Page 14 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

E lizabeth halted at the dining room door, one hand against the frame, and took in the disordered scene.

Chairs were overturned. The cloth on the sideboard drooped .

Glass glittered on the carpet. Had Mr. Hurst collapsed?

That might account for the overturned furniture, though not the rest. She hesitated, wishing to be useful, yet unsure how.

The abandoned chamber offered no answers, only the troubling evidence of some disturbance.

She heard soft sounds from a room beyond. She stepped into the next room as a footman crossed with an untouched coffee tray. It was quieter there, dimmer, with only a single taper left burning in a sconce. The stillness pricked at her nerves.

“Thomas?” Elizabeth recognised the young man despite the dim light. She had known him since they were children.

“Miss Elizabeth!” He paused, shifting the tray with relief at seeing a familiar face. “Forgive me, miss. The household is quite at sixes and sevens to-night.”

“Whatever has happened? Is Mr. Hurst unwell? The dining room is in such a state.”

“Aye, Mr. Hurst has been dreadfully ill since dinner, miss. Came over queer sudden-like and had to be carried to his chamber. Mr. Jones has been sent for.” Thomas glanced nervously down the hall. “Mrs. Nicholls thought perhaps coffee might help matters.” He looked doubtfully at the untouched tray.

“I fear only Miss Bingley remains in the drawing room. I shall not delay you.” Elizabeth said. Thomas proceeded to the drawing room, leaving Elizabeth in the hushed adjoining room.

The silence stretched uncomfortably until faint sounds drifted through the stillness—not quite singing, not quite speaking. The cadence broke and gathered again, repeating lines. Someone was in the music room, and from the slurred quality of the voice, they were likely foxed.

A low male voice—half-hummed, half-spoken—drifted into hearing. Male, off-key. A line of verse mangled into murmured fragments.

“It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear! [5]

She paused, then, cautiously, she pushed the doors wider.

They yielded with scarcely a sound, swinging inward on oiled hinges.

The music room lay dim, lit only by a branch of candles on the far side and the fire’s gentle flicker in the grate.

The pianoforte stood open, though untouched, and beside it, half-reclined in a chair with his coat and cravat unfastened and one boot crossed carelessly over the other, sat Mr. Darcy.

“No, no,…she does not smile to entice. Only … when she forgets to guard against it…” He shifted, rubbing at his forehead as if to chase off a fog.

“…I told myself I disliked her. Safer. Or so I thought. But one look, and I am….” His resumed his song.

Oh! the heart, that has truly lov'd, never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close; [6] Elizabeth’s breath stilled.

She could not think he was exactly in his cups—at least not as she had seen men in that condition.

He had taken no wine at dinner. There was no boisterousness, no heat.

Only a strange, languid quality to his posture and voice, as though he were unmoored from consequence.

She took a careful step backward, meaning to leave him in peace, but the movement caught his notice.

He turned towards her, blinking slowly as though her presence required interpretation.

“Miss Elizabeth?” “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude. I heard a voice and wondered….” Darcy made no move to rise. “You are not intruding.”

Then, “You hate me,” he said quietly.

The words were simple, and his tone held none of its typical formality. His gaze drifted over her face with undisguised wonder, as though he had never quite seen her before.

Elizabeth, startled, searched his face. “Mr. Darcy, I do not — That is—”

“No, no,” he interrupted, with a faint wave of his hand. “I was ungenerous—proud—offended at the very notion I could be in error.”

He smiled faintly and without bitterness.

“I persuaded myself,” he said slowly, “that avoidanc e would diminish my regard.” He laughed ruefully, “Absolute codswallop.”

Elizabeth remained still beside the doorframe. What should she do? Did he need assistance? This was not the Mr. Darcy she knew.

“I must ask your pardon,” he said suddenly. “Not for what I feel—but for my pride and conceit. I never thought myself an envious man, not until I beheld Bingley’s easy frankness of heart, and the welcome it wins . He is met with warmth. My manner merits only wariness.”

He pressed a hand to his temple, as if the words came faster than he could think to stop them. “He said you were a ‘most desirable partner.’ He did not tell me you were ruinous.”

A long pause followed. Elizabeth stood as if frozen. What had happened to Mr. Darcy?

