Her Admiration for Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Chapter 1

Netherfield Hall

Morning

Fitzwilliam Darcy had no idea that the next few hours would change his life.

He closed the door of Netherfield Hall behind himself and took a deep breath of crisp air edged in frost, and then Darcy reached up and caught his hat before it was snatched away by a gust of wind.

Above the muted red of the roof tiles, a swirl of gray clouds scudded across the sky like full-sailed ships fleeing before the gale.

They were, at least, no longer dropping torrential rain or even an unpleasantly damp drizzle as they had the previous day.

The mud was deep and thick and would splash copiously over Darcy’s polished boots and greatcoat, but it would be worth it for some time out of doors.

Darcy made his way carefully from one side of the mire of the yard to the other, avoiding the puddles and the deepest pits of mud, and attained the gravel drive on the far side.

The park lay beyond, and Darcy strode towards it, crushed rock firm beneath his boots.

The boughs of evergreens hung heavily towards the ground, weighted by the rainwater, and as Darcy brushed past them they flung skywards, while sparkling drops cascaded down his broad shoulders.

Darcy attained the tended path that wended its way through the parkland and paused to shake the water from his coat and hat. Darcy then straightened and looked about him to get his bearings before starting down the trail at a pace calculated to clear the cobwebs out of his brain.

Netherfield Park, he thought as he marched along, was a fine estate.

Though no landlord had set his hand to the reins for some years, the steward was an honest and intelligent man, who had done as well as he could.

The climate was temperate and the land healthy, and the tenants were industrious, with only some few issues with fencing and drainage.

The house was likewise in good heart; the furniture and wallpaper were out of fashion, but it was not dilapidated.

The fireplaces drew well and warmed the rooms, the cushions on the chairs were not flattened, the beds were comfortably plush, and the rooms and hallways were large and well-lit.

The company of Darcy’s closest friend was likewise a pleasure.

Charles Bingley was easy-going, friendly, generous, and in possession of a natural ease of manner that no cultivation, however meticulous, had ever succeeded in producing in Darcy.

Though their personalities were disparate, the two men enjoyed a close and congenial friendship.

Bingley’s presence alone could light a room and elicit a cheerful mood in all but the most stubbornly gloomy of companions.

After the summer that Darcy had endured, a leisurely autumn with good company in a comfortable home was very welcome.

Not that his days were entirely free of annoyance.

While Bingley was a most enjoyable friend, his two sisters, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, were often rather tiresome.

Miss Bingley acted as hostess for her brother, and the Hursts, being in possession of a rather modest income until Mr. Hurst’s father died, were pleased to accept the generous Bingley’s hospitality in perpetuity.

Hurst, of an indolent and easy-going nature, rarely bothered anyone, but both of Bingley’s sisters, while reasonably handsome, were also haughty and ambitious.

Unfortunately for Darcy, Miss Bingley’s ambition had fixed its mark on his own person.

She had decided, quite without his input, that they should make a match of it.

Darcy profoundly disagreed, but the lady had proven remarkably difficult to dissuade, and he was not willing to utilize outright rudeness, which would possibly offend Bingley himself.

Though normally Darcy admired steadfastness of mind and purpose, he found Miss Bingley’s determination extremely tedious.

Darcy was well aware that it was not his character or even his looks which so attracted her, but his wealth and most especially his connections, because Darcy was the latest scion in a long and respectable line of gentlemen and owner of a vast and prosperous estate.

Moreover, Darcy’s mother had been the daughter of an earl.

Should Miss Bingley win a place as Darcy’s wife, she would be significantly elevated.

Given that the Bingley fortune had been made far more recently, and from trade, it seemed odd that Miss Bingley was so confident in her position in Society.

Yes, the young lady had been educated in a good finishing school and aped the manners of the haut ton with reasonable skill, but when all was said and done, she was closer to the daughter of a merchant than an earl.

Miss Bingley obviously considered such matters as mere trifles, but Darcy knew he would never be happy with a woman who was subject to delusions of grandeur.

