Who: Fitzwilliam Darcy; Georgiana Darcy, Caroline Bingley, and/or a doctor What: Darcy finally arrives in Sanditon When: Several hours after this post Where: The Darcy/Bingley party townhouse
Entering the sitting room, Darcy dropped into the nearest chair, and exhaled loudly in relief. After hours of distress and degradation, he had arrived at his rented townhouse in what passed for the fashionable part of Sanditon. This day would probably rank among the most uncomfortable of his life. Certainly few afternoons had taxed either his physical endurance or his patience more.
Beyond the final arduous mile into town, which he only made before nightfall thanks to the assistance of a particular young woman, he had further humiliations to suffer. First, he was forced to explain to the staff at the post station that he had lost their horse. The stable master did not blink an eye, and seemed more concerned for Darcy’s well-being; but being a grown man who considered himself a competent horseman, the situation stung his pride. As did needing one of the stable hands to escort him to the townhouse.
Next he spent nearly twenty minutes convincing the maid who answered the door that he was Mr. Darcy, the lessee of the very house of her employment, and to please let him in before he collapsed in the street. Producing a letter from the owner confirming the lease (and it was a minor miracle the letter was in his possession, as were the rest of his valuables. Thank God he had not made use of the saddlebags) did not persuade her. His appearance at that moment did not, he had to admit, support his case that he was a gentleman, let alone one of means. It took describing Georgiana and Miss Bingley in detail, as well as the particulars of their arrangements, to break through her skepticism. Ultimately it was his resemblance to his sister that satisfied her on his identity.
The maid was only somewhat contrite as she ushered him inside, justifying herself with, “You can never be too careful sir, with everythin’ goin’ on.” This statement did little to relieve the state of anxiety which Darcy had been living in for the last four days, but upon inquiry he was assured of the ladies’ safety, and informed they were currently out shopping. There was also not a cane to be found anywhere in the house, so Darcy was given an umbrella to use a substitute, which he accepted with the detachment of a man too weary for astonishment.
As the other servants were out running errands, the maid was obliged to fetch a doctor herself, leaving Darcy to his own devices. On this he had no complaint: while he was sorry to have missed his sister, a few quiet moments to himself were welcome. Hobbling down the hall into the first apparent sitting room—and making more use of the wall for support than his precarious “cane”—he at last came to rest in a chair of hideous upholstery. He let himself sink into the cushions, and his mind drift into temporary oblivion.
Eventually he was roused from his lassitude by his increasingly difficult to ignore ankle. The persistent dull ache had graduated into a sharp throb. Darcy had experienced enough scrapes in his youth to know a solution was elevating the injury, so he cast his eye about the room for an appropriate surface. There was a footstool present but it was, of course, out of easy reach. With a sigh, Darcy picked up the discarded umbrella.
Several minutes later, after much stretching and contorting, Darcy managed to hook the handle of the umbrella on one of the legs of the footstool, and moved it a few inches in his direction with a tug. Before he could feel any triumph, he heard the front door open, and footsteps rapidly move down the hallway. Turning his head to face the sound, he did not have time to straighten from his position—holding an umbrella upside down in his left hand, arm fully extended, clinging to the armrest with his other hand, and body lunging forward out of his seat—before the person came into view.