Jump to new as of January 20, 2001

Chapter 1

~Big thanks to Amb for her help.

It was a dark and stormy night. The road was empty, except for a few puddles of water and occasional leaves which never seemed to come to rest as they were tossed about constantly by the merciless wind. The forest seemed darker, thicker, scarier than usual. The rain obscured every detail from view.

Horse hooves could be heard from the distance, getting louder with every minute.

It was a carriage. Yes, definitely a carriage, drawn by 4 horses. One could hear that one of the horses was white and another one had red-brown spots on his muzzle.

The occupants of the carriage were a man and a lady. The man was in his late twenties and could look particularly intense, making him thus nearly handsome in the eyes of the opposite sex. The lady, suffice to say, was sitting in a carriage, with a man unrelated to her, and without a chaperone.

It was evident that he was trying to court her. Even after she had said yes to an elopement. This was rather an unwise decision, given the terrible state of the road, not to mention the weather, and the white horse and the one with red-brown spots on his muzzle. Thus, whenever he tried to fervently press her hand or show his affections in some other related way, he somehow landed either on the floor, or on her hat box.

It would, undoubtedly add a touch of drama and Gothic romance to say, that there was no coachman, but there was one. With the quite unromantic and everyday name of Peter.

Now, it is time to introduce the hero. The setting is set. In case you would be wondering, the author refuses to make a man, who is sitting in a carriage (which is not even his, merely rented) with a lady, unchaperoned and exposing her to all the pains coming from a fervently pressed hand, her hero.

Not to mention his lack of intelligence, as will be shown later.

The hero, I would like to say, should be fiercely passionate, romantic, mighty handsome and terribly rich. But that would make his existence impossible.

The reader should be satisfied with the information, that the hero has a Fierce Look, very wet hair, is sitting on a black horse only a short distance behind the carriage. This makes him look even more fierceful.

And he is Revenge Incarnate.

He linked his heroish horse nearer to the carriage and forced the coachman to stop the coach. The carriage came to an abrupt halt. The coachman had Angst. But he did not know that. He just called it Fear.

Inside, the would-be-lover was glad the jumping and jolting ceased and began to press the hand of his would-be-beloved ever more fervently.

- Oh no, Wickham, I shall not allow you to use this young and ah, innocent lady. You shall not press her hand anymore! For I am Zorro!

- Zorro?

- Zorro!

- Zorro! Help me, somebody help me!

The mighty hero, now with the very meaningful name of Zorro easily disposed of the wicked Wickham and sent him, quite frankly, into the wild rose bushes that were conveniently growing nearby.

It is, at this moment, perhaps appropriate and necessary to dispose of the usual cliché of Zorro.

This fierce and wet Zorro does not live in Spain, but, according to his wetness, somewhere in Britain. Nor does he play the Spanish equivalent of Robin Hood, since England already had one, so there was no use for a second.

Instead, he filled his zorro-time with Operation DiD, which stands for Damsel in Distress, or, during more personal moments, Darcy in Distress.

Yes, Zorro was an artistic name, and Darcy was his real one. He did not use his ancestral name for several reasons. He wanted to remain unknown (after all, only 2 people knew who superman was, so why should he be worse?). Secondly, he wanted to elude the unnoble wrath of his Noble Aunt Lady Catherine. But the most important reason was that is definitely easier to mark a 'Z' with a sword rather than a 'D'. Even if this D stands for Darcy.

And I find myself having to deal with the second cliché of Zorro. One version of the story describes him as an orphan, adopted by an innkeeper, which would definitely not be plausible here, since he was a Darcy as in Darcy from Pemberley.

So thus he was only a rich, young gentleman who read one novel too many.

- My Lady, do not distress yourself anymore. That rascal shall never press your hand nevermore, I promise.

- But I kind of liked that. No one has ever touched my soul with one hand.

- Ah, but you would not be first one. Now let me see, where is this pocket book of mine? But no, if take it out, it will be wet. You shall have to believe me when I say that Wickham and his attempts at pressing hands occupy at least twenty pages in it.

The lady turned white, then red, then white again.

- I am sorry to say, but he is only a fortune hunter.

- A Fortune Hunter? But I am no heiress. Only 2000 pounds in my dowry.

- He gets more stupid every time we meet. Pray, what is your name?

- Lydia Bennet.

- Well, Miss Bennet, I believe I shall escort you back to Meryton, from where I have been following you both. You may be assured of my secrecy on the matter, for my name is Zorro! cough, cough.

- Are you cold? Why, you've got cold feet.

- Nonsense, Zorro never gets a cold. What nonsense.

Thus they proceeded back to Meryton, a small town of advantage to name it: the heroine occasionally frequented the Merytonian seamstress.

Part 2

~for Amb
and big thanks to all of you who make this place exist. ~ luv ashka

As they were reaching the first houses of Meryton, Darcy smacked his forehead.

