Chapter 1
Netherfield Hall
Hertfordshire
Thursday
The mistress’s quarters at Netherfield were large, airy, and elegant.
Fashionable crimson paper covered the walls, and the furniture – all new, of course, and in the latest fashion – was embossed along the intricate carvings with gold paint.
Delicately ruffled cushions sat at carefully placed precise angles on the chairs and loveseat alike.
At the moment the rooms, generally kept in perfect order, were a maelstrom of confusion as a young maid hastily packed Caroline Bingley’s clothing into trunks while Belinda, Caroline’s personal maid, took charge of her jewelry.
Miss Bingley herself did not, of course, sully her hands by doing any work. Her contribution was to give a great many orders, some of them contradictory, all of them shrill. The door to the bedchamber swung open abruptly to reveal Louisa Hurst, Caroline’s sister.
“Are you nearly ready to leave?” Mrs. Hurst demanded. “We must depart soon if we are to reach Town by sunset!”
Caroline sighed. This was not actually true. It was still a few minutes before noon, and London was but five and twenty miles away. But she was in agreement with the other inhabitants of Netherfield Hall that it was critical to leave as swiftly as possible.
“I will be finished shortly,” Caroline promised.
“Mr. Darcy is ready to depart,” Louisa replied and disappeared as quickly as she had entered.
This was enough to galvanize Miss Bingley into action. She was hopeful of winning an offer from Mr. Darcy, master of the great estate of Pemberley, and she knew the gentleman did not like tardiness.
“Belinda, I depend on you to look after my jewelry,” she said sternly. “You will take the second carriage with the valets and my sister’s maid. Do not let my jewelry out of your sight.”
“Yes, Miss,” the woman responded meekly.
Caroline hurried out of the door, through the hall, down the stairs, and into the vestibule where Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were waiting, along with Mr. Darcy.
“Shall we?” she asked, smiling brightly up at Mr. Darcy. That gentleman was dressed soberly but elegantly in traveling clothes, with a warm overcoat to shield himself from the chilly weather and a fine hat to protect his head.
He was so rich, Mr. Darcy, and Pemberley was so grand, and the Darcys were so well connected…
“Certainly,” Darcy said, offering an arm. She took it with delight and then halted as Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper of Netherfield Hall, rushed into the room, her middle aged face creased with confusion.
“Miss Bingley?” she cried out. “What is happening? I was in Meryton speaking to the butcher about … in any case, are you leaving?”
Caroline huffed and was about to say something rude, but then she noted Darcy’s expression of concern.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” he said, “I apologize that you were not informed. Yes, we are leaving for London and intend to be there for some time.”
The woman looked even more confused. “Shall I close up the house, then? Will Mr. Bingley be returning?”
“Do enter the carriage and I will explain the situation,” Caroline said hastily to her traveling companions. She remembered belatedly that, as mistress of the house, she ought to be managing the staff. “I will only be a few minutes.”
Louisa nodded and departed on her husband’s arm, with Darcy following them.
“Yes, close up the house,” Caroline ordered. “Our personal maids and the valets will leave shortly with the second carriage, and…”
Ten minutes later, she turned to leave, confident that all was well here at Netherfield Park.
Not that she cared a whit about the estate itself.
No, her brother had made a great mistake in leasing an estate in such a backward area of the country.
But she had, at least, shown Mr. Darcy that she was a competent mistress of a great house.
She hurried out the door and winced as a cold, brisk wind smacked her in the face.
Thankfully, the front walk curved in the direction of the main drive, and she soon found herself with her back to the wind as she hastened toward the carriage, which was waiting to carry her to Town where she would be surrounded by other members of high society.
She was vaguely aware, through the wind and her own tapping feet, of masculine yelling behind her, including someone calling “Miss!” over and over.
But she refused to deal with anyone else in this godforsaken place. She wanted to be in the carriage, with a hot brick under her feet and rugs over her hands, with Mr. Darcy across from her.
There was another sound, now, not words, but noises, like animal noises, perhaps? That was absurd, of course; there were animals in the nearby barns, but not here, not on the front lawn of…
Too late, she turned to glance behind her and froze in horror.
Pigs!
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy pushed his feet down on the hot brick, the better to warm them, and cast an impatient look toward the house.
