Page 6 of Master of Himself

He peeled off his wet clothes and once he had scrubbed himself free of the mud, he pulled on the nightshirt. Hobbs returned with the headache remedy, which Charles drank down, hoping for quick relief. After donning Darcy’s banyan, he dismissed the valet and stared at his reflection in the looking glass.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared back at him, tall and imposing, with dark hair and eyes, clad in a green silk banyan embroidered with gold leaves and vines. The Darcy signet ring glimmered on his right hand.

“I have long desired to be a gentleman like Darcy, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

***

Finally free of his drenched greatcoat and muddy boots, Fitzwilliam Darcy followed Charles’s valet upstairs to the master’s chamber. Thankfully, there was plenty of hot water available for his ablutions. Unlike his own reserved valet, Mr Henderson chattered relentlessly while he bathed.

“Are you warm enough? Shall I build up the fire? Should I warm the bed linens? Do you want anything from the kitchen? Hot tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t worry about your boots. I’ll have them in good order by the morning.”

Darcy checked his watch, or rather Charles’s watch—nearly midnight. Not only did Charles have his signet ring, but also his grandfather’s heirloom watch.

“Miss Bennet is spending the night,” Henderson said.

This made no sense to Darcy. “Miss Bennet?”

“The ladies invited her to dine, but she was soaked in the rain and caught a chill, the poor lady.” Henderson shook his head.

Dear Lord, he thought. What next?

“Should I alert Miss Bingley of your mishap?”

“God no!” Caroline’s incessant questions were the last thing he needed.

Henderson frowned. “Shall I mix a headache powder for you?”

“No, thank you, Henderson.” Once he was dressed in Charles’s nightclothes, he advised the valet that he wouldn’t be needed again that night. Henderson gathered the soiled garments, bade him goodnight, and left the chamber.

Darcy studied his new, youthful visage in the looking glass. Charles Bingley’s eyes were pale blue, and his long wavy hair was tousled into an unruly style. He appeared as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Overwhelmed by this course of events, he paced. What did one do when faced with an insurmountable problem? Pacing seemed useless, but it was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

After a quiet tap at the door, his doppelganger entered and quickly shut the door.

“This is a disaster! I still can’t believe what’s happened,” Charles said.

Darcy resumed his pacing. “Nor I, but here we are, in the wrong bodies.”

Charles rubbed the back of his neck. “How did it happen – and why?”

“This only happens in penny dreadfuls and insipid pantomimes.”

“Something must have triggered it when we dislodged the carriage from the mire,” Charles said. “Once it was free, you crashed into me.”

“No, you crashed into me.” Darcy grumbled, finding this argument as useless as pacing. “How do we reverse it?”

“Maybe if I knock you down,” Charles said, then hurled his shoulder into Darcy’s chest, knocking him to the floor.

Nothing changed.

Charles pulled him back to his feet, then pointed to his chin. “Hit me,” he said, closing his eyes.

Darcy swung out and landed a solid punch to his double’s jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. Charles groaned, but still, nothing had changed.