1. Chapter One

Chapter One

" B last this infernal mud!" Elizabeth Bennet muttered under her breath. She tried to wipe a slimy splatter off her riding gloves as her horse trudged through the soggy autumn fields, its hooves heavy with the weight of the mire.

Hertfordshire had not even been experiencing any extraordinary measures of rain this autumn. But the fields had become irredeemable marshes—a complaint Elizabeth had largely ignored when she heard anyone speak of it until she became the one to accidentally try wading through the quagmire.

"You should have stayed home, Lizzy," she grumbled. Jane had warned her, but no, she simply had to call on Charlotte, even though her ankle was still tender from the day before when she had slipped most ingloriously on the path back from Oakham Mount. So, what was her solution?

A horse. A bloody horse .

And as the carriage horses were wanted on the farm that day, the only alternative had been her father's riding horse—a temperamental beast with a penchant for putting his head between his front legs and pitching his tail in the air whenever the fancy suited him.

Which it had earlier… Thus, the muddy gloves.

But for Charlotte, Elizabeth had been willing to put up with a little discomfort, perhaps even a little danger. Charlotte had been suffering from what Elizabeth could only describe as low spirits this autumn. Indeed, that was a generous term for the way poor Charlotte had been feeling, and she found little comfort in her mother's admonishments or her younger siblings' carelessness. And so, Elizabeth had been making the trek nearly every day of late, hoping to lift her friend's spirits even a little.

The horse's hooves squished into another soft bit of earth, and being as displeased by the notion of slogging through another swamp as his rider was, he lodged his feet in the ground and refused to move forward. Elizabeth uttered one or two indelicate phrases about the horse's parentage, but rather than fight with him again, perhaps it was best if she turned back and found firmer ground. Just… Where was that? She leaned slightly forward, inspecting the earth below for a promising path.

That, however, proved to be an ill-judged notion. The moment her weight shifted, the horse tossed his head and snorted, and then his front feet popped a few inches off the ground in a menacing threat to rear if she tried to make him go where he did not wish to go.

"Easy now," she coaxed. She would get nowhere by telling the horse exactly what she thought of him, so perhaps gentle manners might prevail. "Just a little further, and we'll be back on solid ground."

Another rabid-sounding snort and the horse subsided long enough for Elizabeth to pull him away towards firmer footing. There, now, they were getting somewhere. Just a little farther on, and they would be on the road. And she would be hanged before she tried to cross these marshy fields again before next summer. Shortcut or not, her petticoats were already several inches deep in mud, and she was starting to shiver. Just a few seconds more…

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. As they approached a particularly waterlogged section of the field, the horse's feet seemed to just… stop. He splashed up to his knees, and then his head went down, his body wrung to the side in a slithering hop… and Elizabeth felt, just for an instant, what it would feel like to fly like a bird.

A pity she could not land like one. Elizabeth hissed when she splashed into the wet grass, rolled to her side, and then surveyed herself with a groan. Good heavens, she was a slimy wreck! There was another gown ruined.

But that was not the worst of it. Pain shot through her already injured ankle as she struggled to sit up, her hands sinking into the cold, wet mud. The horse, its eyes wide with panic—or malice, she could not decide which—thrashed against the sucking earth and splattered her with more of the infernal stuff. Not that it made any difference now, though.

"No, no, no!" Elizabeth gasped. "Don't you dare try to run off. You got me here. Now, you shall… Ooh!" She grabbed whatever leather was within her reach and pulled herself to her feet, wincing as she put weight on her throbbing ankle and tried to reach for the dangling rein.

Where was she? Elizabeth steadied herself by resting a hand on the pommel of the saddle and sought her bearings. She should never have taken the shortcut .

"Let me see… There is that stand of oaks, and the lane wrapping around, and oh, drat. Had I not got farther than that?" She shaded her eyes and turned about one more time. There was the marker for Netherfield, just around the bend. And that meant that she was still three miles from home.

There was nothing else for it. She would have to climb back on that pompous, twitchy beast somehow. She certainly could not walk home in this condition, but just now, hobbling three miles back to Longbourn on one good ankle seemed a great deal more appealing than getting back on that recalcitrant brute. He had done nothing today to earn her regard.

With a heavy sigh, Elizabeth gathered her skirts and braced one arm over the saddle to keep herself from falling as she tried to walk. And thus began the long, painful trek back to Longbourn.

F itzwilliam Darcy fingered the brim of the hat in his lap as his friend, Charles Bingley, strained to look out the carriage window. The autumn air was crisp, carrying with it the promise of change and new beginnings—that was the poetic way Bingley had described the weather. He had hardly ceased chattering since they left London, and now he was busy pointing out every building with which he had already become acquainted in the little village of Meryton.

Darcy obliged by glancing out the other window and nodding agreeably whenever Bingley seemed particularly enamoured of something or other. "That there is the bookseller's," Bingley informed him—as if the sign in the window was insufficient to the task. "You recall that fine first edition I showed you the other day? Well, that is where I found it. Odd thing, too, for I should never have thought to find… oh, and there is the haberdasher. I was a little concerned there would be few options outside of going to London—you know, a small village like this. It is a very respectable shop for all that. And there is the milliner. They had a very fine beaver that I admired immensely, and I think I shall look in on it again after we have concluded our business."

"We are not here to purchase a hat," Darcy sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Drat this wretched headache—would it never leave him in peace? "In fact, we are very nearly late for your appointment with Mr Philips. We shall not have time to make ourselves presentable at the inn before we are expected."

"I suppose we ought to have left when you recommended," Bingley confessed. "But I thought surely it was not so very critical, as I expected the roads would be quite good. A real shame about that downed tree we had to go around. Fancy, a two-mile detour just to go around a tree!"

