**This story has forced me to write so. many. letters. But I think you will like many of them :) - EAW oh, and very sorry about the horse.**

The gentlemen residing at Netherfield Park rode their stallions over the last hill that separated Longbourn and Mr. Bingley's leased estate, racing down the embankment with no formal wager between them. The two experienced riders urged their beasts to edge out the other, an exercise both animals enjoyed as neither had been bred for merely convenient travel. Where money was no hindrance to Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley, their trusty steeds had been purchased solely for their traits of stamina and speed. A man's horse was his measure.

Mr. Bingley's thoroughbred, a two-year-old named Chaucer, kicked into his highest speed and galloped a half-length ahead of Mr. Darcy's mount. But Fitzwilliam remained upright in his saddle, not the least unsettled by the prospect of losing. He leaned forward, gripped his thighs harder, tucked his heels in, and signaled his horse, Vesuvius, that it was time for the three-year-old companion of Derbyshire's most eligible bachelor to stretch his legs. Vesuvius lowered his head, stretched his neck, and the race increased to a speed that if either of the gentlemen should lose their seat, a broken neck would surely be the end result.

Two young stable boys whooped and hollered down below as the sight of the racing had become a normal fixture in serving the tenant of the property. The young red-haired boy cheered for his champion, Mr. Bingley, while the dark-featured lad, an orphan from one county over called Faron, secretly wished for Mr. Darcy to win, though he would not yell the man's name. It would have been rude while in Mr. Bingley's employ.

When Bingley's horse fell slightly behind, Mr. Darcy thought little of it, except for a cursory look behind him to ensure that Bingley had not fallen. Indeed, no calamity of that magnitude had befallen their folly, but Bingley's horse galloped in an unnatural gait, stumbling forward as Bingley fought to keep his seat.

By the time Mr. Darcy registered something was amiss, what appeared to be a terrible tumble finally did strike for Charles Bingley, the man betrothed to Jane Bennet.

"Charles!" Fitzwilliam yelled as he slowed Vesuvius to a canter, then a trot. But a horse of Vesuvius's pedigree could not come up short with a single pull of the reins. Poor Bingley was left alone, nearly a quarter-mile from the stables, before Mr. Darcy had finally stopped his horse, turned him around, and urged the beast back towards his friend. The two stable hands took off in a sprint towards their employer.

When Darcy arrived near his friend, the poor beast, Chaucer, whinnied and neighed in great distress. Chaucer attempted to rise and stand upon four legs, his back left faltered, and he collapsed again to a heap upon his side, neighing with even more urgency. The high-pitched cry unsettled Vesuvius who began to stamp his feet in solidarity with his equine brother. Mr. Darcy struggled to calm Vesuvius but managed to dismount in a sweeping swing of his leg, jumping to the ground.

The injured horse's cries pierced Darcy's ears and he flinched. He pulled a pistol from his saddlebag, angrily tugging the leather flap back down and loaded the shot and powder. A stable boy grasped Vesuvius' reins and began to walk him away from the struggling Chaucer. Darcy nodded at the boy and appreciated the lad's foresight.

With determined resolve, he approached the pained animal from the front, inhaled deeply, then fired the definitive shot where the kill would be most humane. In an agonizing moment, the horse's cries ceased and his legs stilled.

"Charles!" Darcy called out as his friend lay just a few feet from the dead horse.

Darcy muttered words of gratitude that Providence had saved Bingley's foot from tangling in the stirrups, nor had he fallen with the horse's weight crushing him. The possibility of a thousand-pound animal further injuring Bingley in some way, had informed Mr. Darcy's decision to address the horse first, the man second. Besides, Charles Bingley had managed to roll and rest upon his hands and knees, coughing into the autumn brown grass before Darcy reached him. Bingley held up a hand to stay his friend's progress.

"Nasty shock! Damn lucky break!" Mr. Bingley sputtered, in an angry tone really heard by his closest friends. For such an affable man, when at last Charles Bingley grew perturbed, the curses and anger flowed through his lips with more ease than a man who more often lost his temper. When he looked up and spied Chaucer silenced and still, he suddenly appeared to register what had happened, even though he had heard the shot.

"You blaggard! How dare you shoot my horse!" Charles roared, standing up unsteadily, his balance off and swaying his weight between two shaky legs.

"His leg was broken. Are you quite alright?" Mr. Darcy approached his friend, just as Bingley charged at him in a fit of rage.

"You had no right!"

Darcy dropped his pistol and fended off Bingley's fisticuffs with the remaining adrenaline still coursing through his veins from both the racing and the accident.

"It had to be done!" Darcy bellowed, parrying Bingley's arms to the left and right making his blows glance his arms and miss the target of his midsection.

Thankfully, Darcy had seen his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, behave similarly after the loss of an equine companion, particularly when it was the loss of the horse that had ridden with him into battle.

"Look at the leg, man!" Darcy shoved hard, and Bingley stumbled wide afar of his friend enough paces that Mr. Darcy was able to jog past him and head back towards the two animals, one huffing and puffing in desperate need of a walking cool down and the other, unnaturally arranged upon the ground, its life forfeit.

Darcy called out to the lad holding Vesuvius' reins, unsure of what to do.

"Boy, what is your name?"

"Faron, sir."

"Do you ride?"

The boy heartily nodded. Darcy boosted him atop of Vesuvius. "Ride gently down to the stables and call the master. Have them send a wagon for Mr. Bingley and tell them I said to send for Mr. Jones."

