Page 13 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

They entered the dining room thus arranged, were seated, and the first course served under a flurry of silver and steam.

Whatever Miss Bingley had planned for the evening, it was already beginning to slip beyond her grasp.

Darcy tasted the soup and set down his spoon.

Miss Elizabeth’s comment to her sister—soft and dry—reached his ears.

“Does the soup strike you as uncommonly fortified?” Elizabeth murmured to Jane as she set down her own spoon.

Jane nodded faintly. “Madeira, I think. Rather, a great deal of it.”

Miss Bingley caught the comment and interjected brightly, “Mrs. Christopher outdid herself, did she not? There is nothing like a bold hand in the kitchen.”

“Bold indeed,” Elizabeth said, offering her sister a sidelong glance.

The fish arrived next, gleaming under a brandied glaze. Mr. Hurst dug in with great delight. “Now this,” he declared, “is how trout ought to be served. None of that insipid country dressing.”

Mr. Bingley, more cautiously, said, “It is rather spirited.”

Jane took a dainty bite and discreetly moved the rest about her plate. “The brandy rather overpowers the fish,” she whispered to Elizabeth.

A venison roast followed—lavishly seasoned and swimming in a dark reduction.

Mr Darcy, pushing his food about his plate, said quietly, “I shall wait for the next course.”

Elizabeth gave a small, amused huff. “At this rate, it may come with a chaser.”

The meal progressed with increasing extravagance. Mr. Hurst’s praise grew louder, Miss Bingley’s satisfaction shriller. A headache gathered behind Darcy’s eyes. He endured it in silence.

Miss Bingley raised her glass. “To innovation. One must keep a table as one keeps conversation—lively and unexpected.”

“Unexpected, certainly,” Elizabeth said with a wry grin, earning a near smile from Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Hurst called for another bottle, declaring, “This claret is passable, but what I would not give for a proper Bordeaux!”

Bottles were uncorked in quick succession.

Pickled walnuts appeared beside pigeon, then jellied tongue.

When the footman reached Mr. Darcy’s place, he set his hand over the glass and gave a slight shake of the head.

No toasts were offered. Each decanted bottle drifted, by slow degrees, into Mr. Hurst’s sole custody.

The next course was announced with particular pride: a ragout, with the mushroom catsup praised the night before, to Mr. Hurst’s gluttonous delight. “Capital. Something with proper depth.” He helped himself liberally and waved off the footman, declaring, “No need. I shall do the honours myself.”

Elizabeth asked for some plainer fare, something that she could swallow without risking being in her cups before the remove.

She took a soft roll. There were fewer butter moulds this evening.

Elizabeth availed herself of a charming rosebud of soft yellow butter.

At least it was safe from the onslaught of spirits.

Poor Jane, her stomach weakened by her illness, seemed unable to swallow a morsel. Perhaps a tray of tea and toast before bed would be required. “The pheasant is delightful,” she said softly, pushing the sauce aside.

Mr. Hurst, in high spirits, leant past his wife and set a generous spoonful of ragout upon Mr. Darcy’s plate. Mr. Darcy bowed to civility with a few bites of the ragout. A faint line marked his brow. He then applied himself to the fowl without the catsup.

Elizabeth studied the dish, its dark gloss and heavy scent. She bent to Jane. “If I wished to taste the forest floor, I would walk it,” she murmured.

Elizabeth declined the ragout and made the proper compliments before sending the dishes on. Jane, too, declined the catsup and took her fowl plain. They sampled what courtesy required and allowed the rest to pass them by.

The footmen, Simon and Thomas, took the cloth from the table.

The last of the wine made yet another slow round.

Miss Bingley gestured to Mr. Hegarty to serve the sweet ratafia to the ladies and the brandy to the gentlemen Mr. Hurst, flushed and glassy-eyed, dabbed at his cravat with a hand that lacked its usual control.

His laughter, always too hearty for the delicacy of the setting, now rang louder and more freely.

Dessert arrived with a flourish: brandy-soaked figs atop custard tartlets.

“I surrender,” Jane whispered, setting down her spoon.

Miss Bingley beamed. “Is it not divine? A triumph of contrasts.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Quite unforgettable.”

Miss Bingley, however, appeared entirely satisfied, taking small but ostentatious portions and commenting on the ‘refined boldness’ of the flavours.

If the intention had been to overawe, it had rather overreached. At the remove, even Mrs. Hurst began to look weary. Elizabeth was wearily glad when the final spoon was set down.

Miss Bingley, with a charming little sigh, leant towards Jane across the table.

“Miss Bennet, shall we retire and leave the gentlemen to their cigars?” Jane inclined her head at once.

“With pleasure.” Elizabeth rose beside her, casting a swift glance at Mr. Darcy.

His gaze was not unfocussed, but oddly distant, as though listening to a melody no one else could hear.

The gentlemen stood as the ladies did. Mr. Bingley sprang to the door with all his accustomed energy and then wobbled.

Darcy moved to stand, his motions faintly awry.

Mr. Hurst looked about him as though he recognised he was meant to do something but shook his head wearily and remained in his seat.

Miss Bingley lingered as she passed, her fingers trailing along the back of Mr. Darcy’s chair with studied nonchalance.

“I hope you shall not be long,” she murmured, her words pitched low for Mr. Darcy’s ear alone. He gave no answer.

In the drawing room, Jane seated herself near the hearth whilst Elizabeth moved to the window.

