Page 11 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Elizabeth stopped abruptly, staring at a twisted branch as if it might untangle the matter.

Her eyes fell upon a pair of servants in the far field.

They bent and stood and moved a short distance, then repeated the process.

The area was not under cultivation but bordered a small woodland.

Just there, among the leafless trees and evergreen shrubbery, she glimpsed a flash of red the colour of the coat of a militiaman.

The sliver of colour vanished into the wall of woodlands, and the servants hefted their baskets and turned towards the house.

The distraction refocussed her thoughts.

Whatever fleeting interest she might entertain of Mr. Darcy in her daydream, it could come to nothing.

He was a man of great fortune and greater consequence.

She was the daughter of a gentleman whose estate would pass to a distant cousin.

Her family’s liveliness too often trespassed into impropriety, and her prospects were modest at best. She would never pin her dreams on a London man as far from her sphere as though he sat among the stars.

Still, civility cost her little. She would continue to restrain the overwhelming urge to quarrel with Miss Bingley, much as she might be provoked. She would nod politely when Mr. Darcy deigned to speak and think no more of it than she would of a change in the weather.

She resumed her walk with a brisker step and a straighter spine.

He crouched and brushed aside a patch of grass, revealing a clutch of pale, slender-stemmed mushrooms. “There,” he murmured. “That will do.”

Bet lingered a step behind. “They look different.”

“No matter,” he said lightly. “Once you chop them finely, no one will think twice. A few unsettled stomachs will remind the high-and-mighty that they are not so grand.”

She did not reach for the basket. “What if they find out?”

He straightened, smiling as if at a joke they shared.

“How? You and I shall be well away by then. No one will suspect you. You know how they are. To them you are nothing. But you shall have your little revenge on those that scold and sets you down. She will not be so grand when she is casting up her accounts.”

Bet narrowed her eyes.

His voice softened. “Even if they did—” He leant close, brushing a strand of hair from her face with studied gentleness. “You know I would not let anything happen to you. Not when we have our plans, you and I.”

He pressed a kiss to her work roughened hand. “My old friend never refuses mushroom dishes. Cook’s ragout will suit him well enough. It is just a prank, mouse. And think—when that fellow who cheated me is doubled over his chamber pot, you and I will have the last laugh.”

Bet stared at the mushrooms. Her expression softened.

He smiled again, warm and easy. Behind it, the calculation remained. She would bear the risk. He, when it suited him, would cease to know her.

Elizabeth returned to the house by a side entrance and made her way quietly upstairs, glad to be rid of company and confident that she would find, more agreeable society with Jane.

The light in the chamber was soft, and the fire had been tended.

Jane, still propped with cushions, looked far better than she had on the previous morning—her colour was improved, her smile faint but genuine.

“I was beginning to think you had been claimed by the shrubbery,” Jane said as Elizabeth entered.

“Nearly,” Elizabeth replied, taking the chair beside her bed. “But I made a hasty escape before the vines closed in.”

Jane gave a tired laugh. “Miss Bingley?”

“In the main. Mrs. Hurst, as ever, played her part—and Mr. Darcy made the briefest of appearances, enough to lend the scene its desired gravity.”

“I am sorry,” Jane said kindly. “They mean well. Or they wish to.”

“They mean to direct matters to their satisfaction,” Elizabeth said, more lightly. “Fortunately, I am not in the habit of remaining where I am not welcome.”

Jane took her sister’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I do not know what I should have done without you here.”

Elizabeth’s smile softened. “Well, you shall have to do without me for a few moments longer. I must write to our mother. If I do not, she will appear at the door with Lydia and Kitty in tow, with recommendations for mustard poultices and your most elegant gown.”

Jane laughed, but Elizabeth was already at the writing desk. With brisk efficiency, she composed a brief, cheerful note:

My dear Mamma, Many thanks for sending a trunk for us.

Jane is greatly improved and may even take dinner downstairs this evening.

There is no need for concern, and certainly no need for travel.

The air here continues to agree with her, and her care is in excellent hands.

