Misguided Perceptions: Pride and Prejudice Reimagined

By Colleen C. Moore

Darcie Fitzwilliam is an independent woman of good fortune, thanks to her career. Highly driven and ambitious, she is a heart surgeon operating (literally) in a man's world.

Darcie does not need a husband, but she might choose to take one, if the right man came along. The question is, would she recognise the 'right man' if he turned up on her doorstep?

Misguided Perceptions is a reimagined version of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, one where the gender roles have been reversed, offering a fresh and entertaining take on the classic original.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781470974251

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

It had been a typical day in the life of a consultant surgeon with a career on fast track to professional excellence. Darcie sat at the staff workstation in theatre, making notes on the outcome of the surgical procedure she had done on the last patient on her operating list. It had not been without its difficulties, but it had been a success, and the patient’s prognosis was good.

Ms Fitzwilliam, Suzanna left a message for you. The Prof wants to see you in his office as soon as you’re done, one of the nurses on duty told her. Darcie tried to remember her name, but could not.

OK, thanks.

Professor Jacob Goldberg was the Director of the Surgical Division and Darcie’s boss. She knew what it was about: the outcome of her recent interview for the position of Head of Cardiac Surgery. She had been anxiously waiting for the encounter for days.

She changed out of her scrubs into her trouser suit and made her way to Jacob’s office. She peered into Suzanna’s office on route.

There you are. He’s waiting for you, Suzanna said. Suzanna would already know her fate and, judging from her enthusiasm, it seemed to Darcie that the news was good. She was quietly confident.

Ah, Darcie. Come and sit down, Jacob said, in a welcoming tone. He was smiling – a good sign, she thought.

How did Mr Fletcher’s angioplasty go?

All is well. We did have some trouble implanting the stent at first, but it turned out fine.

Excellent. Well, I know you will want to know the decision of the interview, so I will get straight to it. The panel have gone with Philip. I’m sorry, Darcie. I know you will be disappointed.

I’m sorry, did you say Philip?

I know what you’re thinking, and I agree with you. I put forward a strong case for you and they listened, but I was outnumbered.

Apart from the fact that I have outperformed Philip with my surgical procedures and supervised twice as many surgical trainees, the post requires someone with a research background. Philip is not an academic.

That’s what I said. They argued that he has done some research.

Yes, a pilot study, two years ago, for a project that never took off. How could they justify choosing Philip over me?

They said it was down to lack of experience. You’re 33 and you’ve only been a consultant for two years. Philip is 36 and he’s been a consultant for three.

That should have been an argument in her favour, she thought. She said, Philip isn’t even committed. He just wants the glory of the title.

Don’t be angry. There will be other opportunities.

I’m not angry, she said, standing up. I understand, and it’s fine.

Jacob regarded her, unconvinced.

Honestly, its fine, she said. I know you did what you could. I should get back to work.

Darcie returned to the office she shared with Philip. Fortunately, he was not there. It was a blow; she acknowledged that to herself. She believed that being well-qualified and suited to the position had meant that she would get it. She knew Jacob would have fought for her, but he was only one person.

Of course, she had considered the possibility that she might not get it. There had never been a female in the position, and it would have been naïve not to acknowledge that they might not be quite ready for that.

She did have a plan B; she just hadn’t thought she would need it. She sat down at her desk, picked up her phone, selected CUH from her contacts, and dialled.

That evening when she arrived home, Raphe was there waiting for her.

Hello, darling, how was your day? he asked. He kissed her on the cheek, as customary.

Not great. I didn’t get the position. They gave it to Philip.

I’m sorry to hear that. I know you must be disappointed, but you’re still a young consultant.

Apparently that was the panel’s conclusion as well.

Perhaps it would be better to wait. You’ve got so much going on already. Think how difficult it will be to manage your current professional and personal responsibilities, let alone taking on an administrative role as well. Once we’re married, children are bound to follow soon after...