He should have known better than to climb into the carriage before Caroline Bingley.
The lady was generally loquacious, and was doubtless giving a great many confusing directions to Mrs. Nicholls.
He felt a tiny throb of guilt for causing problems for the staff of the manse, but quickly subsumed it. He had a duty to his friend, Charles Bingley, and Mrs. Nicholls seemed a competent woman who would deal with the sudden departure of the party without much difficulty.
It was Bingley who needed saving – Bingley, who was kind and generous and honorable, who fell in love with disastrous ease, whose current angel was the eldest daughter of a local country squire, with a garrulous and vulgar mother, with hoydenish younger sisters.
No, it would be catastrophic for Bingley to marry Jane Bennet.
The lady herself was gracious and well mannered, but the rest of the family was impossible.
The rest of the family except for Elizabeth Bennet, the second daughter, but she was not at all eligible either, especially not for a Darcy…
Well, of course she was no fit bride for a Darcy! Not that he was in love, of course, but she was sufficiently fascinating that he found himself thinking of her too much. It was just as well that Darcy was obligated by his friendship to Bingley to retreat to London.
“There she is at last!” Louisa Hurst exclaimed from her position across from him. Darcy turned his head and observed Caroline Bingley hurry down the steps and down the path which led to the carriage.
A moment later, he frowned and leaned closer to the window.
What was that? Some sort of animal – several animals – appeared to be charging for the house, chased or possibly pursued by several men.
Mud spurted up from the creatures’ feet – pigs, he now saw.
Massive black hogs, running spiritedly away from their keepers, some dozen at least.
Caroline, oblivious, continued picking her way down the drive, eyes squinted against the cold. She either did not notice or disregarded the ruckus the swine were making, and Darcy lunged for the door with a warning on his lips.
Just as his head emerged from the carriage, the approaching beasts caught Miss Bingley’s attention.
She turned and shrieked, hands flying up, and spun to flee – but she had not made it more than two steps when the animals were surrounding her.
She tried to run away, but one of the snorting hogs swerved at precisely the wrong moment, and she fell over its broad black back and landed on the ground with a shriek.
Darcy had already leapt to the cold hard-packed earth, and he charged forward, bellowing and laying about himself with his cane to clear a space around the fallen lady.
Driving back the animals – who seemed more chaotic than angry, thanks be to God – he planted himself above the screaming Miss Bingley, brandishing his cane as their keepers sought to contain them.
Beneath and behind him, his friend’s sister lay sobbing.
At last he lowered his cane, panting slightly, as the servants began herding their livestock back towards the pens.
Darcy finally turned to look down at Miss Bingley, who had made no move to rise, her pelisse ripped and muddy with clear hoof-prints across the fine skirt, and dirt smeared all over her face.
What a disaster!
***
Drawing Room
Longbourn
Several wax candles glowed from their spots in front of polished mirrors, and the fire flickered brightly, illuminating the drawing room.
The red upholstery shone like polished apples against the gold-embossed wood, while a dozen figurines twirled along the mantelpiece.
On the table beneath a window, a china vase with gold leaf held a proliferation of dried flowers, artfully arranged.
Each of the six Bennet ladies sat decorously around the room, feet together, delicate tea cups in their hands.
Mrs. Bennet was seated in the best chair nearest the fire, of course, while Lydia Bennet had placed herself beside Captain Carter on the loveseat, her elbow nudging his occasionally.
Jane sat nearest the window, sporadically peering out at the cloudy skies and trees bare of leaves, and Mary faded into the background in a chair nearer the door.
Elizabeth glanced over at the old oak clock on the mantel before turning her gaze and a rather preoccupied smile on the man at her side, Lieutenant George Wickham.
As much as she usually enjoyed the two officers’ company, they had been visiting Longbourn for the entire polite half hour, and she would be pleased when they left.
“I see that it is time for us to return to Meryton,” Lieutenant Wickham said, rising to his feet with a smile brightening his thoroughly handsome face.
“Do come back to visit anytime,” Mrs. Bennet replied cheerfully, eying the young militia officers with open approval.
“Yes, do, and perhaps Mamma will be having a dinner party soon, and we can invite you!” Lydia, the youngest of the girls, cried out.