Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Fitzwilliam Darcy stirred awake. As he had for the last twenty days, he pushed the remnants of his dream away from his mind.
As always, the dream had centred on a certain gentlewoman with dark curls and amazing gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
As always, he felt that such a dream was entirely inappropriate, and he felt quite apologetic towards the gentlewoman herself.
But at least he never dwelt on the improper dreams while awake.
Having ruthlessly dealt with his unconscious thoughts, he opened his eyes.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment or two before he recalled where he was: in the second bedchamber he had used in Netherfield Park.
Two nights ago, there had been a bit of a ruckus in the middle of the night: a rattling handle of his door and finally the turning of a key in the lock—and Darcy had been able to prevent an unwelcome incursion into his bedchamber by the swift action of bodily blocking the door.
Darcy’s solution was to move to another room, this one far from the family rooms. The housekeeper promised to clean his new room herself to keep its location private…
particularly from the mistress of the house.
But that was so unpleasant a thought, he pushed that, too, out of his mind.
Having thought about one woman with guilt and another with aggravation, Darcy turned his mind to the young girl he loved most in the world. And that is when he actually remembered the date. It was the seventh of November.
What am I doing here, away from my beloved sister, on my birthday?
Darcy grimaced. It was strange that he should have such a thought.
After all, his tiny family of two did not put much effort into celebrating holidays or birthdays.
His good friend Charles Bingley, who was trying out the lifestyle of a landowner by leasing an estate, had asked for his help in learning the role of an estate master—and that was what he was doing in Hertfordshire.
As for his beloved sister, she had asked that he take his sombre face and gloomy attitude somewhere else.
His aunt had soothed his hurt feelings, explaining that sixteen-year-old Georgiana felt too much guilt for her mistake—her barely-avoided elopement—to bear witness to how her actions had impacted him.
“Let me tend to her, Nephew, for a few months. You go help your friend, and when you return for Christmastide, you will be wearing a less severe frown, I hope. I dare not suggest that you will have no frown at all, or even a smile.”
At that point, Darcy remembered, Aunt Elaine had smiled with so much care for him that his eyes had misted.
Now, he scrubbed his face and massaged the bridge of his nose.
Darcy knew that, of late, he had been frowning far too much.
He had seen Bingley’s concern, and Bingley’s brother-in-law, Hurst, made mortifying comments on a daily basis, urging him to adopt a happier mien.
One day it would be, “Cheer up, Darcy, ’tis not as if the hogs are in the drawing room.
” Another day, Hurst would say, “Cheer up, Darcy, Napoleon has not yet taken Westminster.”
Darcy felt sure that Hurst’s exhortations deserved a smile or a chuckle, but he had not managed to meet them with anything other than a deepening glower.
The females in residence at Netherfield, Bingley’s two sisters, Mrs Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley, had made zero comments chiding him for his facial expressions—or for any other feature, word, or deed.
Although they seemed to exude concern for his happiness— “Is the tea to your liking?” “Do you find your room comfortable?” “Let us know if there is anything you require—” he was certain that they truly cared nothing for him.
Miss Bingley had repeatedly made it clear that she wanted the distinction that the Darcy name would ensure, the standing that being the mistress of Pemberley would afford, the carriages and pin money that his income would bear.
But caring for his name, his landholdings, and his money were very different matters than caring for him, for Fitzwilliam Darcy.
It was no surprise that Miss Bingley’s constant fawning and Mrs Hurst’s persistent machinations on behalf of her sister had elicited his frowns long before Georgiana’s misstep.
Those two might have deserved near-constant scowls for their near-constant offences, but now Darcy feared—no, he knew—that he was far too severe towards everyone, high or low, friend or stranger.
Somehow, it being his birthday—as of today, he was seven and twenty—made him decide that he should do better, that he could do better, and that, by God, he would do better.
Springing from his bed, Darcy cleaned up a bit, quickly donned his riding clothes, and left for his usual early-morning ride.