Then, more distantly, almost to himself, he added, “Were I less myself—less proud—I should long since have offered, nay, begged.”

His voice thinned and failed. She took a step forward—he looked pale now, truly pale. Something in his posture had slackened further, his expression drifting towards vacancy. He swayed. Alarm tingled in her body. Something was truly amiss. She closed the distance between them.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, low but firm, touching his arm. “I believe you may be unwell.”

He looked up slowly. There was confusion in his eyes now—uncertainty chasing away the earlier clarity.

“I think,” he said haltingly, “I … may sit a moment longer.”

“You ought to rest,” she said. “Shall I call your man?”

“No—no.” His eyes closed briefly. “Only—only do not leave.”

Elizabeth hesitated. The silence lengthened, stretched too far—and when at last he attempted to rise from the chair, it was not with the easy grace she associated with him, but a deliberate, unsteady effort.

He fell back into the seat, his expression surprised.

Then he regarded her with intent albeit unfocussed eyes.

“Miss Bennet,” he said softly, his voice pitched low, “may I speak one plain truth?”

Elizabeth rose. “Mr. Darcy—perhaps you ought to rest. You are—”

“Beautiful,” he said. “You are so very—”

He reached out as though to take her hand, not roughly, but with a kind of reverence that was far more unsettling than anything abrupt. His fingertips brushed her arm—warm, far too familiar.

Elizabeth stepped back, stunned.

“This is not—sir, you are not yourself.”

He smiled, almost sheepishly, as if caught in some charming indiscretion. “No. That is the very thing. I am never so myself. Only—perhaps—here. With you.”

She could scarcely breathe. There was no fire of drink in his eyes, no coarseness—only naked affection, laid bare without filter or caution. He was utterly unmasked. They were alone. He was…

“I must find someone to assist you,” she said, her voice tight. “You are not well. Something has affected you—.”

“A dream … I dream of you,” he said, and his hand came up again to touch her arm above her glove, the gentlest contact imaginable. “Always. I tried to be rid of it. You are inconvenient, Elizabeth. Maddening, Elizabeth. But…”

He moved restlessly, rising to face her, his face inches from hers.

Elizabeth’s heart beat wildly, half from fear, half from something else. What he said—what he felt—it stirred her. But the moment was perilous. She could not risk being discovered here, alone with him, his coat unfastened, his hand now ever so lightly caressing her.

His eyes were unfocussed as he gazed into hers. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and l, l, love you.”

She swallowed hard. Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. But he was out of his wits.

“You must sit,” she repeated softly now. “Please, Mr. Darcy. Before anyone comes.”

At last, something in her tone reached him. He blinked, his expression flickering with uncertainty.

“I am—tired,” he murmured, and allowed her to guide him back into the chair.

Elizabeth remained standing beside him, breathless, the imprint of his words heavy in the air between them. Her heart ached with something she could not name—shock, certainly. But also, a strange, raw tenderness.

Why had he spoken so? Had truth been loosed by illness? Indeed, it felt like the truth. How could this be?

Darcy’s gaze lingered on her with unnerving intensity—soft, but utterly unguarded. Something in it made her heart falter.

He again attempted to rise slowly, and Elizabeth stepped back at once.

“Sir, I must insist—”

But he reached for her—not roughly, not with force, but with surprising swiftness and sureness, catching her around her waist and drawing her downward as he fell back into the chair.

“No—Mr. Darcy—”

She gave a small cry, not loud enough to carry, as he pulled her gently but inexorably into the chair he had just vacated. Or rather—into his lap.

She froze. She was seated across his legs, her shoulders against his chest. He murmured as if to himself, “My dearest, loveliest ‘lizabeth.” His forehead touched her hair, and a silly smile spread across his face.

His arms encircled her waist with the casual ease of one entirely unaware of consequence, and before she could find breath to object, he bent his head to the curve of her neck and pressed slow, lingering kisses just below her ear and then trailed down her neck to her shoulder.

As he reached the line of her bodice, he sighed heavily and tenderly caressed her skin, stopping just short of her gown.

Elizabeth froze, unbelieving and uncertain of what she ought to do.

As he continued his caresses, the warmth of his lips against her skin sent a shock through her entire frame—alarming, yes, but more than that. It was reverent. Unfathomably tender.