Mr. Darcy's Bad Day: A Pride & Prejudice Novella

by Christie Capps

  Copyright © 2017 by Christie Marie Capps

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  One

  Fitzwilliam Darcy was having a bad day and, as far as he was concerned, it was all Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s fault.

  Stepping to the side of the path to avoid a rock the size of a small house, his right foot had slipped on clay soil hidden under a tuft of grass. His ankle had twisted, his left shoulder had crashed against the stone, and he was seated in a puddle of muddy water about one inch deep. Immediately, he felt a throb radiating up his leg and a numbness in his toes. Cold water seeped through his gloved hands as he pressed down into the damp earth to leverage himself to stand. His bruised and battered shoulder protested.

  Adding insult to injury, his hat had fallen off, landing just out of reach. Perched precariously in a patch of weeds, he felt his expensive beaver topper represented his current situation. He was a rose among thorns, a diamond amidst glass.

  He was being ridiculous!

  Shaking the moisture and muck off the back of his great coat, he tentatively attempted to put weight on his throbbing ankle. Sucking in a breath, he stopped. He doubted it was broken, however there was definitely damage to his appendage.

  Darcy looked back over his shoulder in hopes of spying someone approaching from Netherfield Park, the home of his good friend, Charles Bingley. He could not even see the large manor house. Turning back, he looked ahead of him towards Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth’s home. Surprised at how far he had traveled, he briefly appreciated the bucolic setting. An older estate, the stone exterior had aged well. Stately trees lined the drive and bushy ivy surrounded the front doorway. The picture was welcoming to a wanderer. However, he knew it to be a façade.

  For, inside the estate walls were six females of various shapes, appearances, and personalities. They were a noisy lot led by a vulgar, fortune-hunting mother. All of them were a continual source of outrage who offended his sense of decorum almost each time they opened their mouths. Well, with the possible exceptions of the two eldest daughters. Well, beyond a shadow of a doubt the firstborn and the one following were sensible creatures, so they should not be lumped in with the others.

  Darcy pondered. Possibly they were born to different parents and had come to live with the Bennets because they had been orphaned at an early age. Or, perhaps they were the children of a distant nobleman who had been kidnapped by a band of thieves and traded to the Bennets for a leg of lamb and a jug of ale.

  He shook his head. He was becoming fanciful and knew he needed to think clearly or he would be wedged against this huge boulder until he grew old and grey, or perished.

  Unbidden, his mind went right back to the Bennets. It was the second eldest of the daughters who was solely responsible for his current predicament. Salient facts could not be ignored.

  Darcy’s mare, Beatrice, whom he affectionately called ‘Bea’, had a slight limp when the groom had led her out of the stable that morning. Not wanting to miss the opportunity of vacating Bingley’s premises and avoiding the youngest of his host’s sisters, Miss Caroline Bingley, Darcy had set out walking a path through the fields to the west.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet seemed to find great pleasure in her rambles so he determined to reach for the joy and peace she attained with her strolls. Stupid, foolish idea!

  Within a quarter of a mile, tall thistles had captured and clung to the inside fabric of his wool coat as it flared out behind him with each brisk step. After pulling himself loose, he adjusted his pace to keep his garment in place, slowing until he regained his normal quiet dignity as he moved across the field.

  A stile, separating a field of harvested wheat from an unknown crop, had proved to be rickety upon closer surveillance. Rather than risk life and limb, especially limb, he had attempted a vault over the fence, forgetting the length of fabric on his outer coat would be a hazard during his athletic leap. He had perched on top of that fence in a rather ungainly fashion until he could unsnag himself and proceed.

  Thornton, his valet, kept his expensive leather hessians polished so candlelight reflected in the smooth surface. Stepping off the fence and into something left over from the north end of a southbound bovine had put Darcy in a mood.

  Now, this.

  He could admit, without hesitation, that walking on two feet rather than riding on four was not an improvement. His circumstances were dire and it was all Miss Elizabeth’s doing. Had she not made her strolls seem so beneficial, he never would have convinced himself to follow this course. Darcy would have returned to the breakfast room to listen to Miss Caroline Bingley’s constant criticism of the Bennet family and country life in general. Who could fault her on the former topic? The Bennets were…the Bennets were… He growled.

  Had not Miss Elizabeth returned from each venture out-of-doors with her skin showing a healthy flush, her eyes sparkling with merriment and joy, and strands of her lustrous locks gaining freedom and independence from restraint, the thought of meandering through the property would never have crossed his mind. Her glorious ambiance filled the entryway as she entered Netherfield Park after a lengthy stroll. She was remarkable. She drew his eye like no other woman had done.

  Yes, it was one-hundred percent Miss Elizabeth who was responsible for his complaint.

