Page 4 of Master of Himself

No, he wouldn’t let his guard down again.

Chapter 2

Only one year after Charles Bingley had attained his majority, leasing Netherfield Park had brought him one step closer to his dream of owning his own estate. His father would have been proud of his chosen path. As the current master of Netherfield, he had the respect of his neighbours and enjoyed country life, shooting, riding, and fishing. Nothing could be better, especially with London within an easy distance, unlike Darcy, whose country estate was a tedious two-day’s journey away. Even the inclement weather couldn’t dampen Charles’s enthusiasm for country life.

Now on his way home from an enjoyable evening with the local militia officers, his thoughts turned to a young lady, Miss Jane Bennet, the loveliest, most enchanting creature in the kingdom. She was a diamond of the first water, with gracious manners and an air of quiet distinction. He had met this incomparable beauty at a recent assembly and looked forward to spending more time in her company. Perhaps he might even convince Darcy to call on the Bennet family tomorrow.

Once his coachman had turned into the lane towards Netherfield, the carriage significantly lost its momentum. After several hours of rain, the ground was fully saturated, and he feared they might become mired in the mud. He trusted Lockhart, his faithful driver, to handle the horses with a steady hand, but their progress had slowed drastically.

Henry Hurst groaned. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Lockhart will keep the team moving,” Charles said; however, this proved false when the carriage listed to the right and stopped.

“Just as I predicted,” Henry said with an irritable growl.

The door opened, and Lockhart poked his head inside, the rain pelting his tricorn and cloak. “Sorry, Mr Bingley, but I’ll need your help getting the wheels out of the mud,” he said, shouting above the tumultuous storm.

Well accustomed to this scenario, Charles alighted and sloshed through the mud to the back of the carriage. Since he would need both hands to free the wheels from the mire, he’d left his umbrella behind, and the driving rain quickly soaked through his greatcoat. His boots would undoubtedly be ruined, but nothing else could be done.

“Sorry about this,” he said, when Darcy and Henry joined in the effort; however, he doubted anyone heard him above the howling wind.

“It’s unavoidable but easily remedied,” someone said. Indeed, he and his friends had encountered this same issue several times in the past.

With Lockhart at the horses’ heads, Charles hoisted the rear wheel up, while Darcy and Henry pushed the carriage from behind. Cold rain pelted his face and dripped down his neck, soaking his shirt, and the fierce wind blew his hat away.

Once the wheel was free, the carriage inched forward, and then lurched. Startled by a flash of lightning and a deafening blast of thunder, he lost his footing and crashed into Darcy…or was it Henry? He could see neither. Caught off balance, he plunged face down into the mud. His head throbbed, his hair, clothes, and gloves were soaked through, but at least the carriage was moving again.

“Are you hurt?” someone said, shouting above the din.

“Thank you, my friend,” Charles said as someone helped him to his feet. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

They piled back into the carriage, sopping wet and covered with cold mud. To his surprise, he hadn’t lost his hat as he’d feared.

“Sorry about tracking the mud in here, Charles,” Henry said.

“No, it can’t be helped,” he said, shivering. His throat burned and his voice was hoarse.

At long last, they reached the driveway to Netherfield, and Lockhart drove them around to the back of the house. A wise choice, he thought, knowing his sisters would fuss if they tracked mud through the entrance hall.

Once in the cloakroom, Charles lit a candle. Almost immediately, a footman rushed in to take their coats.

“We’re all soaked, John. Will you bring us some towels?”

“Right away, Mr Darcy,” John said and dashed off.

Charles supposed that John had mistaken him for Darcy because he was covered with mud and his voice had sounded a bit deeper than usual. Had he caught a chill?

However, what he saw next shocked him to his core.

***

Darcy stared in disbelief. “Am I seeing things?” he said, rubbing his eyes. Impossible as it might seem, his exact double stood before him, covered with mud from head to toe, tall and imposing. Even more perplexing, his doppelganger spoke in Darcy’s own deep voice. “Either I’ve had too much to drink, or I’m hallucinating.”

“I doubt we’re both hallucinating,” Darcy said, but his words were spoken in Charles Bingley’s voice.

“What on earth, Darcy?”

“Good God!”