I may be a young consultant, but I’m ready – and it’s not a mere administrative role. I had big plans for reforming cardiac surgery in that place, plans that could make a difference for the better.

Well, there will be other opportunities, but, unless you move to another teaching hospital, it may be some time before one comes around again.

Actually, one already has. I applied for departmental head at another teaching hospital, and I was offered the position.

What? You never said! Where?

It’s south of the river.

What hospital?

Croydon.

Raphe looked horrified. You would leave the prestige of where you are now for Croydon? He shook his head. You cannot seriously be thinking of accepting.

I have already accepted. I know it sounds mad, but it’s not what it seems. It’s true that I’ll be a big fish in a small pond, but so what? This is a really good opportunity for me.

Sometimes I don’t understand you, Darcie. We’re supposed to be getting married, but you keep putting it off. It’s been two years since I proposed. I’ve tried to be patient, but I’m beginning to think it’s never going to happen. You refuse to let me move in with you, and now this! How could you take this job without consulting me?

I didn’t realise I needed your permission.

That’s not fair. It affects me too.

You’re right, I haven’t been fair to you. I’m focused on my career, you know that.

I do, and I support you – you know I do – but within reason. What about your commitment to me? We should get married and start a family, before it’s too late.

Did you just lecture me about my biological clock?

He sighed with exasperation and said, I know it’s unfair, but it is biologically impossible for me to get pregnant!

I am not sure I want children.

Well, I do!

That’s the problem, Raphe. You and I want different things, she said, slowly working her engagement ring off her finger.

What are you doing?

This is not going to work. I cannot marry you. She held the ring out to him.

Hang on, there’s no need to be dramatic. Let’s talk about this. If you want more time...

No, I don’t. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I’m sorry, I cannot marry you.

***

Jacob’s PA, Suzanna, was just about to leave the office for the day when the telephone on her desk rang.

Hello, this is Catherine. Is Ms Fitzwilliam available to talk to her father, Sir George?

Good evening, Catherine. Darcie has been in theatre all afternoon. I don’t think she is back, but I’ll check. Please hold.

Suzanna was relieved when she learned that Darcie had not become a departmental head. Based on the behaviour she had observed Darcie demonstrate in the past two years, she felt that she was the kind of woman who, if given power, would abuse it. Besides, Darcie was cold and stand-offish, while Philip was friendly and had a good sense of humour. Even so, she had to admit that Darcie had borne the bad news with dignity and finesse. She had taken decisive action that no one had anticipated. That was a week ago, and Jacob was still reeling.

She popped her head into the office and was surprised to find Darcie sitting at her desk.

I didn’t realise you were back, she said.

It was smooth sailing. I don’t expect Mr Brooks to be in ICU for long, so long as there are no unforeseen complications. Does Jacob want to speak to me?

No, there’s a call for you. It’s your father’s assistant. She wants to know if you can speak to him.

Sorry about that, she said, embarrassed. I’ll take the call, thanks.

No problem, Suzanna said. She returned to her office and transferred the call.

Hello, Catherine.

Hello, Darcie. Putting you through to Sir George.

"Thanks.

Hello, Dad.

Hello, sweetheart.

I told you not to ring Jacob’s PA. Why didn’t you call my mobile?

Catherine tried, there was no answer.

That’s because I was operating.

Yes, sorry. I hear congratulations are in order.

How did you find out?

I had lunch at the Athenaeum today and I ran into Jacob. He let it slip. He is not at all happy about it.

I know.

He said he had no idea that you had applied for an external position. He’s very sorry to lose you.

I was hoping to be the one to tell you.

So, when do you start?

The first of May.

Well, we must have dinner to celebrate the next time Georgie comes home.

That would be lovely, thank you.

Where is this hospital?

Have you heard of Croydon? Probably not – it’s south of the river.

Very witty, darling. Of course, I’ve never been. Is it as glamorous as they say?