  He looked to the sky for divine assistance, since no human seemed to be in close proximity, only to find the clouds had turned a darker hue. A much darker hue. They looked heavy—ponderous, ready to let down the…he felt the first drop. It landed on the bridge of his nose directly between his eyes. Removing his now filthy gloves, he wiped it away, only to have it followed by three or four more—or twelve, or seventeen hundred.

  Bowing his head, he saw nothing for it. He would have to limp to Longbourn. Had he been an author of tragic Gothic novels, he would have thought ‘Limp to Longbourn’ a fitting title for the sojourn ahead of him. Standing erect, gently placing his ailing foot on the ground, he shook the folds of his greatcoat so his appearance was intact.

  He looked at his hat with ferocious intensity, willing it to come to him on its own accord. It remained in place. He sighed, the air pouring from his lungs. He would have to fetch it himself.

  Aha! Unnoticed by him at first was a tree branch resting in the grass slightly behind his topper. He could use it as a crutch to stabilize and lighten the pressure on his ankle as he walked. Delicately, which he would never admit to in company, he navigated over and around the largest tufts of vegetation until he stood next to his goal. Without thinking, he bent and grabbed the hat first, doffing it in place. Then he bent for the piece of wood, losing his hat in the process.

  He was a dunce! A flaming dunderhead! A dolt! Looking around to make sure no one had noticed, he again reached for the hat.

  He was the victor! He had conquered both the hat and the crutch! Was there nothing his superior intellect and skills could not achieve? He thrust his fist into the air and shook it at the sky. He won this battle against the elements, the rain now bouncing off the brim, keeping his face dry.

  Then, he turned back to the path.

  She was there, appearing from the foggy haze as if a vision.

  “Mr. Darcy, I can see you are unwell. Pray, allow me to return to Longbourn for aid.”

  She left. As quickly as she had come, she was gone. Wa
s she a mere figment of his imagination? Had his desire for Miss Elizabeth’s presence conjured her from thin air? How much of his activities had she witnessed? His face flamed at the thought. He abhorred any evidence of undignified behavior. He was a Darcy!

  He shook his head at himself, realizing he had already done so once or twice since his fall. She discomposed him. She always had. Since the first night he set eyes on her at the assembly in Meryton, Miss Elizabeth had captured his attention in a way no other young lady had done. When she came to Netherfield Park to care for her sister, the days they were under the same roof together were sublime torture for him. Why? Because, he knew beyond certainty on the day she and Miss Bennet departed Bingley’s estate, that she had infiltrated the depths of his soul.

  How could he, a Darcy, grandson of an earl, be twitter-pated with a country miss of no consequence? With a mother and younger sisters who would be an embarrassment, and a father whose indolent character mocked his wife and daughter’s proclivities?

  Rubbing his hands over his face, he almost dislodged his hat—again.

  Carefully surveying his surroundings, he thought the better route would be to move to an area under an aged oak tree where the overhanging branches would protect him from the deluge. There, he could await Miss Elizabeth’s return. A brilliant flash of light shooting across the sky changed his mind. He deemed it far better to be wet than to fry.

  From his infancy, his father had taught him, ‘when thunder roars, go indoors’. Glancing around quickly he again noted there were no buildings visible other than Longbourn. He would not be able to remain where he was and wait for help. He would have to move.

  One. Two. Three. Four. BOOM! Thunder rumbled, traveling in the same pathway the lightning had done. A sense of panic rose in his chest. Another piece of shared wisdom from his father had been to stay away from wet items or areas during a lightning storm. He was probably holding more liquid in his wool coat than the creek flowing rapidly under the old oaks.

  Curious! There had been no creek there when he had last looked.

  Calming himself, or attempting to do so, he hunched his shoulders and leaned heavily on the crutch, wedging it into the ground until he felt it stable enough to bear his weight. He stepped forward. Victory! He took another step. Then another. Focusing all his attention on the placement of the crutch, he failed to consider his slow progress over the pasture. What did it matter? He would be rescued when help returned. His slow pace was still progress and he was extraordinarily proud of his minimal success.

  “Mr. Darcy!” A female voice yelled through the drumming rhythm of raindrops pounding on his hat and the ground. “Help is here.”

  He stood still and smiled. No happier words had he heard in a long time, though he would have been better pleased had she yelled three other words even more appealing. Again, he shook his head. Had he hit his noggin’ when he landed against the boulder? What three words had he longed to hear? I like you, I love you, I want tea, I love warm blankets? No, that was four words, which would not do.

  As she ran closer, he noted her drenched bonnet and soaked clothing. She had never looked more lovely. Her arms were wrapped tightly around a thick quilt. Behind her was a pony and cart—a servant driving. Making a large circle in the field, the man brought the back of the rig alongside him. Darcy rolled his eyes.

  Mr. Bennet kept the most recalcitrant donkey on the face of the earth. When asked, Miss Elizabeth had laughed when she informed Darcy the animal’s name was Benedick the stubborn male lead from Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. Darcy had to agree the donkey was appropriately named. Each time he rode through the fields close to Longbourn, that animal would attempt to ram his horse to run them off. Ears back, tail swishing nervously, he would bray his “Ee-Haw” from the time Darcy entered the area until he left.