"Would you rather drive off the road and get the carriage wheels stuck in the mud?"

"No, no. It is only that it seems like it should not have been such a bother. But Mr Philips seems an easy chap. I doubt he shall mind so very much."

"I always mind when people waste my time," Darcy grumbled. But the complaint was lost on Bingley.

Some minutes later, the carriage stopped directly outside the legal office of one Mr Walter Philips, solicitor. Darcy gave his jacket a cursory dusting, wishing he did not feel so badly on account of their tardiness that he refused to stop at the inn first, as planned. Well, Mr Philips was a solicitor from a small village. Surely, he had seen gentlemen arrive with creases in their trousers before.

They entered the office and were asked to wait a moment, but before they had even taken seats, Mr Philips himself came to greet them. "Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy," he began, his tone heavy with regret, "I am afraid I have some unfortunate news. The lease for Netherfield has been taken by another party. I sent a letter to inform you only yesterday, but it appears it did not arrive in time. I do apologise, sirs."

Bingley's face fell, his enthusiasm draining away like the colour from his cheeks. "But... How is that possible? We were in negotiations, were we not? I had hoped to establish myself in a house before winter."

"I am very sorry, Mr Bingley, but another presented himself only two days ago and was willing to offer far more generous terms if the owner would agree to consider leasing to him, in preference to you."

"We had a contract, man!" Bingley's ears were turning red, and Darcy drew himself up in surprise. Bingley was not the man to lose his temper, but his looks now bordered on very vexed, indeed .

"In fact, Mr Bingley, we did not have a contract. That was the purpose of our meeting today. Thus far, we have only discussed details, and you have performed your due diligence, but there was nothing legally binding on either party. I truly am sorry, sir, but I am merely the one managing the contract. The decision was Mr Northam's, as Netherfield property belongs to him. And once the other contract was signed, he departed for Bath, as he means to make his residence there. I am afraid there is no possibility at this point in asking him to reconsider."

"But… Well, this is dashed indecent. Shoddy business, I should say! Who is this other party? Was he made aware that the property was under consideration?"

"I am afraid it is not within my purview to disclose any private matters, but indeed, he was made aware of your interest. Thus, the reason for his… exceeding generosity toward Mr Northam."

"I should have been at least given the opportunity to match his offer!" Bingley protested. "I daresay, most indecent. I shall make a formal complaint, I shall, and—"

"Mr Philips," Darcy interjected firmly, "we thank you for your time." Darcy held an arm before Bingley, inviting him to extricate himself.

Philips nearly sagged; such was his evident relief, but Bingley was not quite prepared to surrender. "Well, I… I shall write to Mr Northam myself, I suppose. This should not have been carried on in such a way."

He continued posing similar remarks, more to himself than anyone else, as Darcy ushered him out. His expression was that of a broken man, and in the short span of time it required to descend the stairs, he had gone from blaming Philips and Northam to questioning himself.

As they stepped into the carriage, Bingley turned to him, his brow furrowed with confusion. "Darcy, what more could I have done? I was prompt to answer all correspondence. My man in London looked over everything and said nothing looked out of the ordinary. Is it not irregular for a property to be let out from under one's nose in such a manner?"

Darcy nodded. "Indeed, it is. These transactions usually take weeks, if not months, to complete. The last letter you showed me, a mere four days ago, gave no indication of any other interested parties."

Bingley sighed. "That was what I thought, too. It is a shame, Darcy. Netherfield had everything I'd hoped for. I dearly wish I had been able to show it to you. "

"A pity," Darcy agreed, though, for his part, he was already more than ready to quit the area and return to the comforts of home. The pounding in his head was growing steadily worse. "You will show me the next one."

"Of course, but…" On impulse, Bingley leaned out the window and called out to the coachman, "Take us along the North Road before we turn back, would you? I would like to catch a glimpse of Netherfield, even if it is no longer to be mine."

Darcy studied Bingley's profile, noting the sharp disappointment etched in his features. Bingley was a chap whose every emotion played loudly across his face, but Darcy had never seen such extreme peevishness over a simple missed opportunity. He was not without sympathy, but surely, the matter did not warrant this level of disappointment. "I do not think it advisable to drive by the property. You only torture yourself needlessly."

Bingley lifted his shoulder. "It is a lovely prospect, Darcy. I did want you to see it if for no other reason than that once you do, you will not doubt my taste."

As the carriage rolled along the country lane, Netherfield came into view, its stately fa?ade rising majestically against the backdrop of the Hertfordshire countryside. Indeed, it was a property worthy of admiration, and he could understand Bingley's attraction. They did not drive directly up to the house; instead, they took a road that ran parallel to the property from which they could see most of the manor.

"It is a fine estate, Bingley," Darcy remarked, his tone measured. "But there will be others."

Bingley sighed, his gaze fixed on the retreating image of Netherfield as the carriage rolled on. "I know, Darcy. It is just... I had such high hopes for this place. The promise of a new beginning, a chance to establish myself."

Darcy nodded, his mind already turning to the practicalities of their situation. So, it was not the loss of this particular house that had Bingley so crushed but the delay in all the things he had looked forward to. To become more like Darcy—that had always been Bingley's unstated desire, and though flattered, Darcy often wondered if he was the proper standard by which Bingley ought to be measuring himself.

Well, there was nothing else for it now. They would need to redouble their efforts to seek new opportunities for Bingley to secure a suitable property. It was doubtful they would have any luck at all until spring, and there was certainly nothing to be done at this moment. And indeed, nothing when Darcy could hardly concentrate over the clamouring bells in his head that made his eyes ache and his skull feel as if it were ready to split apart .

Darcy shifted his hat a little lower on his brow and leaned toward the window, trying to let his thoughts trail into that gentle autumn breeze that rustled the remaining gold in the treetops.