Darcy patted the hindquarters of Vesuvius as the horse obeyed the orders of an unfamiliar rider, then turned to see Bingley had found his way to Chaucer's side. He sat, crumpled next to the horse, openly weeping, as the other stable boy tried to comfort the rich man.

The red-haired lad known as Rafferty struggled to comfort his master, as he had never seen a horse so quickly dispatched. He felt terrible enjoying the racing so much, and guilty that he had hoped Mr. Bingley's horse would run faster and faster, but now the beautiful stallion lay dead in the field.

"We shall saddle you a new horse, sir."

"No, I will not ride another horse," Mr. Bingley sobbed.

"Are you injured?" Darcy asked his friend, and Bingley shook his head. Without wishing to interrupt the man's grief, Darcy stood stoically beside the stable boy and his friend as the latter mourned.

At first, Mr. Darcy disliked the maudlin display and coughed to clear his throat a few times as Bingley began to stroke the horse's chestnut neck and speak to the animal. It wasn't until Bingley talked about Chaucer's foaling up in Sheffield that suddenly Mr. Darcy recalled the connection. Chaucer was one of the last gifts Bingley's father had bestowed to his son before his death.

In the distance, two wagons approached from the estate, and a group of men walked steadily alongside with tools to handle the carcass. Mr. Darcy suddenly realized his friend might irreparably harm his position as an employer if he were to see the signs of what was a fact of nature, but best to remain ignorant of when an animal was so loved.

"Charles, can you walk?" Darcy urged, and his friend ignored him. He looked to the stable boy to help him lift Bingley.

"Unhand me," Mr. Bingley began to struggle, angry with the helping hands that lifted him up. Rafferty complied immediately, leaving Mr. Darcy to handle his unruly friend alone. "I shall not leave."

"But you must! You have had a nasty fall, and think of Miss Bennet, would she like to see you in such a state this evening?"

"Miss Bennet, sweet Jane," Mr. Bingley crooned. "She loved Chaucer. Said he was the kindest horse in all the land."

"I'm certain she did," Mr. Darcy huffed, as Bingley's weight was still unbalanced, but when he kept Bingley talking, the man seemed to calm.

"Tell me about what she said on your walk this morning," Mr. Darcy said, curtly.

"Oh, she laughed about you," Mr. Bingley slurred, as though he were a man deep in his cups. "She was astonished that you had offered for her sister, Elizabeth. Did you know that Elizabeth once vehemently disliked you?"

Darcy grunted as the stairs to the large estate loomed before them, still dozens of yards away. "I'm acquainted with that intelligence."

"You offended her!"

"Most severely," Mr. Darcy added, agreeing with his friend.

"Jane did not believe you two wished to be married," Bingley prattled on, detailing the confidences Elizabeth had given to Jane, and in turn had been shared with his friend.

Despite his mortification as Bingley prattled on about many of the faults his future wife had at some point related to her sister, Mr. Darcy managed to assist Mr. Bingley all the way to his room, meeting his valet on the top landing.

"Sir?" the valet questioned Mr. Bingley's speaking and manners as it was far too early in the day for carousing.

"He fell from Chaucer, I believe he may have struck his head. Give him a dose of laudanum until the apothecary arrives."

"Yes, sir," the servant took over for Mr. Darcy and he exhaled a sigh of relief as his muscles ached.

"Mr. Darcy," a saccharine voice made him cringe, "I just heard there was an accident, are you well?" Caroline Bingley rushed to his side as the valet struggled to negotiate a befuddled Bingley down the hall.

"Not I," he said, respectfully stepping a few paces away from the woman. "Your brother. Please see to him, and I shall write a note to Longbourn and alert Mr. Bennet." He bowed and began to walk toward his suite of rooms in the house, only to be unnerved as Caroline began to follow him.

Darcy paused.

"Madam?"

"Oh, my brother is well, I am sure, and I wish to . . ." she trailed off as she tried to find some reason to walk back to her rooms which she had arranged to take right next to his. "Oh, I shall write to my sister, Louisa, and tell her all."

"Perhaps you should check on your brother's condition before frightening your sister. Unless you wish for her to return to Netherfield as well?" he asked, almost hinting at how no one had quite asked Miss Bingley to come south from Pemberley, she was supposed to have remained with Georgiana for a few months' time.

"How thoughtless of me, yes, I shall do just as you suggest," Miss Bingley said, beginning to confuse Mr. Darcy. Caroline Bingley was many things, but generally compliant was not one of them.

Darcy bowed and turned to enter his room. For good measure, he locked the door behind him. Realizing Bingley's injury might mean cancellation of dinner, he began to write in earnest so that the Bennet family would be able to adjust any plans.

Dear Sir,

It is my displeasure to send the following news, and I do not intend to alarm any in your family, especially the sensibilities of your eldest daughter. Mr. Bingley suffered a fall from his horse on our way back from this morning's visit and while he appears to be unharmed physically, I have sent for Mr. Jones to tend to him.

I wish I could impart this accident was the result of a cruel coincidence, an unavoidable twist of fate beyond our foresight. But I am afraid we both were engaging in reckless behavior of the acutest kind, a race I am awash with guilt to have not only won but even dared to engage. I am praying Mr. Bingley recovers with no lasting injury and invite your visit at your earliest convenience if you are so inclined.

Your Faithful Servant,

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy