Page 10 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Mrs. Christopher snapped, interrupting her. “The harridan said to send her, so send her we must. Get her a basket and tell her to wear the long apron. I hope to heaven she can tell which’ll feed them and which’ll kill them.”
“I shall go, ma’am. I can spare a half an hour just now to ensure it is done proper.” Bet said, pulling off her work apron.
The dairy kitchen was cool and still, the morning light slanting through the small leaded windows to catch the sheen of the marble slab.
Tibby bent over her task with care, easing the butter into the carved wooden moulds with a wooden paddle, her fingers red from the cold.
The scent of cream hung in the air, rich and faintly sharp.
She had nearly finished the second of the larger forms—the sheaf of wheat—when the door swung open behind her.
“Tibby!” came a voice, too sharp to be familiar, too impatient to be proper.
She turned quickly, nearly upsetting the mould. It was Bet, the kitchen maid who thought herself the undercook, standing in the doorway, her arms folded wearing an expression of borrowed authority.
“You are to fetch mushrooms,” Bet said. “At once.”
Tibby blinked. “Pardon?”
“You heard. The mistress wants mushrooms and Mrs Christopher said I was to find you. You are idle enough.”
“I’m not idle,” Tibby said, glancing helplessly at the half-finished butter. “These are wanted for to-night’s table.”
“Then you will finish after,” Bet replied carelessly. “Take this small basket and the long apron. You will go with me to the stand of trees past the orchard.”
Tibby hesitated. “Is it not rather late in the morning?”
Bet rolled her eyes. “Cook says we need enough for a catsup. And we are to be quick.”
Without another word, she turned and disappeared, leaving the door ajar behind her.
Tibby looked down at her chilled hands, then at the butter beginning to soften in the warmth. With a sigh, she wiped her fingers on her apron and fetched the gathering basket from its hook.
With a slight shove, Bet shepherded Tibby out the kitchen door towards in the direction of the pasture. The path to the trees was damp with dew, and Tibby felt the unease grow with each step.
Mr. Darcy awoke with the distinct impression that the room had tilted. The light filtering through the bedchamber curtains was soft but unkind, and the fire, now little more than embers, did nothing to dispel the faint chill at his temples.
He sat up slowly, suppressing a groan. His head ached—viciously, and remorselessly, as though some small but persistent percussionist had taken up residence behind his eyes. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy, and his thoughts—orderly by habit—dragged like boots through mire.
He recalled Fletcher’s quiet efficiency the night before: the drawn bolt, his bedding down in the dressing room, the banked fire, the glass of water and powders placed neatly within reach. The man had evidently anticipated his master’s condition and prepared accordingly.
Darcy was not accustomed to indulgence. One glass too many, a rich sauce, a restless mind—it had been enough to unsettle both stomach and sleep. He had dreamt of books that vanished and of a face in a bonnet that hovered in the firelight.
Rising with effort, he endured being dressed and shaved in silence and made his way to the breakfast parlour.
Elsewhere in the house, the morning had begun in a more dramatic fashion.
Mr. Hurst, having required assistance merely to reach his chamber the night before, remained abed.
His valet, long accustomed to navigating the aftermath of his master’s indulgences, administered the expected regimen of cool cloths, strong coffee, and firm instruction not to speak above a whisper.
Mr. Hurst muttered vague complaints about the room spinning and prayed, with uncommon piety, that someone would extinguish the sunlight .
Mrs. Hurst stood at his bedside, arms folded, thoroughly unimpressed. “You will take broth and no argument,” she announced. “It is no more than you deserve.”
Meanwhile, the breakfast parlour bore the slow, uneven signs of being set to rights after a debacle. Mr. Darcy, quiet and somewhat pallid, nursed his tea with careful deliberation. Mr. Bingley, more animated but no less affected, attempted to laugh off the excesses of the night before.
“Miss Bennet must never know,” he declared as he glared at his toast with distaste. “I blame the claret, and the syllabub, and that infernal sauce—piquant, was it? It must have gone straight to my head.”
Darcy glanced up from his teacup. He made no further reply, but his brow twitched faintly at the recollection of the previous evening’s sauce, the copious libations, and Miss Bingley’s attentions.
