Page 1 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Chapter One: A Farrago of Farewells and Fisticuffs

Longbourn’s entrance hall resembled a contested battlefield long before the sun had fully crested the rolling Hertfordshire hills. Trunks of varying sizes were stacked haphazardly on the wainscoting, creating a perilous labyrinth for anyone daring to traverse the passage. Harold and Michael, Aunt Madeline’s eight-year-old terrors—identical twins possessing matching energy and permanently stained waistcoats—used the largest leather portmanteau as a fortress.

“I am the French cavalry!” Harold vaulted over a bandbox, brandishing a wooden sword.

“I am Wellington! Prepare for ruin!” Michael launched himself through the air, tackling his brother mid-flight.

The boys crashed into the longcase clock, sending a resounding, mournful gong echoing through the fragile morning peace of the house.

Elizabeth expertly sidestepped the tangled pile of thrashing limbs, her travelling pelisse slung casually over one arm. Before she could scold the miniature generals, a fresh wave of hysteria erupted from the morning room.

“I shall expire! I shall waste away into nothingness!” Lydia’s wails vibrated through the floorboards. She flung herself across the fading upholstery of the chaise longue, her muslin skirts billowing upward.

Kitty leaned against the doorframe, a smug grin stretching across her face. “You will do no such thing. You will stay right here in Meryton with the rest of us, and Mrs Forster will have a wonderful time dancing in Brighton without you.”

Lydia sprang to her feet, her face a blotchy, tear-streaked canvas of fury. “You are a wicked, spiteful creature! Harriet swore she would send for me. She promised on her life!” She snatched an embroidered cushion from the sofa and hurled it across the room with deadly accuracy.

Kitty dodged the projectile with practised agility. “Perhaps she realised that she is quite enough to entertain a militia camp, and a noisy, bothersome girl of fifteen would be a hindrance to her flirting.”

“I am not a hindrance!” Lydia launched herself, her fingers hooked into rigid claws aimed at Kitty’s meticulously arranged morning curls.

Mary emerged from the shadowy corner by the bookcase, a hefty volume of Fordyce’s Sermons clutched tightly to her chest. “Sisterly discord is a terrible stain on the delicate fabric of female virtue. Proverbs explicitly states—”

Lydia’s flailing elbow connected with Mary’s shoulder, sending the book crashing to the floor. In the ensuing tangle of limbs, muslin, and shrieks, Mary reached out to steady herself. Her fingers grasped blindly for the back of the sofa, but instead became entangled in the ribbons of Lydia’s cap. Kitty shoved Lydia, Lydia grabbed Mary’s shoulder for balance and caught a fistful of Mary’s hair, and a sickening, resonant rip filled the room.

Mary shrieked, stumbling backwards. A substantial clump of her mousy brown hair remained trapped in Lydia’s tightened fist.

“Look what you have done! I am maimed!” Mary pressed a trembling hand to her newly thinned scalp.

Elizabeth marched fully into the room, kicking the discarded cushion aside and stepping onto Fordyce. She seized Lydia by the shoulders, bodily hauling her away from Kitty. “That is quite enough! If you insist on behaving like rabid beasts before breakfast, you shall be banished to the stables until my uncle’s carriage departs.”

“She started it!” Lydia pointed an accusing, hair-filled fist at Kitty’s nose.

“I stated a verifiable fact.” Kitty smoothed her own skirts, unrepentant.

Elizabeth gestured towards the passage. “Upstairs. Both of you. Before I inform our father that his youngest daughters require immediate physical restraint.”

As the combatants slunk away, muttering vicious unladylike threats at one another, Mary following behind them whimpering, Elizabeth turned her attention back to the passage. The mayhem there was of a different, yet equally disturbing, flavour.

Jane sat gracefully on the bottom step of the main staircase, balancing six-year-old Rebecca Gardiner on her lap. The little girl was attempting to plait Jane’s golden hair, humming an off-key nursery rhyme. Jane’s smile was unfailingly gentle, though Elizabeth noted the shadows beneath her sister’s eyes—the lingering melancholy of a certain Mr Bingley’s continued absence. Jane masked her heartbreak behind endless patience, offering encouragement as Rebecca tugged rather ruthlessly at her locks.

“You are making me look like a proper princess, Becky.” Jane kissed the girl’s forehead, ignoring the fact that her hair now resembled a bird’s nest.

Aunt Madeline Gardiner glided out of the dining room, adjusting her kid gloves without a hint of distress. She was the picture of elegance, possessing a sensible mind and a wicked, dry sense of humour. Elizabeth adored her above almost all other relatives.

“Wellington, Napoleon, cease hostilities this instant.” Aunt Madeline did not raise her voice; she lifted one arched eyebrow at her twin sons. “Unless you wish me to ask Jane to feed you nothing but unsweetened gruel for a fortnight.”

The twins froze, scrambling to their feet and attempting to look like choirboys.

Elizabeth stepped into the hall. “I am convinced, Aunt Madeline, that you possess some kind of ancient magic. My mother has been screaming at them for twenty minutes to no avail.”

Aunt Madeline offered a conspiratorial smile. “The trick, my dear Lizzy, is never to raise one’s voice. It encourages the enemy.”

“My poor nerves! I am torn to pieces! Hill! Where are my smelling salts?” Mrs Bennet descended the stairs in a flurry of mismatched shawls and dramatic, heaving sighs, clutching her bosom as if suffering a mortal wound, and sweeping past Jane without a glance. Mrs Philips trailed closely behind her sister, armed with a fresh supply of Meryton gossip to impart before the departure.

“It is a tragedy, Madeline.” Mrs Philips nodded sagely, her cap ribbons bobbing. “To have the Lakes snatched away from you all! Derbyshire is nothing but rocks, sheep, and damp weather. And with my brother’s business ruining the itinerary... Well, one can only imagine the bitter disappointment.”

Mrs Bennet collapsed onto a chair, fanning herself furiously with a crumpled handkerchief. “And Lydia! My poor, dear Lydia abandoned by that two-faced Mrs Forster. The child’s gentle heart is broken. I feel a flutter in my chest. Hill!”