Page 12 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

A fter a bracing afternoon gallop around the estate with Bingley, Darcy ascended the stairs, intending to collect his thoughts before dressing for dinner.

The house was quiet at this hour. As he entered the corridor, Miss Bingley descended from the family apartments, as though she had been lying in wait for his return.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with a slight curtsy, her tone perfectly modulated, “it appears our paths intersect more often than not. I trust the afternoon found you agreeably occupied.”

He stiffened. His only desire was to retire to his room and refresh himself. “Bingley and I rode after the weather cooled.”

“Ah, of course.” She smiled faintly. “It is well that you have my brother to ride with. These days at Netherfield grow rather tedious without elevated company. But I am determined to preserve my spirits, however dull my surroundings may be.”

Her glance towards the guest wing spoke volumes without a word.

He made a polite reply — he scarcely knew what it was — and excused himself.

“Do not keep us waiting too long before dinner,” she called after him softly. “The hours grow wearisome without conversation worth attending.”

Darcy bowed but did not pause. The door to his chambers closed behind him with quiet finality.

Inside, Fletcher was already laying out his evening coat. Darcy moved to the window. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn. The wind stirred faintly.

He thought of Miss Bingley’s meticulously calculated compliments, her polished remarks, her fashionable attire. She had wealth and polish enough for every drawing room that mattered. Were it not for her roots in trade, she would be considered suitable.

Yet—nothing. Not the faintest stir of feeling.

Were Elizabeth Bennet equally situated, the matter would require no deliberation.

But she was not. Her family’s lack of fortune, her relations, their want of consequence, and the want of propriety so frequently—so near uniformly—betrayed by her mother, by her three younger sisters, and at times even by her father—these remained an immovable barrier.

Still, the barrier that once loomed so large had dwindled.

He could not pretend otherwise. Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her.

He had believed that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger.

Now, he realised, the true danger lay not in her circumstances but in himself.

Fletcher approached quietly. “Your coat, sir.”

Darcy donned it without comment. His fingers smoothed the cuffs.

The clock chimed softly as Darcy stood before the mirror. Fletcher moved behind him, silent and efficient, smoothing his coat upon his shoulders and adjusting the sleeves. Darcy scarcely noticed. His gaze met his own reflection.

“Shall I send word to Mr. Hegarty that you will take no wine to-night, sir?”

Darcy looked up, startled. His mind had been elsewhere .

“Yes. I would keep a clear head to-night.”

Danger.

Late that afternoon, Jane determined she would dine below stairs. Elizabeth hesitated—though Jane looked well, she was still pale from her illness—but the idea delighted Jane after days alone, and Elizabeth would not deny her sister the pleasure of rejoining company.

They retrieved the gowns their mother had sent from the wardrobe, still wrinkled from their packing but the best they had.

Mrs. Bennet had, in her anxiety or ambition, packed as though for a ball rather than a convalescence: taffeta, trimmings, and an abundance of ribbon and lace—rather more lace than Elizabeth would care to wear for a lifetime.

Elizabeth shook out the offerings with a rueful eye. “It seems we are to dazzle our hosts into forgetting you have been in bed all week.”

Jane gave her a fond smile. “Mamma meant well. She would have us enjoy some company.”

“I suppose she meant to remind everyone that we are not to be mistaken for country nobodies; despite the risk we shall suffocate under so much lace. As for the company, Mr Bingley is amiable enough, but the others are far from welcoming. I credit Mr Darcy with sense, but not with kindness. He seems of a mind with Miss Bingley. They care for none beyond their own circle and think meanly of all the rest of the world. Take care, I would not have you hurt.”

“I feel perfectly easy, Lizzy. Let us see what we can do with these gowns.”

Fortunately, Elizabeth’s work bag contained her trusty folding knife. She used its sharp blade to cut through the stitches holding the added lace to her gown’s bodice.

Elizabeth’s gown was a soft green, still far too embellished for a quiet family dinner, but at least it had not been crushed beyond repair. Jane wore pale blue, which flattered her returning colour. Rather than seek a maid, they dressed one another’s hair with practised hands.