I shall write again soon. Your affectionate daughter, Elizabeth

She read it over with a nod, sanded and folded it, and rang for it to be sent as soon as someone could be spared to deliver it.

“We are safe,” she said, turning back to Jane. “For the nonce.”

“Thank you, Lizzy. I shall rest for now. Perhaps I shall be able to come down to dinner if I do.”

Elizabeth ensured Jane was well covered, with a glass of barley water and a bell pull well within her reach. She gathered her resolve to perform her duty as an amiable guest.

The fire crackled softly in the stillness of the drawing room, its warmth doing little to dispel the damp chill of the November afternoon. Darcy held a book in his hand, but the words had ceased to occupy him. His attention, unwilling yet insistent, strayed repeatedly to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

That tempting lady sat opposite, her own book in her hands, wholly absorbed. There was nothing studied in her posture, no glance cast about to ensure admiration, no simpering attempt to catch his eye. She simply occupied the space with the ease of one who owed nothing to anyone’s regard.

It unsettled him more than all of Miss Bingley’s calculated attentions ever could.

Miss Bingley spoke, breaking the quiet. “Mr. Darcy, you are uncommonly industrious this afternoon. One might almost suspect you read to avoid the rest of us entirely.” She bared her teeth in a smile meant for coquetry, too near a grimace..

“I find it advantageous, on occasion, to divide my attention. ” He turned a page slowly.

Miss Bingley’s expression faltered, unsure whether she had been contradicted or complimented.

“Between the page and our company?” Elizabeth asked, not looking up.

“Or between the page and your desire not to engage with anyone?”

Darcy glanced towards her. “You believe me reluctant to engage, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth glanced up with a glint he had to consider rather saucy.

“I observe you succeed admirably in avoiding it,” she replied, her tone light but steady.

“As for your wishes, I am not so presumptuous as to assign them for you. That would be impertinent.” She was teasing him, with an ease that neither sought his notice nor feared it.

She said what pleased her and left the rest to fall as it might.

“You exercise an uncommon discipline,” he said. “Few refrain from supposing they can judge what lies in another’s thoughts. Epictetus would have us master our own impressions and leave other minds to themselves.”

Her head tilted to the side. The gleam in her eye sharpened.

“True, sir,” she said. “Yet appearances are where thoughts begin. We are bound to attend to what is before us, or else resolve to judge nothing at all. To decline all inference would leave us incapable of judgement entirely.”

Darcy’s attention heightened. “Yet inference is a sly companion. The wish for certainty will carry us past what reason allows.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Then reason asks a little courage. We act with what may be known, or act not at all.”

For a moment, Darcy was silent. He could not recall a conversation — with any woman — and not since university, with any man, where the ground was so evenly met.

She had not merely parried his remark but extended it.

Not a display for effect, but an unstudied command of thought .

In her phrasing he heard the Stoics plain — Epictetus for the governance of one’s impressions, Zeno for action under imperfect knowledge—and without the least show.

Miss Bingley, who had followed none of this exchange, spoke again, her voice edged. “Miss Eliza Bennet seems to make contradiction her art. Perhaps that is the secret of her reputation for clever conversation.”

Elizabeth turned towards her, her mischief undimmed. “I shall take it as a kindness that my habits are so carefully observed, Miss Bingley. Few of us have the benefit of such devoted scrutiny.”

The thrust landed neatly, yet without spite. There was no bitterness in her tone—only playfulness augmented by confidence.

“Your contradictions do you credit, Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “It is no small gift to differ without giving offence.”

Elizabeth’s head tilted curiously, as though weighing his meaning. Whatever she read there, she responded with a tease.

“I do not argue, Mr. Darcy,” she replied lightly. “Arguing suggests the risk of being proven wrong. I find it much safer simply to speak and allow others to decide for themselves whether I have erred.”

He could not suppress a faint smile. “A convenient strategy.”

“And effective.” She lowered her gaze again to her book, though he doubted her mind was truly on it.

This time, Darcy could not restrain his smile.