The memory of Miss Elizabeth’s glance across the library stirred uneasily within him.
He was not certain he was sorry that part of the evening had ended when it did.
“I understand Miss Eliza Bennet has taken herself into the fields without joining us for breakfast,” Miss Bingley sneered.
No wonder. It was nearer to noon, and the poor girl would have starved waiting.
Miss Bingley, whilst dressed to the nines, stirred her tea with a hand not quite steady.
A faint bilious cast troubled her complexion.
Her eyes were a shade too bright, and she kept her gaze from the window’s light, wincing at the clink of spoon against china. .
“I am sure we will manage in her absence,” Darcy said. “I think I might take some air myself.”
Miss Bingley took his words as an invitation, and his anticipated brisk, restorative walk would become a tedious, meandering stroll through the gardens. She had become ineluctable.
At length, they walked through the shrubbery, their departure delayed by a change of gown, the donning of an inexplicably complicated pelisse and the pinning of a needlessly unsuitable bonnet. Miss Bingley’s conversation varied from idle domestic speculation to a steady campaign of insinuation.
“I do hope,” she said in a tone meant to be light, but it fell quite flat, “we need not host the entire Bennet family because of a trifling cold. To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it may be, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, all because Miss Bennet foolishly took a chill. What could she mean by it?”
Darcy’s patience frayed. “I imagine she meant to care for her sister. I cannot condemn such an affection.”
He regretted the admission the moment it escaped. He had again spoken too plainly. He blamed the involuntary overindulgence of the night before.
They turned a corner and came upon Mrs. Hurst and Miss Elizabeth, who had evidently taken the path from the other direction. Miss Bingley’s expression shifted at once—her composure grown brittle, her eyes darting..
“Oh, we had no idea you intended to walk,” she said quickly, as though to pre-empt any suggestion of deliberate exclusion.
“You slipped off without a word,” Mrs. Hurst added, taking his arm with familiar ease. The path allowed for only three abreast. Elizabeth was left to walk alone.
Darcy’s discomfort sharpened. “This walk is excessively narrow. We had best move to the avenue.”
Elizabeth merely smiled. “Not at all. You are perfectly arrayed. I would not disrupt the symmetry.” She gave a quick curtsy. “Good morning.”
Then she was gone, darting down another path with the same light step and cheerful irreverence that had unbalanced him since their first encounter.
He held his peace. Any comment on the event would merely open some new direction for Miss Bingley’s venom.
Miss Bingley resumed her remarks with studied ease, but Darcy barely heard them. His thoughts trailed after Elizabeth—quick, clear-eyed, untouchable. If she continued to surprise him thus, he would yet find himself in much greater danger than Miss Bingley suspected.
Elizabeth followed the gravel path away from the group, allowing the light breeze and rustle of leaves to cool the flush that had crept up her cheeks.
She walked quickly at first, eager to put distance between herself and the odd little tableau Miss Bingley had so carefully arranged.
Three abreast indeed—like actors on a stage—and she, plainly, was to be excluded from the array.
She ought not to care. That she had been dismissed was no more than she had come to expect from Miss Bingley and her sister.
Their rudeness was of the most practised sort: smiling, silken, and entirely deliberate.
Civility, in such company, required not sincerity but stamina.
She would not allow Miss Bingley’s barbs to hit their mark.
It was growing more difficult to summon her usual amusement at the shifting social arrangements within the house.
Miss Bingley was exceedingly tiresome, and Mr. Darcy unsettling.
There was something in the way Mr. Darcy looked at her—not only that morning, but the evening before, in the library. Something almost warm.
Such fancies were ridiculous, of course.
The man had made no secret of his disdain for her connexions.
Yet … when Miss Bingley had spoken so unkindly of her walking to Netherfield, he had not laughed.
His answer had not been one of agreement.
She had seen the set of his jaw, the glance he had cast—not indulgent, but sharp. Protective, perhaps?
She shook her head. The notion was absurd.
She could not deny he was less disagreeable than she had once thought—at least in private. His conversation, when unencumbered by audience or pride, could be thoughtful. Witty, even.