Create Your Own JAFF Adventure

(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[<img src="https://authorsarahcourtney.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/02/2_aG1rZS0xNg-scaled.jpg" width=50%>] Have you ever read a JAFF story and wished you could shake some sense into a character or two? Tell them not to open that door, to tell the truth, to get out of that carriage, to stay at Netherfield? Now’s your chance! Travel back to the autumn of 1811 and step into Elizabeth Bennet’s shoes. Follow along as she finds her own adventure just after the Netherfield Ball and Mr. Collins’s proposal. Every time she reaches a decision point, you as readers get to vote on which decision she should make! Check back the following week to see what becomes of her decision and continue with the story from there. Are you ready? It’s time to don your stays and gown, put up your hair, and exercise your wit. You are now Elizabeth Bennet! Special note: just want to catch up to the current part? Click here: [[take Mr. Darcy to London]] . (align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[<img src="http://authorsarahcarlisle.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/Decorative-border1.png" width=50%>] Elizabeth released a sigh as she sat back into the squabs of the carriage and watched Longbourn disappear in the distance. Mr. Collins’s proposal this morning had not been a complete surprise. After her embarrassing dance with him at the Netherfield Ball last night, and considering his limited remaining time before he returned to Hunsford and his noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she had been certain that his proposal was imminent. Mamma’s reaction had not been a surprise. Desperate in her desire to see her daughters wed and grasp some security for both herself and them, she was always destined to be disappointed at Elizabeth’s refusal of her cousin’s offer. It was Papa’s response that had shocked her. “I should never have accepted my cousin’s ‘offer’ to visit,” he had said, taking off his spectacles and massaging the bridge of his nose. “I should have anticipated this very issue.” He had chuckled wryly. “Well, I would never have guessed that Mr. Collins’s attention would be on you. I could not have imagined a worse choice for him, except perhaps Lydia.” She dutifully chuckled, but there was something in his manner that gave her pause. “I am sending you to London,” Papa said abruptly. She gaped. “Pardon me?” “London.” He stood, pushing himself away from his chair. “There is a . . . situation at the moment that I must deal with. Something your mother and I must deal with together. This is not a good time for her nerves when we have a more serious matter to contend with. If you go to London, she will settle far sooner. Your aunt and uncle Gardiner will be happy to have your help with the children, and I hope that in a few weeks . . .” He cleared his throat. “A few months, perhaps, the situation might be resolved. I must speak with your uncle Phillips.” It had taken less than an hour to change into travelling clothes, say her farewells, and for the trunk her maid had packed to be loaded onto the carriage. To London. Well, she could not say she was displeased. Mamma had already been wailing about her refusal all morning, and even Jane had been beginning to look unhappy. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner’s home was always a haven of peace compared to Longbourn’s ruckus, although she hoped they would not be displeased at her sudden and unannounced appearance. If only Jane could have come along. But Mamma had insisted that Jane stay and wait for Mr. Bingley to return from London, as he was only expected to be gone for a few days, and Jane’s ready compliance seemed—for once—not from her gentle nature but from her eagerness to see Mr. Bingley when he returns. Elizabeth could only hope that he would take the arrogant Mr. Darcy with him on his visit to London and leave him there! There was a shout from outside the carriage, and Elizabeth was jostled against the window as it came to a sudden stop. She leaned out the window to see the coachman and manservant standing over what looked like a log in the road, the coachman gesturing wildly towards the forest. He half turned and saw her watching. “Please stay in the carriage, Miss Bennet!” he called back. “All is well!” She nodded and sat back into her seat, but something did not seem right. They were not very far on the road to London, and yet she was suddenly reminded of stories of highwaymen placing logs in the road to block carriages and then attacking as soon as the carriage stopped. She was being foolish. There were no highwaymen attacking carriages in Hertfordshire in the year 1811! The very idea was ridiculous. Yet there was something the coachman wasn’t telling her, and the longer she sat here, the more anxious she became. Should she: tamp down her nerves and [[wait patiently]] for the carriage to move again or [[get out to see what is going on]], despite the coachman’s warning?

