CS: Dear reader, I'm currently working on my first full-length P&P novel, so bear with me as I work my way through the story. I'd really appreciate your every comment and just wanted to say a big THANK YOU for reading my words :)

CHAPTER 1

It all started with a fire.

The staff at Netherfield Park had seen one too many fires in their years of service and still when an accident did happen, there never seemed to be a spare bucket of water at an arm's reach. True to custom, the last pail of water had just been poured into the large copper pot where veal was boiled for stock.

The cook, Mrs. Robins, was squinting through her looking glasses at the sparse instructions in her thick tome of recipes, trying to recall the right amount of parsley, which constituted "plenty". Of course, the favorable instrument resting at the tip of her plump nose had been a gift from her beloved mistress, the late Lady Seton, at Mrs. Robins' previous appointment. It afforded her a good deal of jealousy among the rest of the older staff at Netherfield, who could not afford such a luxurious aid for their failing eyesight. Thus engaged, Mrs. Robins wasn't vigilant enough of her latest charge, the new kitchen maid Nancy.

Nancy, in turn, wobbled under the weight of the heavy spade full of smoldering embers on her way to restock one of the stoves. She kept her eyes firmly trained on the smoking heap, oblivious to the rest of the traffic in the kitchen. At the same time, Peggy, a scullery maid tasked with rendering tallow, was carrying a large pot of bubbling fat, fresh from the stove, towards the candle molds in the scullery. Unaware of one another, the two maids crashed into a chaotic pile of banging metal, hissing tallow and crackling flames. Fortunately, both girls jumped back just in time to remain unscathed, if they disregarded the various-sized splotches of red burned skin across their forearms.

Disorder ensued at once as the flames caught the bunches of dry mint and basil piled in a stray crate on the floor. Before anyone could return to their senses from the shock and take action, a bottle of cooking alcohol exploded with a roar and spread the fire all over the western side of the kitchen. Only then did Mrs. Robins realize what a bad turn of luck it had been that she'd just used the last drop of water.

As the women started hastily ripping off their aprons and swatting helplessly at the spreading flames, a footman threw the last bit of crust from his unfinished breakfast on the table and scurried out towards the butler's pantry to announce the calamity. He only hoped that the butler, the stern Mr. Rowley, wouldn't take his wrath out on the messenger.

None of the commotion had reached the upper floors of Netherfield, where the family and their guest were having a quiet breakfast. Heaps of cakes and buttery rolls were lined on the table, along with plates of toast and a selection of cold cuts left over from last night's meal. Mr. Charles Bingley, the master of the house, and his brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, sat near the fire with long forks, toasting slices of bread in the fireplace. Mr. Bingley's two sisters, Miss Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Luisa Hurst, sipped their bitter chocolate at the table, while Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley's dearest friend, perused the Morning Chronicle without paying much interest to the small feast in front of him.

"Such dreadful weather!" Miss Bingley complained with a pronounced frown. "I can't bear to spend another day indoors! How are we to entertain our dear guest, Mr. Darcy, when all amenities have been denied to us? Even our house guest, Miss Bennet, is not proving much of a diversion."

"Don't be cruel, Caroline," Mr. Bingley said. "You don't expect poor sick Jane to be in any form to entertain you, now, do you?"

"But please, Charles," Miss Bingley snorted. "You're being unfair. I can see right through her little ploy. If she can design such an elaborate scheme to stay here overnight just to be in your vicinity, I dare say, she could be quite the entertaining little damsel."

"Now you're the one wanting for fairness, dear sister," Mr. Bingley said. "You have to admit Jane was only responding to your kind dinner invitation. I see her employing no scheme. She would have had no way of knowing the rain would render her indisposed. We have only done the appropriate thing to ask her to stay with us until she recovers her strength."

"Still, Charles, what sort of lady chances a trip on horseback in such weather?"

"The sort that doesn't want to appear rude and turn down an invitation just because of an overcast sky."

