Page 16 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

I t was well into the morning before any of the party descended. The house stood unusually still, its rhythms disrupted. Elizabeth and Jane entered the breakfast room, where the fire burnt low and the tea had long since cooled.

At last, Miss Bingley entered, pale beneath her powder, her upright carriage softened into something slackened.

Mr. Bingley followed later. His usually bright complexion was sallow.

Beneath a polite smile, his expression was strained.

After a civil greeting, he lowered himself into a chair as though it took great effort.

Miss Bingley ate nothing, merely stirred her tea, staring into the swirling liquid as though it required study.

“The apothecary came just after six,” she said at length.

“He administered a purgative to Mr. Hurst. Louisa remains with him. She is not feeling well at all. I fear the entire household is unwell.” She paused, inhaling carefully.

“I have had words with Mrs. Christopher. It must have been something at dinner.” Her voice thinned further as she spoke.

Miss Bingley’s skin held an unnatural faint sheen and her temples appeared damp. She shifted often, as if unable to sit comfortably. Mr. Bingley, though attempting conversation, pushed his plate aside untouched. His fingers traced aimless patterns along the cushion of his chair.

The contrast struck Elizabeth with quiet force. Jane sat across from her, her colour steady, her manner untroubled. Elizabeth herself felt no ill effect, though unease settled in her mind. Why were they spared any illness when the others were plainly indisposed?

“What of Mr. Darcy?” Jane asked softly.

Mr. Bingley exhaled carefully. “Mr. Darcy’s man begged we excuse him. He suffers from a severe headache.”

Another silence fell.

Miss Bingley glanced towards Jane. “You appear quite well, Miss Bennet?”

“I am entirely recovered, I thank you.”

“And you, Miss Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth met her gaze. “I am untroubled.”

Jane glanced at her sister, and with gentle resolve, rose. “We ought to return home. If we might beg the use of your carriage, sir?”

Mr. Bingley shifted to straighten in his seat and his voice was thin. “Must you?”

Elizabeth offered a faint smile. “We have already trespassed too long upon your kindness. With the house so unsettled, we would not add to your concerns.”

Miss Bingley sniffed faintly. “Yes, I daresay it is best.”

Darcy woke to the glare of light cutting sharply through the gap between the curtains. He turned his head, and the simple motion sent a dull surge of pain behind his eyes. His skin was damp. The pulse in his temples beat unevenly.

He lay still for a moment. A tray sat beside the bed, with a bowl of broth long grown cold. He inhaled deeply and attempted to rise. The world tipped wildly beneath him. He fell back against the pillows.

Bits of memory floated into his consciousness. The dining room. The disturbance after dinner. A sense of warmth—not from the fire, but from nearness. From her.

He closed his eyes. Was this a dream?

It differed utterly from those private fancies, when he had imagined her across a room with eyes bright in amusement or measured scepticism.

She was near in these memories—wholly present—and the remembrance came back in an irregular tide.

Sensations filled him-. He recalled the faint sweetness of her hair, the silk of her gown beneath his hand, and the warmth of her body drawn close.

His arms had encircled her. His lips had found the soft curve of her throat.

There had been words—unguarded words—never meant to be spoken. .

“I ardently admire and love you.”

The phrase rang too clearly to be invention. His chest tightened as it echoed. He had said it; of that he was now certain. But what else had passed? Had she pulled away? Had he released her? Had anyone observed them? What, in Heaven’s name, had he done?

Terror struck with renewed force, and he forced himself upright, bracing one hand on the bedstead to steady his balance. His breath quickened. His heart skipped unevenly beneath his ribs. He opened his mouth, the words rough as they came.

“Fletcher.”

The door opened promptly. His valet entered at once, composed and quiet. “Sir?”

Darcy’s voice was raw. “Have the Misses Bennet departed?”

“They have, sir. Miss Elizabeth made enquiry after your health this morning through Mrs. Hurst, but I conveyed that you were not receiving.”

Darcy let his gaze drift to the half-drawn curtains. “Fletcher… you attended me last night, did you not? I should like to hear what you observed.”

Fletcher hesitated in the measured way of a man considering both memory and discretion. “You were in the music room after dinner. There was some… confusion. A footman—Thomas, I believe—sought me out, saying you were indisposed.”

Darcy’s brows drew together. “Indisposed?”

“Yes, sir. When I arrived, you were seated in the music room, though not entirely steady. I assisted you to your chamber.”

Darcy studied him. “Was I alone?”