The idea of highwaymen was ridiculous, but something was clearly amiss. Mamma would have waved her handkerchief and cried for her smelling salts at the idea, but Elizabeth could not sit in the carriage and wait, not knowing what might happen. Gingerly, she cracked the door and peeked outside. The coachman was crouched low in the road, and he did not notice her. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and climbed down without a footman to help, her eyes on the forest alongside the road. Nothing visible threatened, but that did not mean all was safe. She went unnoticed until she landed neatly on the ground. The coachman looked up with dismay. “Miss Bennet!” But she ignored him. There was something familiar about the shape on the ground. The dark form rolled and groaned, and she gasped. It was not a log. It was a person! “Mr. Darcy!” It was unmistakably him. She recognized the firm jaw, the wavy hair, and the bold eyebrows of her adversary. But his face was pale and sweaty, his clothes muddy and damaged as if he had been thrown from his horse. He squinted up at her, as if the weak morning sunlight was too much for his eyes. “Miss . . . Bennet?” The words were weak, barely above a whisper. Just what had happened to him? “John, we need to get him into the carriage now,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy is ill. Where . . . where is his carriage?” She straightened, suddenly puzzled. Where was Mr. Darcy’s carriage? He must have been traveling to be here, so far from Netherfield, and yet he was alone. Of course, he must have been traveling by horse. “No sign of a carriage or horse, ma’am.” The coachman exchanged a look with the manservant. “Likely as not he was riding alone and was thrown.” Elizabeth nodded. It was the obvious explanation. Could his pallor and trembling be from injury? “Let us take him back to Netherfield.” The coachman nodded and shifted to get under Mr. Darcy’s shoulders, but Mr. Darcy’s hand snapped forward and grasped her wrist before she could move. “Not Netherfield,” he gasped out. “Not Netherfield. Take me to London.” “London!” The coachman drew back, staring at him in shock. “Sir, we are not so far along the route as you may think, if you were on your way to London. It is still another fifteen miles to town at least!” Mr. Darcy coughed. “What is fifteen miles of good road?” he said, and it was if he were trying to smile. “It must be London.” Shaking their heads, the men worked together to haul Mr. Darcy up and into the carriage. Mr. Darcy was not a small man, and both were gasping by the time they deposited him on the seat. “Sorry, ma’am, but we don’t dare put him on top,” John apologized. “No, no, of course you should put him inside,” Elizabeth said. Mr. Darcy was now slumped into the squabs, eyes closed. “Mr. Darcy? Are you well?” He did not reply. “Ma’am?” The coachman looked from Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth. “Should we . . . should we go on to London as he says? Only it really is fifteen miles. Or should we take him to Mr. Bingley at Netherfield Park?” Elizabeth did not know why Mr. Darcy refused to be taken to Netherfield. But he had been so insistent. Was he desperate to go to London or was there a problem at Netherfield? A falling out with Mr. Bingley, perhaps? It did not sit well with Elizabeth to override the wishes of an unconscious man. Yet she did not know the severity of his illness or perhaps injuries if he really was thrown from his horse . . . what if taking him to London caused irreparable harm? Maybe there is another option. She could take him to Longbourn. Papa had wanted her to leave for London, it was true, but he would forgive her change of plans in this situation, and Mamma would be delighted to have a rich, single man taking up a guest room at Longbourn. What if his business in London was of dire urgency? Either he had been traveling despite being very ill, or his apparent illness was actually injury from being thrown. Given how well he rode, falling from his horse might imply that he had been traveling too fast, and he did not seem the sort to push his horse to ride fast without reason. The coachman was still looking at her expectantly. She needed to make a decision. Should she: [[take Mr. Darcy to London]] as he insisted or [[take Mr. Darcy back to Longbourn]] and call for Mr. Jones?