"I see, dear brother, that you're set on defending Miss Bennet and would not listen to reason, regardless of how sound my arguments might be. Frankly, even this conversation is starting to bore me. How I wish something extraordinary would happen right this moment to save us all from the need to discuss such dull subjects!"

Miss Bingley had hardly finished expressing her desire when the doors to the breakfast room flew open and a flushed-looking Mr. Rowley approached the table, mumbling excuses for interrupting the family's meal.

"I'm afraid, sir, that there's been an incident in the kitchen."

"What sort of incident?" Miss Bingley asked, her voice fluttering with excitement.

"A fire. I've engaged all the staff in trying to put a stop to it, but my recommendation is for you to step out into the garden until the house is deemed safe again."

"Have you lost your mind, Rowley?" Miss Bingley said indignantly. "In case it has escaped your attention, the weather does not permit any stepping outside right now."

"How serious is this?" Bingley asked, disregarding his sister's comment.

"It's serious, I'm afraid," the butler panted. "The fire has spread to the scullery and the larder, but I can assure you we are doing our best to contain it. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"This is horrifying!" Mrs. Hurst screeched, clutching her necklace and rising to her feet. "I've heard stories of houses burning right to the ground in a matter of hours! In fact, just this past autumn, our London neighbor Mrs. Fernside was telling me how her niece had lost her entire estate—house, stables and all—in less than an hour!"

"And here I was, wondering why it's become so unbearably hot in here," said an abundantly sweating Mr. Hurst and started fanning himself with the stray pages of the Chronicle he grabbed from the edge of the table.

"Could it be because you're sitting right by the fireplace?" Mr. Darcy said, irritated that his morning paper had gone to such useless cause and was practically unreadable once Mr. Hurst's damp fingers had smeared the ink.

In the next minutes, when everyone in the room seemed overwhelmed with panic, Darcy was the only one to keep his composure. The ladies were fluttering about, inventing increasingly darker scenarios of the fire obliterating Netherfield, but failing to decide on any action themselves. Bingley had run downstairs to confirm the gravity of the situation. Mr. Hurst was doing his best to console his despairing wife who was convinced she had mere moments left to live.

"We should go out at once!" Bingley called from the door, pungent smoke wafting in from the hallway above his head. "We are only lucky it's raining profusely outside. Quick! Through the French doors!"

"I'm not going anywhere without my jewels," Miss Bingley declared and ducked past her brother and into the smoky depths of the house.

"And my dresses?" Mrs. Hurst shrieked and followed her sister.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Mr. Hurst sighed laboriously. "Could there be anything less predictable than a woman's shallow ways?" Continuing to complain, he shuffled after his wife, hoping to stop her before she had jeopardized her life in the name of fashion.

"Darcy," Bingley said, "at least you be sensible enough to leave the house before it's too late."

Darcy put down his paper and regarded his friend with a crooked smile.

"For all the clamor and grave prophesies, I was beginning to think we're doomed in any case, but if you insist, I'll humor you and get some fresh air. Are you going to join me?"

"Not before I ensure Miss Bennet's safety. Poor Jane is probably sleeping, not suspecting a thing. But you go ahead. I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to any of my two precious guests."

Bingley disappeared so fast that Darcy didn't get the opportunity to ask him if he'd need his assistance. On second thought, he realized Bingley would look better in his lady's eyes if he was her sole hero and rescuer, so he headed for the main entrance. He could hear shouting and clattering from downstairs but didn't see any flames eating into the ground floor. He was slightly annoyed that all the staff was occupied with the fire and he needed to go through the trouble of locating his hat and coat in the cloakroom and opening the front door himself.

Outside the rain bore down mercilessly on the drenched lawns, pebbled walkways, and fields beyond. Above, the sky was dominated by tumbling grays and silvers with not a hint that it might clear anytime soon. The large droplets splattered on Darcy's nose and chin and when even his hat didn't provide much protection against the raging weather, he decided to seek shelter in a gazebo just at the edge of the small pond on the far side of the front lawn.