As they looked at one another, a moment of shared amusement passed between them—two young women, over-dressed, a little uncertain, entirely allied.

“Are we ready to descend?” Elizabeth asked, adjusting Jane’s ribbon sash.

“I believe so,” Jane whispered. “Let us try.”

Leaning on her sister’s arm, Jane left her sickroom, and they proceeded to the drawing room with all the composure they could muster.

“We are rather grand for a quiet dinner,” Elizabeth said with a smile, smoothing her wrinkled skirt, “but it may serve to remind Miss Bingley that she has not sent us packing just yet.”

The drawing room was arranged to Miss Bingley’s specifications, with lamps turned low enough to flatter and footmen charged to ensure glasses did not remain empty for more than a moment.

Bingley and Hurst sat away from the ladies, in a desultory conversation about shooting.

Mrs. Hurst reclined with a sort of regal indolence, enjoying the evening without contributing to its management.

Miss Bingley, meanwhile, remained in motion—rearranging cushions, giving quiet but sharp direction to the footmen, and casting repeated glances towards the clock and the stairs.

Darcy recognised it as a performance, carefully staged and tediously familiar. He had no desire to play his part.

From his seat near the window, he looked out rather than in.

The view offered little beyond the neat gravel drive and a stand of dormant trees, but it was less stifling than the arch smiles and tinkling glass within.

He heard Mrs. Hurst’s languid remarks, Miss Bingley’s rustling about the room, and the quiet shifting of footmen refilling glasses.

Their efforts struck him as oddly deliberate.

Jane Bennet entered on her sister’s arm, looking pale but composed, and was greeted with effusive warmth, most especially by Mr. Bingley.

She offered soft reassurances regarding her improved health, which seemed to satisfy all but Miss Bingley, who took little note of her guests and quickly resumed her efforts.

Elizabeth Bennet accepted a glass of wine with grace and seated herself by her sister near the fire.

Darcy allowed himself a glance in her direction.

She looked thoughtful yet detached, her gaze flicking from the mantel to the shadows cast by the flames.

She looked pointedly at the overly abundant decanters placed with greater quantity than sense.

Darcy studied the verdure beyond with longing.

He kept his own counsel, responding only briefly to conversation and declining a glass of anything.

Miss Bingley attempted to engage him with commentary on the weather and the wretched state of the roads—matters which usually secured at least a polite reply.

When those failed, she ventured a subtle barb in Elizabeth’s direction, remarking, “How singularly restful the evening feels now that all our company has chosen to forgo brisk walks through muddy fields or country opinions offered without request.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flicked up from her glass, her expression unchanging save for the slightest arch of one brow, before she returned her attention to the fire.

It was a response so slight as to be almost imperceptible but not lost on Mr. Darcy.

He remained motionless and impassive in his seat, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Miss Bingley’s barbs were delivered with just enough sting to wound, yet with ambiguity sufficient to disclaim any particular aim.

Miss Bingley’s comments did not hit their marks. The young ladies of Longbourn, it seemed, would not rise to provocation, and Mr. Darcy was in no mood to flatter or be flattered. Mr Bingley sat by Miss Bennet and talked scarcely to anyone else. Fifteen slow minutes passed.

When finally, dinner was announced, Mr. Bingley sprang up to escort Miss Bennet with all civility. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst followed, their arm-in-arm procession a study in mismatched temperament.

A brief and awkward moment followed as the remaining pairing was in question. Miss Bingley stepped forward, her intent to secure Darcy’s arm obvious in every step. Elizabeth remained still, feigning obliviousness, though she was certainly aware of the unspoken social arithmetic at play.

Darcy rose more slowly. As hostess, Miss Bingley had some claim, but Miss Elizabeth Bennet outranked her by birth and appeal. Miss Bingley was advancing with expectation written plainly on her features. Miss Elizabeth made no move, —but he suspected she saw everything.

He glanced from one lady to the other, then, with the air of having made a choice too inconsequential to deliberate further, offered an arm to each.

Elizabeth, startled, accepted with a soft “Thank you.” Miss Bingley pressed her lips together and managed a stiff nod. Her bearing betrayed her discontent.