'Idiot! I forgot! Stop the coach!'

Peter obliged him. Lydia peered curiously through the window.

'What is the matter?'

'Miss Bennet, I hall have to leave you. I trust the coachman will take you home.'

He gave the coachman some coins and rode back to the forest.

Back at the spot where he challenged Wickham, he dismounted and started to look around. It was dark and his clothing did not brighten things up. But he found what he was looking for: Wickham. That scoundrel was still lying in rose bushes, but had just regained consciousness.

Darcy could only describe it as perfect timing on Wickham's side. Or perfect stupidity. Call it as you like, but it was convenient, because Wickham could stand on his own legs. Darcy dragged Wickham out of the bushes.

'Sorry to bother you again, but I forgot one little thing.'

He drew out his sword.

'No, oh no! Have mercy! Don't kill me! I promise I shall behave if you spare me! Nevermore shall I elope with young AND pretty ladies!'

'I don't believe you anyway. And Shut up. You're distracting me.'

D-mn-d. It is hard to do it. And he is all shaky.

He stuck out his tongue. This somehow had always helped to concentrate. After some seconds, he did it. He franked Wickham with a beautiful Z, and, after some consideration, added 2 Cents for the local orphanage and rode of into the darkness.

Darcy had hoped to keep his rescue of Miss Bennet a secret. He was wrong.

Lydia ha returned home safely at about 3 in the morning. She run excitedly into the foyer, shouting:

'Mamma, Papa! Kitty! I'm back! what a good joke!'

Her family slowly assembled, still sleepy and not comprehending.

'What happened? Child, where were you? Why are you not in bed?' Mr. Bennet was the first to regain his senses.

'I have eloped.'

'Then why are you still here?'

'Well, I intended to elope with a nice gentleman I met in Meryton yesterday. But our plans were thwarted. Though I must say now, on reconsideration, that I am glad, for I recollect that he was not wearing regimentals, and my husband must wear regimentals!'

Mrs. Bennet was still too sleepy to fall in panic, so she just asked instead:

'Who? What? Why? Where? How? Oh Mr. Bennet!!!!!'

'Zorro rescued me!'

'What's that?'

'Well, he said his name was Zorro. He sat on a horse, had a black mask and looked fiercely handsome. A true hero, despite the shocking lack of regimentals.'

Mr. Bennet could not repress a comment.

'Not quite, my dear. A true hero always knows when to interfere and when to let things be. Well, shall we go back to bed?'

On the morrow, Zorro was the dominant topic. This time, Mrs. Bennet was too intrigued to be shocked by Lydia's intended elopement.

Lizzy and Jane wisefully decided not to start a discussion on propriety and upbringing, if their father had not thought of it.

Mr. Bennet was too engrossed in his anger at this Zorro to think about anything else.

Soon all of Meryton knew the story. All girls were jealous of Lydia's attentions. And propriety had been once more forgotten, and Lydia became a local heroine. And Zorro a local god.

Humph, only a local god! But, well, still a god! was the only comment Mr. Darcy could give, had anyone asked him, of course.

A few days after the incident new news came: 'Netherfield Park is taken!'

The new owner, Mr. Bingley, had come and Mrs. Bennet was all in raptures. Mr. Darcy came with Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Bennet was on cloud nine. Both were unmarried and rich. What joy.

Gossip about the newcomers now ranked with Zorro.

The day of the assembly ball came.

Every girl dressed with care. Who knew, maybe Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy would whisk her away? Or even better, he would whisk her away and then she would be rescued by Zorro!

The ball started as every ball before, and no doubt, every ball after. The Bingley party arrived at some point, being fashionably late.

Mr. Bingley was agreeable to everything and everybody. Even to Mrs. Bennet, and especially to Jane. Mrs. Bennet was on cloud nine, again.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were fashionably dressed, Mr. Hurst was fashionably drunk and Mr. Darcy was fashionably aloof. Theirs was, indeed, a very fashionable party.

And, thus, a very common assembly ball turned, in a moment's notice, to a very fashionable one.

Mr. Darcy was, for a second, thought a hero. Zorro was forgotten. But it was, undeniably, a very short second. The gossip around him was, ... monothematic.

'Oh, dear me. He has 10.000 a year!'

'Yes, very rich. And sooo handsome.'

'Very. Oh! I love him already!' swooned some young and eager chit.

'Me too!'

'I was first.'

'No you were not. I was in love before you!'

' I am faster in falling in love with rich men than you!'

'Silence, girls. There are two of them. Enough for both of you, besides, he can marry one of you and take care of you both.' added the thoughtful matron in a whisper.

Somewhere else in the room:

'Oh, he is so lovely. And romantic.'

'How would you know?'

'I just know.'

'Oh, Lydia. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are frightfully handsome. Don't you think?'