In addition, Darcy was more or less engaged already to his cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings in Kent.

He had not officially offered for Anne, and no settlement papers had been signed, but a number of his older relations assumed that he would make a match with the heiress of Rosings, thus bringing two great estates together in one marriage.

He sighed. The problem was that he did not love Anne, not in the least. She was a very quiet person, and rather sickly, and the thought of bringing her home to Pemberley filled him with gloomy weariness. He could not truly imagine Anne managing Pemberley well, not at all…

But of course he did need to marry someone to produce an heir, and in spite of his eight and twenty years, he had never fallen in love...

In an instant, a vision formed in his mind of a handsome face with tantalizingly fine eyes, dark curls, and a light and pleasing figure.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, the estate to the west of Netherfield Hall.

He shook his head to clear it and increased his stride slightly.

He was being utterly ridiculous. Elizabeth Bennet was the daughter of a gentleman, yes, but her mother was the vulgar daughter of a solicitor, and Miss Elizabeth had no dowry.

She was certainly not a worthy bride for Darcy of Pemberley.

Not in the least.

And yet, the truth was that Miss Elizabeth was the only woman he had ever met whom he was strongly attracted to, and the annoying thing was that the more time he spent in company with her, the stronger the magnetic pull.

He blew out a breath. He would not be here in Hertfordshire forever, of course. He had agreed to spend most of autumn with his friend, but he would leave for London in December. And then his ridiculous attraction would surely fade.

He came to the end of a path, stopped, and looked around.

He judged that perhaps an hour had elapsed since he had left Netherfield Hall, and the sun was making a valiant effort to shine through the thick swathe of clouds still covering the sky.

The fresh air and the exercise had refreshed Darcy, but they had also whetted his appetite to razor sharpness.

It was time, he decided, to turn back and seek his breakfast. With any luck, his hour’s walk had described a circuitous route, and he could return to the house comparatively quickly.

It would be unfortunate if it took a full hour to get back.

A lightly wooded hill rose before him, and Darcy started up it, the better to orient himself.

From the rise, he would likely be able to spot the red roof of the Hall or, barring that, the carriage lane that wound through the Park.

Either would do for him to find his way back to the house, and he strode up the hill.

Scarcely had he attained the crown, though, when he was distracted from his purpose by a most unusual sound.

Somewhere nearby, a dog was barking, high and sharp and shrill with distress.

Darcy stopped short and listened. For some tense moments, all he could hear was an intrepid bird or two, and the sighing of trees in the wind, and the splatter of raindrops shaken free to fling to the ground.

Then the wind shifted quarter slightly, and he heard the panicked barking once more.

He set off down the hill at once, puzzled and a little alarmed.

The sound of rushing water ahead hastened his steps.

The creek that traversed the park had swollen to twice its usual size and spilled over its banks, splashing along at a furious pace.

Leaves bobbed like helpless rafts over the surface before swirling under, while sticks and branches and detritus swept inexorably onward.

A scrawny, twisted elm, its roots loosened by much rain and its crown caught by wind, had toppled over towards the creek turned raging river.

Most of the branches, already sickly, had broken off and lay scattered across the mud, half in and half out of the water or long since swept away.

The main trunk of the tree extended some way into the torrent, swaying slightly in the pull of the current.

A shivering, whining reddish-brown blob was clinging to this precarious perch.

A dart of dismay shot through Darcy as he recognized Maxwell, Bingley’s six-month-old prize spaniel puppy.

The bark beneath its front paws was slippery, nor was it aided by the bobbing of the branch.

Even as he watched, the dog tried to scrabble higher up the branch and succeeded only in slipping a little further with a terrified whine.

For it to lose its grip in that rage of water would surely be fatal; not the strongest swimmer could possibly survive the current.

“Maxwell!” he called out, and the spaniel turned its head toward him and barked again frantically.

Darcy looked around himself anxiously. He could run back to Netherfield for help, but Maxwell was already shivering dangerously, and he might well slip from his fragile perch.

There was nothing else for it. He would need to rescue the beast himself.

***