A Council of Darcys - Chapter 1
A Pride and Prejudice Retelling
I can’t seem to let go of this idea, so I’ve decided to turn it into a larger project! If you’ve already read the prologue, I’ve expanded and revised it, feel free to take another look.
This does mean I’ll be moving a bit slower on A House of Daughters, though I’m still actively working on it. Somehow, I always end up juggling multiple ideas at once!
Also, a quick reminder: Letter to Georgiana is available for preorder on Amazon and will be released on June 5th. Be sure to check it out, and if you’re curious, there’s a sneak peek of the first chapter available here.
Chapter 1: First Impressions
The carriage wheels turned steadily along the country road, bearing its five passengers toward the flickering lights of Meryton’s assembly room.
Bingley leaned forward with eager anticipation, his pleasant countenance animated by the prospect of meeting his new neighbours.
Miss Bingley sat opposite with practised composure, adjusting her silk gloves as she cast increasingly pointed glances in Darcy’s direction. Mrs. Hurst, serene and unoriginal, mirrored her sister’s posture with the languid poise of one content to let others lead the conversation.
“I do hope, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said, her voice pitched to convey both intimacy and concern, “that you will not find the evening too terribly tedious. Country assemblies can be so… rustic.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly but offered no response. Miss Bingley was still speaking, though her words reached him only in tone, not content.
Meanwhile, within his mind, the oak table stood as it always did—polished, unyielding, aglow in the steady light of the council’s lamp. Seven figures occupied their familiar seats, their expressions ranging from resignation to active displeasure.
“We should not have agreed to this,” the Earl’s Grandson said with cold finality, adjusting his cravat as though already bracing for contamination. “Country assemblies offer nothing: inferior company, insipid conversation, and connections better left unmade.”
The Master glanced toward him. “The alternative was staying alone at Netherfield Park with Miss Bingley.”
The Scholar nodded gravely, his grey robes rustling. “A fair trade, perhaps,” he said, tone dry. “But the intellectual poverty will be evident within minutes. Weather, gossip, and local trivialities—nothing more substantial than what we might hear from the servants’ hall.”
“There is always something disquieting in these assemblies,” the Christian observed, his black coat severe in the council’s lamplight. “They encourage intimacy before character is known, I would rather we did not partake in it.”
The Gentleman Farmer shifted in his seat, his brown coat creasing as he leaned forward. “Regardless of our distaste, this is necessary for a gentleman of our position. A landowner cannot afford to be invisible. And we are here to help Bingley establish himself.”
The Brother shifted restlessly in his blue jacket, his fingers drumming against the table’s edge. “I should have stayed and written to Georgiana. What if she needs us tonight?” His voice was low, weighted with guilt. “We ought to be helping her heal—not wasting time at a country dance.”
The Romantic sat quietly at his restored place, observing his colleagues with growing unease. “Perhaps,” he ventured carefully, “we might be pleasantly surprised. Country people often possess a warmth that London society lacks.”
The Earl’s Grandson gave a dismissive snort. “That warmth is the product of ignorance, not principle. They will admire our fortune, certainly, but remain unworthy of our attention.”
Through the carriage window, the lights of the assembly room grew brighter. Miss Bingley’s voice penetrated the council’s debate.
“Charles speaks so fondly of country society,” she continued, her tone suggesting such fondness was evidence of mental deficiency. “But I confess I find it difficult to imagine what entertainment such… simple people could provide.”
Darcy’s smile was not amusement but recognition, Miss Bingley’s bait was obvious. “I am certain the evening will pass pleasantly enough,” he said with studied neutrality.
Bingley turned from the window, his eyes bright with anticipation. “I have found the neighbourhood most welcoming. Sir William Lucas and Mr. Bennet both called before I returned to London—very pleasant gentlemen. Mr. Bennet spoke of his daughters with great affection. Five of them, if I remember right. I am eager to meet them properly this evening.”
“Five daughters?” Miss Bingley’s eyebrows rose delicately. “How… extensive. I do hope they have been properly educated. Country governesses can be so inadequate.”
The council stirred at the observation. The Brother’s jaw tightened. The Scholar adjusted his spectacles with unnecessary care. Six pairs of eyes turned, almost in unison, toward the Romantic.
He did not look up.
“We shall judge for ourselves,” the Master said evenly, redirecting the room’s focus as the carriage slowed before the assembly hall.
✦ ✦ ✦
When the party entered the assembly room, there was no mistaking the warmth with which Bingley was received. His manners were easy and sincere, and he seemed at once to belong. Darcy, by contrast, felt the attention that greeted him was cooler—respectful, certainly, but measured.