He was squinting through the pounding torrents of rain as he made his way when something caught his attention. At this moment, anyone more superstitious than Darcy would have assumed that he'd seen a ghost. An ethereal figure was floating through the mist rising from the warm ground. By the way the ghostly form swayed from side to side, he could tell it was a woman and his heart fluttered with intrigue. Darcy followed the movements of the mysterious lady, tracing her steps through the park and towards the paved driveway that led to the front steps.

Who could be venturing out on foot in such weather? As far as he was informed, there was no other guest staying at Netherfield, apart from the sick Miss Bennet, who was undoubtedly resting in her bed, not roaming the gardens. Could it be a neighbor then? But on his riding trips around the estate, Darcy hadn't noticed any nearby homes. Why was this woman not in a carriage if she was visiting Netherfield?

Now she was so close to where he was standing, waiting to greet her and satiate his curiosity, that he could finally discern more of her features. Darcy suddenly felt his enthusiasm wane as he realized he'd been thoroughly mistaken. This was no lady at all! He'd allowed himself the folly of waiting for a mere peasant, a kitchen hand, from the looks of her.

The plain cape covering the woman was soaked through and through, indicating that she'd been walking for a while. From the looks of it, it wouldn't be impossible to assume she'd actually walked for miles. But what was more disturbing was that her face was barely visible under a thick coat of mud smeared across her cheeks, nose, and forehead. Brown rivulets of dirty rainwater were dripping from the wisps of curled hair stuck to her temples, leaving slimy streaks in their wake and sliding down the woman's equally filthy neck. Her shoes made the most offensive squeaking sound with every step she took and the entire front of her cloak was covered with clumps of wet dirt clinging to it. From what could be glimpsed of her gown and petticoat, one could easily conclude that the woman had either plowed through a field in the rain or had simply frolicked in the mud.

Darcy made a start to turn and remove any suspicion that he might be inclined to speak to the woman when he caught a glimpse of her eyes amid all the dirt covering her face. An involuntary shiver rocked his body, though he quickly attributed it to the miserable weather. In the back of his mind, however, a nagging notion that he was familiar with the set of deep brown eyes tormented him. He felt as if they tore straight into his very core. How was it even conceivable that he might know the eyes of a mere servant?

Surely enough, he knew of many a gentleman who engaged in various indiscretions with the help, but his pride, integrity and profound sense of social caliber precluded him from even considering such a vice. That ruled out the possibility that he'd ever attempted anything inappropriate with this servant girl. On the other hand, he paid such scarce attention to servants in general that his only concern was that his communication with them be deemed fair and civil. So, then, how did he tremble with recognition at the sight of this girl?

When he couldn't solve the enigma of those gleaming, oddly familiar eyes, Darcy became uncharacteristically agitated. The woman's squeaky steps sounded just inches behind him when he finally got a hold of himself and started walking briskly away. Out of his peripheral vision, he spotted her approaching the main entrance to Netherfield House. His agitation grew into something more intense and more overpowering. Perhaps it was a misplaced feeling of guilt over letting his mind linger on the woman for far too long.

"What has the world come to?" he cried out, giving way to his frustration. "If even the help is impertinent enough to disregard the simplest codes of conduct and use the front door, what is to come next? Perhaps a gentleman should leave his shoes out the back door, so as not to spoil the kitchen floor? If a fire means that all standards should be dropped, servants must be eager to set a fire or two every single day!"

Frowning and fuming, he didn't notice how the woman stopped in her tracks and shot a quick wounded glance in his direction. She parted her lips as if to speak but perhaps decided against it, because no words came out of her mouth as she changed course and headed for the back of the house.

Darcy instantly regretted his little outburst as it was thoroughly out of character for him who was naturally so composed. He blamed those flaming eyes for casting an evil spell on him and bringing him out of balance. He commanded himself to stop thinking about the woman and strolled along the sodden lawn.