Beggars can’t be choosers.

But is it safe?

I know it has a reputation for being an undesirable place to live, but, in truth, its reputation is exaggerated. This was not entirely true, but she did not want to alarm him. It depended on where in Croydon you were situated. The east and south end were fine, the north and west not so much. Unfortunately, the hospital was located in the north-west. Darcie pictured the many high rise council estates surrounding it. When she had attended the job interview, she had been disappointed by the surroundings and it had put her off, slightly. She had known of the hospital because her friend Charlie was an A&E consultant there. He regularly treated patients with knife wounds – mostly teenagers. Even so, when he had told her about the opening for a head of cardiac surgery in the new surgical wing that had been advertised, despite believing she was about to be offered the job at her hospital, she decided she had nothing to lose if she applied. She was so impressed with the new wing and its facilities that when she was offered the job, she decided to give it serious thought, despite the ugly surroundings and its reputation. As well as the excellent facilities, she would have a spacious office, a designated parking space and a personal assistant. There was also the option to set up a part-time practice at a private hospital located in the affluent east side of the town. The benefits far outweighed any risks. She had observed that the hospital car park was well monitored with CCTV cameras and security guards, so she was satisfied that she would be in no more danger than in central London.

Will you keep the flat in Hampstead?

Of course, I don’t intend to move there! She was mortified at the suggestion. I’ll drive there and back every day."

East Croydon was in the heart of the southern commuter belt and had one of the largest railway stations, which serviced the south east. It was a place where people who could not afford to live in central London moved to: people who commuted on public transport every day to get to their central London-based jobs. The idea of being associated with those people was offensive to her. Besides, to leave her beautiful flat overlooking the Heath was unthinkable. It’s only about an hour’s drive.

And what does Raphe say about it?

Ah, that’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.

After hanging up the call, Darcie was ready to leave for the day. She had only to make a stop in ICU to check on Mr Brooks. Even though his coronary artery bypass graft operation had gone to plan, she always checked up on the major cases on their first night, regardless.

She would be sorry to leave the prestige of the central London-based teaching hospital and its university college, but she believed she should go where the best career opportunity presented itself. It was an exciting prospect.

Chapter Two

Dave Bennet was late for work. He had had a late night, which caused him to switch off his alarm clock when it went off at 5 am, then roll over and go back to sleep. An hour later, he dragged himself out of bed, careful not to wake his wife, Sharon, and got ready for work. Despite this, he was in a good mood. The previous evening, he had seen his beloved football team, Crystal Palace, beat Fulham 2-0 at Selhurst Park, and he was still enjoying the buzz.

He was transferring work tools into his transit van when he heard Sharon calling him.

Dave, she said, standing at the front garden in her pyjamas and dressing gown.

Yeah, Shaz. What is it?

Have you heard? At last, the house in Netherfield Park has been sold.

No love, I hadn’t. He didn’t have time for gossip at the best of times. She was going to make him later than he already was. It’s cold. Go back inside. You can tell me about it tonight when I get home.

Never mind that, she said dismissively.

He got in his van and closed the door. He watched his wife gesture for him to wind down the window. He sighed and did so.

You should call round and introduce yourself.

Why would I do that?

Because whoever has moved in is bound to need a building contractor. As you well know, that place is in desperate need of refurbishment.

She had a point. Dave was not one to pass up an opportunity for a new contract. His business was not doing so well. He had been trying to find ways to cut back on spending and had suggested they let Hill, their cleaner, go. It had sparked a heated argument between them, which Sharon had won. Since then, she was growing increasingly anxious about the situation, and the impact it would have on their lifestyle.

That’s actually a good idea, he said, surprised his wife had thought of it. I’ll drop by on my way.

Great. Have a lovely day, she said, before heading back inside. She almost collided with one of their eldest, Craig, who was taking Lyddie, his six-month-old golden retriever, for a walk.