Another fractional pause. Fletcher’s gaze flickered towards the window before returning to his master. “When I arrived, sir, you were alone.” He adjusted the tray as though its arrangement required his full attention. “I could not speak to what may have occurred earlier in the evening.”

Darcy’s pulse thudded in his ears. “Who—”

Fletcher inclined his head. “It was scarcely the moment to tax you with… particulars, sir. I thought it best to see you to your rooms.” He moved to the window, drawing the curtains so the light fell more gently across the chamber. “If I might suggest, sir—broth first.”

Darcy leant back against the pillows, each faint lurch in his head reminding him how little strength he had. “Very well,” he said at last, though the acquiescence was born of necessity rather than satisfaction.

The Bingley carriage jolted as it left the drive, the outline of Netherfield receding behind them in the bright golden haze of midday. Elizabeth settled against the elegant squabs, tilting the brim of her bonnet to shade her eyes.

For a time, they rode in silence. The rhythm of the wheels and the steady clatter of hooves filled the space where conversation might have been.

At length, Jane spoke. “It was a strange visit, was it not?”

“It was rather a trying morning, and evening, and week.

“I cannot help but wonder at it all. The entire household taken ill so suddenly—it was most peculiar.”

Elizabeth nodded, watching the hedgerows blur past the window. She forced herself to consider the matter: Hurst’s sudden collapse, the pallor of Miss Bingley and Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy’s absence from the breakfast room. All afflicted — save for herself and Jane.

Jane continued. “Miss Bingley appeared rather unwell this morning. As did Mr. Bingley. Mr Darcy was ill, and, of course, the Hursts. But you and I were well enough. The apothecary had no answers.” Jane paused, her brow furrowed.

“I fear it must indeed have been something served at dinner. Do you think so?”

“Perhaps the wine was to blame,” Elizabeth offered aloud. “Neither you nor I took more than a few sips.”

Jane nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps. It is strange that we alone should feel no ill effect.”

“Strange indeed.”

She could not spare attention for the menu or the strange illness. The night returned to her in flashes. His warm, strong arms around her. His voice, rough but steady.

I ardently admire and love you.

She pressed her gloved hands together in her lap, steadying herself.

It was not a matter she could discuss. Not yet. She herself scarcely understood it.

Jane glanced at her, her expression inquiring. “You are certain you are well, Lizzy? You seem distracted.”

Elizabeth summoned another smile. “I am quite well, truly.”

Jane accepted this, folding her hands. “In any case, it is a relief to be returning home. Mamma will be pleased to see us.”

“I hope she will. I fear she wished you to return betrothed,” Elizabeth said quietly, her gaze returning to the window. The familiar hedgerows slipped past, but her thoughts remained behind at Netherfield.

Miss Bingley lay propped against three pillows, a folded cloth over her brow and a basin near to hand. The headache had not relented since morning, and her stomach had again turned against even weak tea. She waved away Sophy’s hesitant knock with an irritable groan.

“I said I would not be disturbed.”

“Yes, madam, and I would not disturb you—only—” Sophy hovered just inside the doorway. “I thought it best you hear at once. Last night I saw something. In the music room.”

Miss Bingley did not move. “If it concerns a servant’s indiscretion, inform Mrs. Nicholls.”

“No, madam.” Sophy’s voice lowered. “It concerns Miss Eliza Bennet.”

At that, one eye cracked open.

“She did not go to her room last night. I saw her. Downstairs.”

The other eye opened, slower. “Alone?” Miss Bingley croaked.

Sophy hesitated, then took a cautious step closer. “No. That is it precisely. She was in the music room.”

“The music room? At that hour?” Miss Bingley’s voice sharpened despite the pressure at her temples.

“Yes, madam. You were to bed. The fire was still lit.”

Miss Bingley frowned. “Was she playing duets at that hour? With one of the housemaids?”

Sophy shifted her weight and gave a look so carefully blank it might have been a smirk on another face.

Miss Bingley sat up straighter. “Speak plainly, Sophy. If there were improprieties—”

“There was no duet, madam. She was—” Sophy drew a breath. “Very near to someone. Quite near.”

“Near?” Miss Bingley demanded. “How near?”

“Seated,” Sophy said primly, “on his lap.”

Miss Bingley went still. Her headache vanished in a single, sickening jolt.

There was a long, terrible silence. “Whose lap?” she said faintly. She clutched the coverlet. “Was it a footman?”

“Oh no, madam.”

“Dear God—not Mr. Hurst.”

“Not Mr. Hurst either.”

Miss Bingley’s mouth opened and closed. “It cannot have been—”