Chapter Three

Mr. Darcy was having a very bad day. It began with a letter from his sister Georgiana, who was lodged, along with her new companion, at Pemberley. She was still melancholy from her ill-considered involvement with the scoundrel, George Wickham. While he loved his sister, and wanted nothing more than her happiness, the merest thought of his erstwhile childhood companion could cause his blood to boil. He could put the Ramsgate disaster out of his mind for days at a time. But any recollection was likely to put him in a foul mood.

The next aggravation came when the Bingleys and the Hursts arrived at Darcy House to commence the journey north to Netherfield. It had been decided that they would travel in company. Darcy had agreed that his carriage was more comfortable for Hurst and the ladies; but Bingley and he would ride alongside rather than joining the others in the coach. The servants would follow in the Bingleys’ coach.

Ill-luck brought an end to this carefully laid plan. A stone thrown up by a passing cart had struck Darcy’s horse, bruising his hock.

“I feel I must send him back to Darcy House with a groom.” The gentleman from Derbyshire spoke quietly to Bingley.

“You’ll ride in the coach with the others, then?” Bingley asked.

Darcy sighed. “It seems like the most appropriate solution. Any other would either delay us further or open me to ridicule.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest you ride up top, old man.” Bingley grinned. “Surely a few hours with Caroline cannot be that bad.”

“I don’t see you offering to give up your mount, so you may entertain the ladies on the road.” Darcy sulked, but quietly so that the ladies might not overhear.

“I just got the fellow,” Bingley spouted, patting his steed on his neck affectionately. “Still working to break him in. Changing riders could set that back months.”

“I see. Well, we’d best get on with it.” Darcy reached for the carriage door. A footman had already opened it. Miss Bingley gestured to the seat next to her. It was the only space available. Somehow the three passengers had spread out to occupy the space designed to suffice for six. Darcy nodded his silent thanks and settled in as best he could while keeping a decorous distance from his unmarried companion. Once settled he signaled to the coachman to continue their excursion.

“The roads today are in such awful condition are then not, Mr. Darcy. It is a wonder we can travel at all.” Miss Bingley began. “I have heard a proposal that drayage should be restricted to lesser roads so that consequential traffic may progress more expediently, and in greater safety and comfort.”

“That seems to beg the question of which classes of traffic is more important, and to whom.” Darcy responded. “From whence rises consequence?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Miss Bingley asked. The Hursts seemed satisfied to let the younger lady carry the conversation.

“There are those that might argue that the efficient transportation of raw materials and finished goods contributes to the wellbeing of the nation more than does the reduced comfort of the leisure class.”

“Shocking, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley batted coquettishly at his sleeve with her fan. “Almost revolutionary. Will you be delighting us next with a chorus of La Carmagnole?”

“I think not.”

“Can they honestly consider that the scurrying of the ragtag and bobtail is more important than the pursuits of the more refined classes?”

“Hmm…” Darcy decided against trying to draw Miss Bingley in to an in-depth discussion of moral philosophy. But she declined to be placated on the subject.

“Not a fortnight ago I heard Lady Jersey lament that the Ordinaries were encroaching further upon the prerequisites of the gentry; demanding the vote of all things. I thought such discussion most shocking, but there were many gentlemen of the Parliament in attendance, so it was perhaps not too surprising when the discussion took such a political turn.”

“She’s almost an Ordinary herself for all her harangues against the gifted,” muttered Mr. Hurst, less quietly than he might have intended. Mrs. Hurst gripped his arm fiercely.

“By no means,” Miss Bingley disagreed. “Lady Jersey, no, all of the Coterie are proud to be gifted. They make no proposals that nulls should be offered any sort of expanded influence. Her point is merely that among the elite, one need not further discriminate based on such a meaningless characteristic as the extent of one’s gift. In the ancient era of the Conqueror, the ability to lay waste to armies of the mundane may have been worthy of approbation and advancement. But in our more modern and genteel world, it is one’s breeding and accomplishments that are more pertinent, thus far better considerations for determining ones position in society and the privileges that emanate from it.”

“You speak of position and privileges,” Darcy argued. “But what of responsibilities and duties? The Conqueror elucidated in the Great Charter of 1066 that the gifted were to be raised above the mundane not just because we were more powerful, but because ‘great responsibility follows inseparably from great power’. We hold responsibilities to those beneath us, just as they owe duties to us.”

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“Just so,” agreed Miss Bingley. ‘Which is why they should remove themselves from our way when we travel.”

Darcy glowered at her expression of preening self-satisfaction. Then recalling his previous resolution to avoiding such serious discourse with the other occupants of the conveyance, he rebuked himself and removed a book from his satchel and settled in to read. He still spied Mrs. Hurst give her sister a significant look and Miss Bingley’s silent, exasperated response.

The trip to Netherfield, only twenty-five miles of good road, should have taken a mere four hours, including a short stop to rest the horses and refresh the passengers. Instead, between Mrs. Hurst’s frequent indisposition and Miss Bingley’s delicate constitution, they were obliged to suspend their expedition on four separate occasions. This put them almost two hours behind schedule. Several miles short of their destination, all traffic was brought to a standstill by a calamity that left two wagons overturned and numerous barrels and bales scattered across the road.