  The driver held the restless donkey in place. They wanted out of the rain and so did he.

  Miss Elizabeth tossed the blanket in the back as she moved to Darcy’s good side. Holding his arm in both of her hands, she steadied him as he turned and slid backwards until his spine was up against the back of the seat. Shaking out the blanket, she covered as much of him as she could reach, patted him on his uninjured boot and reassured him the apothecary had been called and they would soon be at Longbourn.

  Lightning flashed across the sky, making the pony jump into action and the cart bounce precariously. Rain crept through the blanket and between the folds of his coat, soaking his pants from just below his knees where his boots ended to mid-thigh.

  He was cold, achy, and miserable. It was only right that Miss Elizabeth had rescued him and was cold and wet as well. Darcy saw no chance for improvement in the bad day he was having and the sole burden of accountability belonged to none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  His lower lip caught a falling raindrop and he pondered how the tenacious miniscule liquid particle had made it past the brim of his beaver. Only then did he comprehend that Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire, of Pemberley in Derbyshire and Darcy House in London, was pouting.

  Two

  He was miserable. He had wiped his nose so often he feared it was shorter. Or, it would soon fall off his face altogether, leaving an unsightly void between his eyes and mouth. A porcupine had crawled down his throat and settled in uncomfortably with hundreds, or possibly thousands of quills. Maybe millions. He was laying in the bowels of fiery Hades, and, someone had rubbed sand in his eyes so they lit on fire each time he blinked.

  Feeling diligence was far superior to comfort, he determined to remain alert to determine who had caused him this latest calamity, though he guessed it was Miss Elizabeth who supplied the grit.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir.” A male voice spoke into the afternoon light filtering through the window.

  He knew that voice. Thornton. His valet. Oh, thank heavens! A sensible male person was on the premises. (He refused to call Mr. Bennet sensible as what man would choose to have five daughters?) Relief filled him, causing him to collapse back onto the pillow. He sniffed, in spite of his congestion. Lavender. Pressing his eyelids shut, ignoring the shards of granite scratching his pupils, he recalled the many times he had stood close to her, listening to her witty conversations and delighting in her mannerisms. Miss Elizabeth smelled like lavender—and sunshine. And heaven. And spring flowers. And, like his favorite dreams from his childhood.

  His eyes shot open. Was he in Miss Elizabeth’s bed chamber? Scrutinizing his surroundings, he found further clues that he might be temporarily inhabiting her personal space. Plutarch’s ‘Parallel Lives’ in Greek was stacked on top of a thin volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and ‘A Vindication of the Rights of Woman’ by Mary Wollstonecraft. He smiled involuntarily at the last. “Make women rational creatures, and free citizens, and they will quickly become good wives; - that is, if men do not neglect the duties of husbands and fathers.” His father had gifted his mother a copy of this book when it was first released and the volume rested in a place of honor on an eye-level shelf in Pemberley’s library, copious notes filling the columns in his mother’s hand. He imagined Miss Elizabeth would raise her brows if she knew he had read the book, several times, in fact.

  The walls were painted a pale yellow with flashes of dark blue everywhere. The curtains on each side of a tall window were long stripes of midnight blue and white. Daylight and night. He could not help but wonder if she had chosen the décor. His own chambers at Pemberley and his London house had walls and fabrics in various shades of blue. This was another item he and Miss Elizabeth had in common. They both kept the colors of the sky surrounding them always. Surely, this was her room.

  “Where am I?” He looked around the bed chamber, asking to see if his surmising had reached the proper conclusion.

  Thornton raised his brow, almost mirroring the move he had often witnessed Miss Elizabeth doing. “You do not know where you are, sir?”

  “Of course, I am aware we are at Longbourn.” Darcy endeavored to keep the frustration from his voice.
“I am merely curious as to who has been cast out of their chambers because of my unanticipated residence?”

  “Miss Elizabeth, sir.”

  He expelled air he was unaware he had been holding. It should not have been important, but it was. Had he been placed into Miss Lydia’s room—he shuddered—or, even Miss Mary’s chambers, he would have had to ask to be relocated. He could not stay in the room of a young female he found irresponsible or pedantic.

  Darcy wanted to laugh at the thought. In all his seven and twenty years, he had never been inside the bed chamber of a woman other than his mother’s. He was an oddity amongst his peers and was proud of his reputation. His former friend, George Wickham, had made up for Darcy’s moral purity. From their university days, Darcy had had to clean up the messes left behind when Wickham abandoned the young females with hearts crushed who were often with child. Rake!

  “Was there not a guest room available?” He was puzzled, his mind flitting randomly from one thought to the other. Longbourn was not nearly the size of Pemberley or Netherfield Park, but it was still a fairly substantial estate.