'What? Ah, yes, Kitty. But they have no red coat. I think a man would look great in a red coat. What do you think?'

'I don't know. I have never seen one.'

'The man I will love will have to have a red coat.'

'Oh, Mrs. Long, just think how handsome Mr. Bingley is.'

'Quite so, my dear Mrs. Bennet, but look how handsome Mr. Darcy is.'

'And Mr. Bingley dances so agreeably with Jane, do not you think so?'

' But Mr. Darcy does not dance.'

'Indeed. My Lizzy is sitting and he neglects her. How dare he?'

'Many a girl is sitting, he also neglects them.'

'I don't care about other girls. How dare he neglect one of my girls! Insolent man!'

'I guess, he is not so handsome after all.'

'Indeed.'

'Mr. Darcy does not dance!'

'Mr. Darcy refuses to dance!'

'Mr. Darcy slighted three girls!'

'Mr. Darcy offended five girls!'

'Mr. Darcy declared he hates to dance!'

The gossip circulated around the room, twisting the truth adorably, as only gossip can do. And then, finally, someone said:

'Zorro would never do such a thing!'

'Indeed. He would never...'

'Zorro is a true hero!'

'And certainly very rich. I hope'

'We don't need some antisocial people around here!'

'Zorro would help.'

'Yes, he would dance!'

Zorro? Dance? Gah! Zorro dance! Indeed. What a stupid motion.

Pointless to mention, Lydia was dumb witted enough to forget her admirer's name. Hence, Wickham's deed was left unpunished by the general society and he was free to pursue his favourite activities. However lacking in intelligence he maybe, we must grant him the pleasure of NOT being too thick to woo the same lady twice in a week.

Mr. Darcy had not enough time to recover from the shocking lack of town manners in this particular part of the county, when he hear his DID alarm again. This distress signal in his head was of special origin. It was so special, that not even Mr. Darcy himself could name it. It's functioning was quite simple. In certain moments he just knew what and where to do. It was a kind of superiority, to be sure with one's tongue and one's actions. Mr. Darcy was only wondering why this feeling of knowingness failed him at assemblies and such. It was very annoying.

One wild and stormy night, he rode out to meet his destiny, cursing about the weather all the way. He did his duty, rescued some young chit, kicked Wickham and rode back to Netherfield, cursing the rain all the time.

The lady was of no importance to the Merytonian society just as her name to the plot of this story. But that was before. Now she was in the middle of everybody's attention. Everybody and his wife discussed at length her wonderful rescue and she was quizzed for any details of the dashing hero's appearance.

But her name is still of little significance to the plot.

During all this commotion, Darcy cursed even louder. But this time it was not on the weather.

He was in DISTRESS!

Step. Step. Step. Window. Step. Step. Door. Step. Step. Window. Step. Step. Bed. Step.

Why are those ladies so stupid? Window. Step. Step. Do they think me a rescuing device? Step. Step. Door. This is the first night of duty in seven days! I'll look like a zombie soon! Step. Step. Window. Or like Caroline with out make up! Step. Door. Zombie would be preferable in my situation, I guess. Step. Window. It seems it's high fashion for eloping here in Meryton. What if I stopped rescuing? Bed. Step. I can't! Why? Door. Honour and Duty. Step. Mirror. Where did that hole in my stocking come from? Step. *Boing!* Ouch! Who put that bedpost in the middle of the room! Why can't I meet This One Woman, who is only meant for me? He stopped pacing around the room, his distress too overwhelming, too absorbing to concentrate on anything else.

But if I meet her in a carriage, eloping?

I can't marry her then, can I?

No, because she has behaved untrustworthy. But how am I to meet her?

At an assembly?

Here in Meryton? No way!

But where then?

Besides, I can't and don't want to behave politely at assemblies, so how are we to meet?

Moreover, even if she is eloping and I would take a fancy to her, she would not necessarily take a fancy to me, since she is eloping, because if she is eloping, she must have taken a fancy to the fellow she is eloping with and I would not like a girl who is eloping with a fellow she did not fancy, so she has to fancy him, and if she did fancy him, she certainly would not change the object of her fancy so quickly, and even if she did, I would not like a girl who changes her fancy so rapidly.

Dear me, this is confusing.

And how should she know she should take a fancy to me when my face is covered? Would she like me or Zorro?

If she liked me, would she like me for me or for my money? If she liked Zorro, would she like Zorro for Zorro or for his fame?

Should I then be Zorro all the time? And what if she doesn't like Zorro clad only in inexpressibles?

Without the mask? This is most distressing.

And if I married, would I have to give up my ah...hobby?

More to the point, how am I to woo her? As Zorro?

There are not enough respectable gentlemen in the district for her to runaway with for a proper courtship.

And if I woo her as Darcy, she shall not know that I am Zorro.

I have a headache.