“Darcy, Louisa … I believe that these fellows might benefit from an expeditious application of your gifts.” Bingley said.

“Surely you cannot expect Louisa and Mr. Darcy to involve themselves with these peasants, in manual labor. It’s beneath them.” Miss Bingley decried.

“Highly improper …” muttered Mr. Hurst in agreement.

“Really Charles,” Mrs. Hurst protested and turned her back on the unpleasant business.

Darcy silently swung from the carriage and advanced to get a better perspective on the accident. He could see scores of men working with long poles tried to lever the wagons back on to their wheels. The mule teams had already been unhitched and brought into an adjacent field. The wounded carters had all been moved into the same field, all but one. An exhausted voice of the last, trapped carter could be heard moaning in pain from beneath the wreckage.

Pulling off his riding coat, Darcy handed it to Henry Coachman. “Everyone, move back!” Darcy called, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the rabble. “Move back!”

The crowd parted, regarding the gentleman intruder with some trepidation. “Henry, Michael, clear a space for the wagons over there.” Darcy pointed the coachman and groom to the field opposite where the mules and men were. “Giles, find out if a surgeon has been sent for. If not, find out where the nearest one is. I may have to transport the injured man myself.” Darcy ordered the footman on the back of the carriage. His staff moved to perform their duties. Bingley and the ladies watched in captivation as Darcy took charge of the situation.

Once the throng had made room, Darcy approached the two wagons. He knew he had to work carefully. If he shifted their weight, he risked crushing the injured man on the ground. Laying one hand on each cart he reversed the pull of the Earth on the conveyances and hoisted them into the air. Holding them at arm’s length, he carefully strode to the side of the highway. Once he was sure the area was clear of people, he set the two wagons onto their broken wheels. He pulled over some wooden crates and placed them under the axels to prop up the carts.

Giles was examining the young man, no more than a boy really, who had been caught under the carts. Darcy looked questioningly to his footman who smiled reassuringly. “He’s gonna be fine, sir. Got a broken arm, and some nasty bruises and scrapes. But he’ll mend with care. The local apothecary is on his way.”

“Very good. Let’s get him out of the road.” Darcy gestured, and the boy floated over to stretch out next to the other injured men. “Now get this road cleared. Everyone, grab a barrel or bale and move them next to the wagons.”

At first people just watched as Darcy levitated the goods from the road. But when his servants and Mr. Bingley started helping, others realized that the faster the road was clear, the sooner they could be on their way. In Darcy’s carriage, Miss Bingley offered a running commentary on the progress to the Hursts. Some minutes later, travel had recommenced in both directions. Darcy brushed himself off as well as he could before re-entering the coach.

“My apologies,” he offered to the denizens, his voice not fully concealing his frustration with their inaction. “Just one of those responsibilities of which we were so recently speaking.”

It was another hour before they arrived at Netherfield. Ever since they had left the main road and traveled through the local market towns, Miss Bingley and her sister had been looking at the scenery outside the coach windows as if they were traveling to India and gazing upon the exotic palace of a maharajah for the first time.

They commented on the outmoded styles and general brutishness of the local populous and the antiquated and dilapidated architecture of the passing buildings. In short, they were displeased with everyone and everything they saw.

Mr. Darcy shook his head internally. He could not help but know that Miss Bingley had expectations of him, albeit unreciprocated ones. She wishes above anything to be the Mistress of Pemberley. Yet every time they were in company in the country, he could see the contempt in which she held all things bucolic. He often wondered to himself if she even realized that he was a country gentleman at heart, and Pemberley was a country estate. Should she ever achieve her desire, she would likely either find herself miserable at Pemberley surrounded by the country life she detested, or she would build a life separate from him in Town. Of the two possible fates, he knew which he would choose, as her misery was not worth his own.

Upon their arrival at Netherfield, Bingley discovered that the housekeeper had misread his missive informing her of the date of their return and had not expected them for three days yet. In short, their rooms were not ready, and the larder was near empty. Bingley rightfully took the blame on himself.

“Oh, no wonder.” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words and blots the rest. Nonetheless, this will not do. Send to town for food and prepare our chambers immediately. My abigail will be here shortly. As will Mr. Darcy and Charles’ men. We will need rooms to prepare ourselves for tonight’s assembly. And I will not be seen looking less than my best in front of these people!”

“Surely with all this confusion, it would be better to forgo the ball and just use the evening to settle in and recover from what must have been a most harrowing journey for you ladies?”

“Come Darcy!” Bingley cried. “We shall make do and attend the ball. For there is nothing I like better than a country dance.”

So it was that after their servants and clothing arrived, the Netherfield party adorned and bedecked themselves, then set off into the blustery evening to attend an assembly when only one of the party truly wanted to go.

As bad as the day had been, Darcy was afraid the evening would be worse.