On his way through the house, he put thought and effort into his facial expression, making sure that his brow remained smooth.
He nodded politely at every servant he passed, and he went so far as to smile at the stable lads.
Jim, the boy who saddled his horse every morning, looked astonished.
Darcy assumed that the youth’s surprise was a response to his smile; he realised that he had likely been consistently unpleasant to a youth who had been efficient with the tack and caring with Freyr, his magnificent black thoroughbred.
That realisation almost felled him. Again, he was determined that gloom and glower were things of his past.
Also, Darcy decided to double his usual generous tip when he left Netherfield; that was likely to be far more noticed and valued by Jim.
Darcy rode hard. As always, he began to feel better with the exercise and fresh air.
Finally, he dismounted and allowed Freyr a rest, a chance to nibble grass and to drink from a brook.
He followed his wandering horse for a while, thinking again of how important it was that he take charge of his emotions and, no matter what he was feeling, show a more pleasing mien.
Just as he mounted Freyr again, Darcy heard a call for help.
It was a woman’s voice. It rose up from the sound of rushing water, and he knew instantly that someone was in danger of drowning in the river that adjoined the brook he stood next to.
Darcy spurred Freyr into action; his mind swept through all he had seen of the river, and as Freyr easily leapt the brook and raced down a small hill towards the river, he listened carefully, trying to figure out exactly where the woman was located.
“Help!” the cry came again. “I have hold of a log, but Betty cannot swim!”
His stomach plunged in devastation—it was Miss Elizabeth Bennet who cried out!
Although he was filled with agony, he pushed aside those feelings, along with all the other emotions he had shoved away that day.
A few seconds later, he judged that he could reach her faster on foot.
He slid out of the saddle and ran through a small copse of trees, ducking his head whenever needed.
His hat was knocked off by one particularly low branch, but he paid no attention to the loss.
He could finally see Miss Elizabeth.
As her cry had informed him, she had a good grip on a log that partially crossed the river; her shoulder actually topped the log, and her arm circled it. But she looked quite frightened, and he could readily see why; in her other arm was a toddler who, ominously, was quite still.
Relief coursed through him—Elizabeth would live, he was sure of it!—and Darcy felt terrible that he could be so excited when a young child’s life still hung in the balance, if it wasn’t already irretrievably lost. He focused his attention on rescue.
Darcy shrugged out of his great coat and plunged one of his legs into the river, reaching almost halfway to where Miss Elizabeth held on.
He kept the other boot on firm ground, somewhat wedged between two rocks.
He was able to stretch enough to grab the child.
“Can you get to shore on your own?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.
“Yes!” Miss Elizabeth gasped. “Thank you so much. I hope that you have saved two lives!”
By the time she got the word lives out, Darcy had reached the bank and laid the child down, and Miss Elizabeth scrambled to them.
Darcy turned the child onto her side, hoping to see water rush out of her mouth. There was only a trickle. The little girl did not seem to be breathing.
Miss Elizabeth said, “I read about Dr Tossach—”
“I have as well.” Darcy laid the child on her back again, tilted the child’s chin up a bit, and pinched her nose closed. Then he breathed forcefully into her mouth.
“Perhaps it would be better if you do it, Miss Elizabeth. I am afraid of blowing too hard,” he said after a moment.
She puffed a breath into the child’s mouth, then pulled back and looked at her. She did this several more times before they were rewarded with the child’s spluttering cough.
Darcy lifted the girl so that he could support her with one hand and pat her back with the other. “Can you see whether or not she is breathing?” The child had stopped coughing.
“She is!” Miss Elizabeth sounded utterly joyful. At that moment, the child assured them that she was, indeed, breathing, because she started crying hard. Darcy continued patting the child’s back in the way he had seen parents do with small babies, but he looked at Miss Elizabeth.
She looked straight into his eyes and smiled in the most blindingly beautiful way.
“You have saved two lives today!” she crowed. Her beautiful hazel eyes shone with tears.
“Now we must get you both warm!”