At the table in his mind, the council observed the room in silence as the room’s reaction washed over them.
“A fine figure of a man,” someone murmured appreciatively.
“Much handsomer than Mr. Bingley,” came another whispered assessment.
“Ten thousand a year,” the intelligence spread through the room like ripples across a pond. “A gentleman from Derbyshire with ten thousand a year.”
The Earl’s Grandson adjusted his cravat. “Recognition is the first sign of breeding. They understand who stands before them.”
The Master adjusted his cuffs. “And yet we find no satisfaction in it. Admiration unsettles, particularly when it is rooted in our fortune. That kind of attention has never sat easily.”
The Scholar exhaled faintly. “Notify me if my vote is needed.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat and opened it without further comment.
The Christian’s gaze settled on a cluster of young women whose laughter seemed a little too loud, their glances a little too direct. “There is a levity here that borders on impropriety. Their mothers should have taught them proper modesty.”
The Brother remained distracted, his thoughts fixed on Georgiana. “We should be with her,” he said under his breath. “Are we meant to dance while she suffers alone in London?” The assembly’s warmth and noise seemed to mock his concern.
Only the Gentleman Farmer found anything to approve. “Bingley has the right approach,” he observed as their host immediately began making introductions. “Perhaps someone here knows something useful. I should like to find a conversation worth having.”
The Romantic watched the way Bingley was received among them, his ease met with matching warmth. No doubt his fortune had drawn attention; in a small town, it could hardly do otherwise. But the smiles seemed genuine, unburdened by calculation. Not strategic. Not cold. Just welcome.
Darcy said little, and less as the evening progressed. Bingley danced and laughed with ease, while he drifted from one edge of the room to the next, declining introductions, offering only cursory remarks. If he noticed the sidelong glances that followed him, he gave them no weight. His thoughts were elsewhere and the room was not his concern.
The council watched this transformation with varying degrees of approval and concern.
The Earl’s Grandson lifted his chin. “Let them whisper. Better than presuming too much. Our silence speaks clearly enough.”
The Romantic shifted uneasily. “We are giving offense where none is meant,” he said. “Our manners may be correct, but they are not kind.”
The Scholar turned a page. “Kindness is not the measure. We are here to be proper, not pleasing.”
The contrast between the two friends was becoming harder to ignore. Bingley was already called amiable by half the room; Darcy, meanwhile, heard only his own silence—and the silences that followed it. There were whispers now. Not loud, but persistent. Proud. Distant. Above his company.
The moment came after Bingley’s second dance with the eldest Miss Bennet. Flushed and delighted, he crossed the room with unguarded enthusiasm.
“Come, Darcy,” he called, still catching his breath. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
The council stirred. Just behind him sat a young woman, her gaze level and composed, the barest trace of amusement touching her mouth. Darcy gave her no particular notice, only a flicker of impression, quickly dismissed.
“I certainly shall not,” Darcy replied, his voice even but firm. “You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”
Bingley laughed good-naturedly. “I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” Darcy conceded, glancing toward Binngley’s partner, whose gentle beauty even the council could not deny.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” Bingley’s enthusiasm was infectious, his face glowing with genuine admiration. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” Darcy asked aloud, though his internal battle raged.
The moment hung suspended as Darcy turned to look at the young woman.
The Earl’s Grandson took control, his voice slipping effortlessly through Darcy’s own. The Scholar approved the phrasing, the Christian the restraint, and the Brother—preoccupied—let it pass. He had no energy for Bingley’s amusements, and less for dancing.
The Gentleman Farmer gave a small shrug. “Hardly matters to me.”
The Romantic leaned forward at last, his voice low but steady. “This is beneath us. There is no cause to speak with such disdain, especially of someone who has done us no wrong.”
But the Master raised a hand, not unkindly. “The council has spoken.”
As his gaze met the young woman’s, he withdrew his own. The council hesitated. The moment might still have passed without injury.
The Romantic leaned in. “Do not—"
But the Earl’s Grandson would not allow it. His tone sharpened and coldly said:
“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
The words emerged cleanly, each syllable carved with precision..
The Romantic recoiled as if struck. “That was beneath us,” he said, his voice tight. “We delivered a wound needlessly. Did you see her? The way her shoulders stiffened?”
“Why should we care? She is no one of consequence, hardly worth remembering, let alone knowing.” the Earl's Grandson replied coldly.
The Scholar gave a mild nod. “There is no merit in the conversation, the company, or the exercise. We gain nothing by dancing here.”
But the Christian frowned. “The manner of delivery seems unnecessarily harsh. Truth should still be spoken with care.”
The Brother, finally drawn from his preoccupation, added quietly, “She showed no forwardness. No scheming. We insulted her for nothing.”