Dave backed out of the driveway of the detached house with its double garage, where he lived with Sharon, their five sons and the dog, onto the street of the cul-de-sac that was Sapphire Close. He sounded his car horn at Craig and Lyddie as he passed them, and Craig waved to him. He turned onto Emerald Lane for the long and winding route that would take him out of the village. He drove past Amethyst Way, the last cul-de-sac of many in that residential area, more commonly known as The Gems, and entered Netherfield Park.

The scene before him was typical of the park in mid-January. The lawn and shrubs on either side were covered with a white film of frost, and the woodland trees surrounding the park were bare. It was tranquil, with hardly anyone in sight. He spotted Shirley Long, from number 16 Topaz Close. She was dressed for the weather. Her knitted hat had two pom-poms that looked like ears, giving her the appearance of a character created for kids’ entertainment. She was putting up information posters on a notice board that had recently been acquired and erected. Engraved across the top were the words ‘Netherfield Village Residents Association’. Shirley closed the board’s glass covering and used her key to lock it in place before heading back in the direction of The Gems. Dave sounded his horn in greeting and she waved to him.

When Dave reached the house that stood in the park, he looked in and saw that the ‘for sale’ sign had indeed been taken away. It was the only house on the park premises and had been on the market for almost a year. It was a listed building with a blue plaque informing passers-by that Dr Edward Bridgewater, eminent physician, had lived there in the mid-1800s. Sharon had seen the listing on the estate agency’s website and viewed the pictures showing the interior of the house. She had shown it to him, also, and they had agreed that it was a nice period three-storey fixer-upper, which, given the chance, he could do a good job fixing up. It was on sale for offers exceeding £1.5 million, so whoever bought it must be minted.

There were no cars in the driveway, which had space for three vehicles. He thought it most likely that the occupants had not yet moved in. Even so, he stopped the van and parked at the side of the lane, near the house. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a few leaflets advertising his company and the services he offered. He posted them in the letter box before returning to the van.

***

PC Sarah Dorking parked the patrol car outside the entrance of Croydon University Hospital’s A&E department. Her colleague, PC Dean Bennet, got out of the passenger seat and opened the back door.

Come, on, he said to the occupant in the back seat. Their passenger climbed out, cradling his arm, which had been wrapped in a tea towel, now soaked in his own blood. Dean guessed that he was in his late teens.

Are you going to handcuff him? Sarah asked.

I can’t on account of the slash in his arm, Dean replied.

How about you handcuff his good hand to your wrist?

That won’t be necessary. Will it, Martin? He said, looking directly at the perpetrator.

I can’t run away, can I? I need medical attention, he replied, sulkily.

Good, man, Dean said, escorting him into A&E.

An hour and a half later a man dressed in scrubs and wearing a stethoscope around his neck came into the waiting room. Martin Baxter? he enquired.

Dean and Martin stood at the same time. Yeah, that’s me, Martin said.

The doctor regarded them both and said, Come this way. He led them to an available cubicle in the treatment area. Hi, my name is Dr Charles Bingley, he said, as he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and put them on. Can I see?

Martin held his arm out and Dr Bingley took it gently. He slowly unwrapped the hand towel and found a deep wound running along the inside of Martin’s forearm. How did you get this? he asked.

I fell, Martin replied.

Dean rolled his eyes. You might as well tell the truth, Martin. He turned to the doctor. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself, but he should have thought of that before he left his fingerprints and blood all over the crime scene.

I need to know, so I can give you the right treatment, said the doctor.

I cut myself on broken glass.

Where was the glass?

Martin remained silent.

It was a house window, Dean said.

Ah, I see. I’ll need to examine and clean the wound, and you’ll need an X-ray. Are you in pain?

What do you think? Martin replied, sulkily.

I can prescribe an analgesic to help with that.

A what?

Pain killers, Dean clarified. The doctor looked at him and smiled. He smiled back.

Dean stood waiting in the corridor while