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Mr. Darcy groaned and shifted as the carriage went over another bump. Anxious, Elizabeth watched him. Was he looking paler than he had when they had found him? Another bump, and he groaned again. The rough ground must have been jarring his head so cruelly! There was something red on the cushion visible behind Mr. Darcy’s head as he moved, and panic coursed through Elizabeth at the realisation. He was bleeding! Heart racing, Elizabeth pulled out a handkerchief and folded it, moving to the backward-facing bench to sit next to Mr. Darcy. She had to force herself to move slowly so as not to startle him, as his eyes were once again closed, but she lifted his head a little away from the seat cushion and pressed her handkerchief to the back of his head to stop the flow, although thankfully it seemed to be bleeding only sluggishly. She could not see the wound through his thick, curly dark hair. She could only pray that the carriage would get to London quickly, and before Mr. Darcy’s condition worsened. Another bump, and Mr. Darcy began to slide off the seat. Elizabeth did the only thing she could think of—she flung her other arm around his waist and hauled him back into the seat. Or, at least, she tried to. “You are heavier than you look,” she muttered, straining to keep him from sliding onto the floor. He mumbled something, and she leaned closer to hear, but he did not repeat it. Instead, his head dropped to his chest, and his entire torso began to lean. He was about to topple over! Returning her arm to his waist, she pressed herself against his side, almost shoving him into a corner of the carriage to keep him from tumbling. Would it be better to lower him to his back across the carriage seat? She was not sure it was wide enough, though, and if it was not, it would be even more uncomfortable for his head to be crooked against the wall. No, it was better to keep him upright. But how was she going to survive hours of this until they reached London? “Elizabeth?” His voice was so low, she could barely make out her name. “Mr. Darcy!” “Where . . . where are we?” His eyes half opened, and he was looking about the carriage with confusion. He looked down at her, his head wobbling a little. “London?” “We are on the way to London,” she said, relieved that he seemed to remember asking her. “Good,” he said, his eyes closing again. “Knew I could trust you.” Elizabeth blinked. He knew he could trust her? He hardly knew her! And what he knew of her, he did not like. From “tolerable” and “not handsome enough to dance with” to their constant disputes at Netherfield Park, why would he think he could trust her? But he could. Why it mattered, she could not say, but no matter her personal feelings for the arrogant Mr. Darcy, she would see the injured man safely to London and in the hands of a physician before she discharged her duty to him. By the time they reached the outskirts of town, Elizabeth was dismayed at a new problem. Where should they take Mr. Darcy? She did not know his address. Mayfair? It was a reasonable guess, but she did not know for sure, and she certainly did not know which house was his, nor were the coachman and driver likely to. They had not asked her, but as she craned her neck to see around Mr. Darcy’s lolling head out the window, she recognised the streets they passed. They were going to the Gardiners’. It was a safe choice. After all, the coachman had been tasked with taking her safely to London. Mr. Darcy was not his main responsibility. But now . . . he was hers. What was she to do with him? “Mr. Darcy?” she asked softly. When he did not respond, she nudged him as much as she dared and spoke louder. “Mr. Darcy?” He did not wake. The carriage stopped in the mews, and soon after the door opened. Her father’s manservant widened his eyes to see Elizabeth wedging Mr. Darcy in the corner to keep him upright, but his eyes softened almost immediately. “Shall we take him inside?” he asked. “Or is he awake to give the direction to his townhouse? John says he has heard Mr. Darcy lives on Mayfair.” “I could not wake him,” she admitted. “I can take your place and hold Mr. Darcy upright for now,” he offered. “You can go on into the Gardiners’, and John will take him to Mayfair and enquire. Someone must know which house is his.” Elizabeth considered. Bringing Mr. Darcy into the Gardiners’ house would be a disruption to the household, and the man himself might not wish it. If he had an urgent reason to go to London, he would not want to be delayed waiting on Gracechurch Street for a physician. But somehow the idea of relinquishing Mr. Darcy to the men did not feel right, and she dismissed that option. She could not so easily hand him over to others without knowing whether they would put enough effort into keeping him safe. Perhaps Aunt Gardiner would be willing to join her so that they might see Mr. Darcy safely home together. Should she: [[insist Mr. Darcy be taken into the Gardiners’ house]] or ask to have Aunt Gardiner summoned to help her [[see Mr. Darcy safely home]]?

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