This story aims to tell the famous Pride and Prejudice story from the point of view of Darcy's loyal valet. It may or may not differ from the original I haven't decided yet. I hope you are going to like it.
Chapter 1: A Loyal Servant
The air was heavy with the scent of rain that had not yet fallen as I stood at the entrance of Pemberley, awaiting my master's return. I had served Mr. Darcy for many years, first as a footman and then, through diligence and unwavering loyalty, as his valet. There was no other position I would rather hold in this world. In my time, I had seen him through triumphs and tribulations, moments of quiet reflection, and bouts of seething frustration. But never had I seen him as I did this evening.
When Mr. Darcy departed for the assembly in Meryton, he was as he always had been—stoic, composed, the embodiment of the Darcy name. I watched him leave, a figure of authority and grace, his long strides purposeful, as if the world bowed before his every step. Yet when he returned that night, his posture remained as upright as ever, but something was different—a disquiet I could not immediately place.
I took his hat and cloak as he entered, noting the slight delay in his movements. His brow, usually smooth and untroubled, was furrowed ever so slightly. His eyes, dark and intense, held a glimmer of something I had rarely seen in him—uncertainty.
"Good evening, sir," I said, offering the customary greeting as I hung his belongings.
"Good evening, Reynolds," Mr. Darcy replied, his voice lower than usual, as though burdened by thoughts he could not yet articulate.
I followed him to his chambers in silence, the only sound being the crackling of the fire I had lit in anticipation of his return. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but Mr. Darcy seemed not to notice them. Instead, he stood by the window, gazing out into the darkness as if searching for something beyond the reach of sight.
I approached with a quiet deference, opening the wardrobe to select his nightclothes. "Shall I prepare your bath, sir?" I inquired, hoping the familiar routine might ease whatever troubled him.
"No, Reynolds, that will not be necessary tonight," he replied, turning away from the window. His voice, usually so steady and controlled, had an edge to it—a trace of irritation that was unlike him. It was clear something weighed heavily on his mind.
"Is there anything else I might do for you, sir?" I asked, hesitating slightly. It was not my place to pry, yet I could not help but feel concern for my master.
Mr. Darcy regarded me for a moment, as if deciding whether to speak his mind. Finally, he sighed, a sound so faint that it might have been lost to anyone else, but not to me. "The assembly this evening... it was a waste of time, Reynolds."
I nodded, though I knew better than to agree too readily. Mr. Darcy was a man of deep convictions, and he often used such declarations as a prelude to more thoughtful reflection.
"Indeed, sir?" I responded, prompting him gently, sensing there was more he wished to say.
"It was filled with the usual mix of insipid conversation and tiresome displays of false propriety," he continued, his tone bitter. "And yet..." He trailed off, his gaze becoming distant again. I could see the conflict in his expression, a struggle between his natural reserve and the thoughts he wrestled with.
"And yet, sir?" I prompted carefully, knowing he needed time to form his words.
He seemed to consider his next statement before speaking, almost as if he were uncertain of his own thoughts. "There was a young woman there, one of the Bennets... Elizabeth Bennet. She is unlike the others, Reynolds. Not beautiful in the conventional sense, but... striking, nonetheless."
I stilled my hands from the task of folding his cravat, careful to keep my face impassive. It was not often that Mr. Darcy spoke of women in such a manner, and when he did, it was usually to dismiss them as frivolous or lacking in substance.
"Striking, sir?" I repeated, encouraging him to continue.
"Her eyes, Reynolds. There is something in her eyes... an intelligence, a wit... something that draws you in despite yourself." His tone was reflective, as though he were speaking more to himself than to me.
"I see, sir," I replied, though I could not pretend to fully understand. I had heard of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of course, as word of her wit and independence had reached even the servants' quarters. But to hear Mr. Darcy speak of her in such a way was unexpected.
"She had the audacity to challenge me, Reynolds," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "She is not like the others who fawn over titles and wealth. She sees through the superficiality of it all."
I raised my eyebrows slightly, surprised by the admission. "And how did you respond, sir?"
Mr. Darcy looked at me, his expression unreadable. "I was curt, as I often am with such impertinence. But there was something in her demeanor, a confidence that was... refreshing. She is not intimidated by me, and that is unusual."
This was indeed unexpected. Mr. Darcy, who rarely took interest in those outside his immediate circle, who valued decorum and propriety above all else, had been intrigued by a woman who defied societal expectations. It was clear to me that this encounter had left a mark on him, though he might not yet realize its depth.
"Do you believe she might be a suitable acquaintance, sir?" I asked, cautiously steering the conversation toward the practical.
"Acquaintance? Perhaps," he mused, his tone thoughtful. "But more than that? No, Reynolds. She is beneath my station, and I would do well to remember that."
I nodded, though inwardly I questioned whether Mr. Darcy would be able to keep such thoughts in check. There was something different about him tonight, a restlessness that I had not seen before. And as much as he spoke of maintaining propriety, I could not shake the feeling that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had stirred something within him—something that might not be so easily dismissed.
"Shall I prepare your bed, sir?" I offered, sensing that our conversation was drawing to a close.
"Yes, thank you, Reynolds," Mr. Darcy replied, his voice once again calm and controlled. He moved to the armchair by the fire, sinking into it with a quiet sigh.
As I turned to attend to my duties, I could not help but glance back at him. He was staring into the flames, lost in thought, the flickering light reflecting in his eyes. I knew better than to speculate openly, but it was clear to me that the events of this evening had unsettled him in a way that few things could.
And so, as I prepared his bed and ensured that all was in order for the night, I resolved to keep a close eye on Mr. Darcy in the days to come. My loyalty to him was unwavering, and if this Miss Bennet was to play any further role in his life, I would make it my duty to ensure that she was worthy of his regard.
But for now, I left him to his thoughts, quietly withdrawing from the room with the silent grace that years of service had taught me. As I closed the door behind me, I could not help but wonder what the future held for my master, and whether this encounter with Miss Elizabeth Bennet would be the beginning of something far greater than either of us could yet imagine.
