked.

For reasons unknown to Elizabeth, he was not amused, but at least she now knew the name of his friend. It might prove a useful piece of information in the future.

“Oh, come on! Our survey is done, and it is sweltering out here. May I remind you that we have been riding since the sun broke the horizon?”

“We enjoyed a pleasant respite at Mr Phillips’s office,” Mr Darcy said.

“If you prefer to reek of sweat and horse while we ride back to London, I cannot help it. But I prefer the pleasant odour of water lilies and reeds above the foul stench I smell at the moment.”

“What if someone happens to see us?” Mr Darcy protested.

“And who would that be?” Mr Bingley’s voice heightened in exasperation. “According to Phillips, it is two miles from Netherfield to Meryton, and we are at least half a mile from the house.”

“Netherfield abuts other estates…”

Mr Darcy must be speaking about Longbourn, Elizabeth surmised, and it pleased her that he had taken the trouble to find her home.

“There is only Longbourn village on this side of the estate, and it is more than two miles west. I dare say the only person we might encounter is Mr Bennet surveying his boundary, and we have nothing he has not seen before. As for the reputed beautiful daughters, I seriously doubt any of them would walk this far.”

“They could ride,” Mr Darcy replied evenly.

“Not along this path,” Mr Bingley protested. “The low-hanging branches would rip the bonnets off their heads.”

Which reminded Elizabeth that she needed to notify Mr Hill that the path was long-due for some trimming. It had lain mostly unused for years, but that would change if Mr Bingley leased Netherfield. Uncle Henry employed a capable steward, and his side of the border was always well maintained.

It was sweet of Mr Bingley to believe her father ever surveyed his land, but Mr Bennet rarely stirred from his beloved books, and he had a steward to address these sorts of matters. Mr Hill could be prevailed upon when needed, but he was not the kind of man who made an effort if it were not strictly necessary.

Mr Bingley laughed. “I knew you would see my way of thinking. The last one in the water is a cowardly nincompoop!”

Elizabeth heard the gentle thumps of two pairs of boots landing on the path, then the rustling of clothing before the sound of fabric being ripped startled her nearly off balance. She closed her eyes as laughter rang out in the air. Mr Bingley had an amusing high-pitched laugh, whilst Mr Darcy’s low rumbles reverberated through her soul.

She fought valiantly to quash her curiosity; it was highly improper to look yet impossible to resist. Slowly, she allowed her eyelids to flutter open.

Water splashed as the gentlemen ran into the water. They would be disappointed when they discovered it was only about knee-deep on a fully grown man, which would do nothing to relieve her current torture.

She should keep her eyes closed, but those organs did not obey her. Instead, they were fixed on two strong and brawny legs splashing water as they ran. Reverently, she let her eyes travel upwards to watch the muscles of his buttocks play under his skin. Above, a narrow waist broadened into a sturdy set of shoulders.

An onslaught of unfamiliar sensations played havoc in her mind and caused her breath to quicken. She was no more capable of forming a coherent thought than she was of taking flight towards the sky.

The gentlemen were at the opposite end before they realised that the pond was very shallow indeed. Mr Bingley laughed, but her eyes were not fixed on him, they were attached to the other gentleman’s behind. Mr Darcy flung himself into the water. Then he rose, grinned at his friend, and called the victory. Mr Bingley protested because he had set the first foot in the water, whilst Mr Darcy claimed the glory for being the first to get his hair wet. A friendly squabble ensued that was never concluded before they turned and walked back towards her hiding place.

Elizabeth would have been sent plunging towards the ground by the gentlest breeze, yet she continued to stare through the leaves, unabashed. The gentleman never glanced in her direction, and for that she was grateful. His head remained bent to avoid stepping on the stones and branches the Bennet and Lucas children had thrown into the pond over the years. She spared not a single glance at Mr Bingley. No, it was Mr Darcy’s strong, Greek-like figure that held her in rapt attention. It was a sight she would never forget, and if she were to be honest, one she would not mind revisiting.

The gentlemen disappeared underneath the verdure of the tree she was sitting in. They wrestled with their saddle bags, and it sounded as if they were drying off before dressing.

“You should not have ripped your shirt, especially since you lost in any case,” Mr Darcy snickered.

“Firstly, I won the race, and secondly, no one will be able to tell that my shirt is ripped beneath my coat and cravat.”

“Do you even know how to tie your own?”

“I am not completely without skills, Darcy, but no. Tying a cravat is not among my accomplishments.”

“Do you need help?”

“Yes,” Mr Bingley admitted dejectedly.

“I shall tie your cravat if you admit that I won the race.”

Mr Bingley groaned before he laughed. “One day I shall outwit you, even if it is the last thing I do.”

“It is easily done,” Mr Darcy allowed. “You are more proficient at currying the ladies’ favour and more agreeable in company. In both instances you are in every way superior to me.”

Elizabeth nearly swooned at Mr Darcy’s humility, though she heartily disagreed—he was perfectly capable of wooing a lady…

The gentlemen mounted their horses, and rhythmical thumps notified her that they were moving away. With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth climbed gingerly down from the tree, smoothed her threadbare skirt, and strolled happily back to Longbourn.