“You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,” Darcy concluded aloud, “for you are wasting your time with me.”
Bingley, though clearly disappointed, returned to the dance. Darcy moved away, unaware that the damage was already done. The young woman remained in her seat, her gaze elsewhere—but she had heard every word.
Laughter reached them across the room—bright, unguarded. The young woman was recounting something to her friends, her eyes alight with mischief. The Romantic noticed. Just for a moment, he watched in silence, the corners of his mind catching on the curve of her smile, the ease in her posture.
He said nothing. He already knew what the others would make of it.
As the evening wore on, the atmosphere around Darcy cooled further. Conversations quieted when he passed; glances no longer lingered with admiration but turned quickly away. Whispers trailed in his wake. He could not hear their content, but their intent was unmistakable. Somewhere across the room, a matron’s voice rose in shrill indignation and several heads turned in his direction.
At the council’s table, the shift was felt. They observed this transformation with varying degrees of concern and satisfaction.
“Our reputation is set,” the Gentleman Farmer said dryly. “Bingley will be welcomed, we shall be tolerated at best.”
“As it should be,” said the Earl’s Grandson. “This way, we will not be bothered by the unworthy.”
The Romantic’s agitation had dulled to quiet concern. “Bingley deserves better allies than this,” he said. “I hope we have not made things harder for him.”
The Master folded his hands. “We are here to help Bingley with the land. He knows us well enough to understand we are of little use to him in society.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The journey back to Netherfield made the contrast plain. Bingley could hardly keep still—praising the company, the conversation, the “general warmth” of the evening. He spoke of kindness, ease, and the pleasure of feeling at home among strangers. Everything, it seemed, had delighted him.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, his voice bright in the dim light, “I could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Her sweetness, her gentle manner—she is perfection itself.”
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst exchanged a glance of silent agreement. Miss Bennet was declared “pretty and sweet,” and deemed acceptable company. It was all the encouragement Bingley needed. His thoughts, it seemed, had already settled.
Darcy remained unmoved. The company had struck him as ordinary, no great beauty, no fashion to speak of, and little in the way of conversation worth pursuing. Even Miss Bennet, though undeniably pretty, smiled more than was strictly necessary.
By the time the carriage reached Netherfield’s gates, the council had already begun its review of the evening.
“We did what was expected of us,” the Earl’s Grandson said, straightening his cuffs with meticulous precision. He felt a quiet pride rise within him. In his view, he had acted exactly as a gentleman ought: dignified, reserved, untouched by provincial excess.
“Is any of you enjoying this?” the Romantic asked quietly, not looking up. No one answered. He sat back, more aware than before of how colourless they had become.
The Scholar did not lift his eyes from the book in his lap. “Enjoyment is not required of the Master of Pemberley,” he said. “Only the proper judgment.”
The Christian folded his hands. “Enjoyment is a luxury we cannot afford, not if we mean to live with discipline.”
The Gentleman Farmer gave a low grunt. “There is enough satisfaction in the land,” he said. “We do not need anything more.” His gaze lingered on the floor, not from doubt, but because he knew the soil offered answers no drawing room ever had.
The Brother sat forward, his voice low but unsteady. “Enjoyment?” He shook his head. “Our sister is in London, bearing the weight of what we failed to prevent, and you speak of enjoyment?” His fists clenched on the table. “We should not have come.”
The Master spoke last, as was his custom. “We did what was necessary,” he said, his voice even. “We remained measured, dutiful, consistent, exactly what is expected of us.” He glanced once around the table, meeting each gaze in turn. “There is honour in that.”
And yet, as he fell silent, something uncertain moved beneath the calm of his expression. He would not name it—not here, not yet—but the Romantic’s question remained: was duty all there was to be expected of life?
I'm considering changing The Earl’s Grandson to The Aristocrat, and shortening The Gentleman Farmer to simply The Gentleman. I’d love to hear your thoughts, let me know in the comments!
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I like the Aristocrat, I think you could say something like " the Earl's Grand son, the Aristocrat", sone way to acknowledge that they are the one and same. I like the term Gentleman Farmer; For me, in P&P, a Gentleman and a Gentleman Farmer are 2 different things 😉. Enjoying traveling down this road with you 😀
The dichotomy of opinions assailing Darcy as he accompanies the Bingleys to the Assembly is intriguing. Please don't change the names. The Aristocrat would make that persona less connected to Darcy's Fitzwilliam bloodline. A gentleman farmer is his current status, as was that of his father. Sometimes, a writer's first choice is the best.
It appears that the Romantic has a tough job ahead, but I'm rooting for him to sway the others.