There, a violet hue marked the horizon, and a restless wind stirred the branches of the distant elms in listless sways.

It had the feel of a turning, of something unsettled in the air.

Elizabeth watched for a moment, then turned back to the room.

Miss Bingley poured herself a small glass of ratafia, then walked to the settee with a theatrical sigh.

“They are taking longer than I would expect,” she said, though barely ten minutes had passed.

The wind pressed against the glass in irregular gusts, as though the world outside could not decide whether to storm or settle.

Elizabeth took a seat near her sister, with her hands folded lightly in her lap.

“The air has a strange restlessness this evening. I wonder if the weather means to change,” she said quietly

Miss Bingley was lounging with affected ease.

Her face had reddened. She lifted her glass unsteadily and said with satisfaction, “The change has already come—in the quality of the evening. Mr. Hegarty, after some persuasion, was good enough to part with a bottle of brandy from the oldest shelf in the cellar. It is a vintage reserved for company of the highest distinction.”

Jane looked up with polite interest. “It is very generous of Mr. Bingley to offer such hospitality.”

Miss Bingley gave a thin smile. “Oh, Charles had not the least notion. But as hostess, one must occasionally take the initiative.”

Elizabeth offered no reply, though a faint lift of her brow betrayed amusement.

A candle guttered brightly in its dish, the sound oddly like a whispered warning.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves at the open window.

Miss Bingley glanced towards the empty chair Mr. Darcy had occupied earlier, her gaze lingering.

“Do you feel a bit queer, Caroline?” Mrs. Hurst asked in a low tone intended for her sister alone.

“Of course not.” Miss Bingley glared at her sister who drooped noticeable.

“One does hope,” Miss Bingley continued lightly, “that the gentlemen are not overlong. I thought Mr. Darcy somewhat pale this evening. Perhaps the air did not agree with him.”

Elizabeth’s brow lifted. “He did not appear quite himself. I hope he has not fallen ill.”

Miss Bingley’s smile thinned. “You imagine things, Miss Eliza.”

Before Elizabeth could reply, the door opened—not to the gentlemen or the footman with the coffee tray, but to Mr. Bingley.

He stumbled slightly as he entered, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. “Louisa—pardon me, ladies—Louisa, would you, might you come a moment? Hurst is unwell.”

Mrs. Hurst stood at once, swaying as she began crossing the room. “Of course. Is he feverish?”

“I do not know. He is … insensible. I cannot wake him properly. I daresay we gentlemen are all indisposed.”

Miss Bingley turned pale. “Cannot wake him? But he was laughing just now.” She turned swiftly to the door. “I shall come too.”

“No,” Bingley said, halting her with an uncharacteristically firm gesture. Then he softened his tone. “Forgive me. He may not wish to be observed by all. We will have the footmen return him to his chamber.”

Bingley took Mrs. Hurst’s arm and led her from the room. The door snicked softly closed behind them.

Behind them, the sound of male voices echoed faintly.

A chill passed through Elizabeth—not from the fire, which burnt brightly, but from something in Mr. Bingley’s noticeable discomposure.

A muffled clatter echoed faintly from the dining room—the scrape of a chair, the thud of something striking wood or carpet—and then, muffled voices- one in command. Heavy footfalls echoed.

Miss Bingley resumed her seat with studied movements, folding her hands primly as though nothing of note had occurred, but then listing slightly in her chair. Jane caught her sister’s eye with a faint frown of concern.

The fire crackled. Tea cooled in cups. Conversation dwindled to scattered remarks about the weather and menus, none of which seemed to require a reply.

Miss Bingley appeared in a strange state.

Abruptly, she began to sing, not loudly, but to herself.

Elizabeth met eyes again with Jane, whose brows rose in consternation.

The clock ticked too loudly. No servant entered to clear the tea tray. No further sound came from beyond the drawing room doors.

Miss Bingley remarked that the carpets appearing to be moving and later speculated whether poetry or charades might revive the evening—but it seemed to Elizabeth that Miss Bingley was conversing with no one.

She fussed with the tea things, unnecessarily smoothing then folding the cloth, lifting the pot as if to serve someone.

. She mumbled under her breath words which seemed directed at an empty chair.

At that, Jane stirred and looked towards the door.

Exchanging a glance with Elizabeth she rose.

“I am still quite tired from my illness. If you would be good enough to excuse me, Miss Bingley. I shall retire,” she said, her voice low.

Miss Bingley listed slightly in her chair, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words emerged.

Only a vague, dismissive flutter of her fingers.

Elizabeth rose at once. “I shall come with you. Goodnight, Miss Bingley.”

Miss Bingley gave no sign of marking their exit, her unfocussed gaze fixed on the tea service as she rocked gently in her chair.

The sisters stepped into the corridor, but as Jane turned for the stair, Elizabeth paused. The dining room door stood ajar.

Through the narrow opening, the room presented a scene of shocking disorder.

A chair lay upon its side, crystal glittered where a decanter had been overset across the Turkey carpet.

A cloth hung askew from the sideboard. The cloying scent of spirits and rich sauces hung heavy in the air, mingled with the unmistakable sourness of someone having been violently ill.

Yet there were no voices. No footmen clearing away, no gentlemen rising from their chairs—only the strange hush of a room abandoned in haste.

“Lizzy?” Jane turned back from the stairs.

“Go on up, Jane,” Elizabeth said encouragingly. “I shall be just a moment.”

Jane hesitated, then nodded and made her way up to the bedchamber.