Miss Bingley’s own expression tightened. “We are fortunate, Mr. Darcy, that you indulge such boldness in conversation. But surely you must prefer more decorous discourse?”

“I find no offence where none is intended,” Darcy answered. “Boldness in a lady may be far preferable to insipidity.”

The colour in Miss Bingley’s cheeks heightened, but she recovered herself. “Miss Eliza, since you are so adept at challenging Mr. Darcy, perhaps you will next favour us with your musical talents. We should all be most entertained.”

Elizabeth looked up, perfectly composed. “As you wish, Miss Bingley. But I offer no guarantees of entertainment.” The trap was clear enough. Miss Bingley always displayed with studied flourish. She would no doubt follow, attempting to draw a contrast. But Elizabeth rose without hesitation.

She seated herself at the instrument and, after a moment’s consideration, began softly to sing. Her voice was light and true, lacking the polish of having had a master, but all the more affecting for its sincerity. The old ballad carried clearly in the quiet room:

Now come is my departing time, And here I may no longer stay, There is no kind comrade of mine But will desire I were away. But if that time will me permit, Which from your company doth call, And me inforceth for to flit, Good Night, and God be with you all. [3]

Her tone was gentle but steady, each verse falling like a small offering. As she sang on —

For all offences I repent, And wisheth now forgiven to be…

There was a gentle humility beneath the words.

Darcy heard the subtle grace of her message.

A quiet acknowledgement, perhaps, that her sharpness earlier had gone further than she intended.

Whether she chose the song for meaning or melody, the words lingered.

When the final line faded — God’s blessing keep you both and me! Good Night, and God be with you all — [4]

She lifted her hands from the keys and folded them in her lap, her gaze not quite meeting his.

Darcy’s book lay entirely forgotten on his knee

Elizabeth mounted the stairs with a quiet tread, grateful to escape the drawing room before Miss Bingley could press further attentions upon her. She paused for a moment outside Jane’s chamber, smoothing her gown and steadying her breath.

Her thoughts, however, refused such order.

Mr. Darcy. His manner that afternoon had been quite unexpected. He had answered her teasing with forbearance rather than hauteur, and his eyes—she recalled too clearly his gaze as she sang. There had been something in his look that unsettled her. Attention. Weight.

It was not what she had supposed about him.

Of course, his pride remained. He was reserved, critical, certain of his own consequence.

He had spoken with a kind of grave civility that resisted easy mockery.

She did not trust the impression entirely, but she could not dismiss it as readily as she might have done days before.

She pressed her lips together and knocked softly at Jane’s door.

“Come in.”

Jane lay propped against several pillows, a light flush upon her cheeks. The worst of her fever had passed, but her voice still carried the rough edge of fatigue.

“You are looking better,” Elizabeth said as she crossed to the bedside. She touched her sister’s hand. It was warm but no longer fevered. “I believe your colour has improved even since morning.”

“I am much recovered,” Jane agreed with a faint smile. “I grow rather tired of everyone’s anxious faces.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That, I believe, is the universal complaint of convalescents.” She hesitated, lowering her voice.

“I do hope my note sufficed to dissuade Mamma from attempting to call. I half expect to find her in the hall with a footman laden with shawls and restorative cordials. Her presence would only distress you—and no doubt mortify me.”

“She does mean well,” Jane said quietly.

“As always,” Elizabeth replied. “But I am selfish enough to be grateful for her absence, just now.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The faint ticking of the mantel clock marked the silence.

“You are restless, Lizzy,” Jane said at last, her gentle eyes observing her sister closely. “You have been so for some days.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Perhaps. The air below grows close. Miss Bingley’s attentions are … unrelenting.”

“You should go out whilst the sky is still clear,” Jane urged softly. “You have spent too much time indoors attending to me. Take your walk. The fresh air will do you good.”

Elizabeth rose, smoothing the coverlet briefly. “Very well. But only for a short while. Should you need anything—”

“Mrs. Nicholls will attend me,” Jane assured her with a small smile. “Go.”

Elizabeth leant to press a kiss to her sister’s brow before slipping quietly from the room.