Page 19 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

T he sound of carriage wheels reached them well before Hill announced the visitors. Mrs. Bennet, who had been seated beside the window, stood quickly and adjusted her lace cap with eager hands.

“My dear Jane, Mr. Bingley has come himself — how attentive! Oh, Mr. Darcy is with him. I suppose we must tolerate him for Mr. Bingley’s sake.”

Elizabeth rose, smoothing her skirts, her pulse quickening. She had not expected to see Mr. Darcy so soon, and certainly not here. The door opened as Hill admitted the party.

Mr. Bingley entered first, his complexion still wan from his recent indisposition but smiling.

Miss Bingley followed, striding into the drawing room with studied elegance, though dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed her own incomplete recovery.

Mr. Darcy came last, bowing correctly, his expression composed but his colour faintly off.

“Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Bennet’s curtsy was deep for Bingley, moderate for his sister, and barely perceptible for Darcy. “Such kindness to call upon us. We have been most anxious about poor Mr. Hurst.”

“You are very good, madam,” Mr. Bingley said, bowing. “He remains much the same, I am afraid. The physician remains with him even now.”

“We pray for his recovery,” Jane said. “It must be a great strain on Mrs. Hurst.”

Miss Bingley, settling herself beside Mrs. Bennet, offered a tight smile.

“Indeed, Miss Bennet. My sister is most distressed.” Miss Bingley allowed a measured sneer, her nose wrinkling and the corners of her mouth lifting without warmth “It must be such a comfort, Mrs. Bennet, to have daughters blessed with such fortunate constitutions. Whilst others fell dreadfully ill, your family was spared entirely.”

She glanced briefly at Elizabeth, her expression pointed and continued. “Some might call it providence. One might wonder at such favourable circumstances.”

Miss Bingley lifted her chin and glanced around the drawing room as if planning redecoration or perhaps razing the place entirely. The worn carpet, the drooping, sun faded drapes, and the general chaos of the room were suddenly glaringly apparent in Elizabeth’s eyes.

Elizabeth gathered herself and replied with scrupulous politeness, her tone steady. “We have been fortunate. Has the physician yet determined the cause?”

“Not as yet,” Miss Bingley returned with affected composure.

“Mr. Louden—Mr. Darcy’s own physician from Town—declared the circumstances extraordinary.

Both he and Mr. Jones are agreed that some article introduced at dinner was of an injurious nature.

Curiously, your family alone escaped unscathed.

” Her eyes rested on Elizabeth with deliberate emphasis.

“No doubt Mr. Harding will soon discover how such a singular advantage was secured.”

Her smile held a trace of something sharper beneath the surface, but her tone remained flawlessly polite. Elizabeth suppressed any response to the magistrate’s being summoned.

Mr. Darcy adjusted his posture irritably but remained silent. His gaze flickered towards Elizabeth, but the weight of his attention pressed upon her all the same.

Mr. Bingley, seeking to change the subject, turned to Jane. “I hope you have suffered no lingering discomfort from your illness.”

“None at all,” Jane said kindly. “I have been most fortunate.”

“That is a great relief,” Bingley said, his smile softening.

Mrs. Bennet, unable to resist the opportunity, added, “Indeed, my Jane’s constitution has always been remarkably sound. A blessing for any future family.”

Elizabeth flushed faintly and glanced away.

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned. “How very reassuring.”

The conversation ambled forward — polite, civil, weighted beneath the surface.

It was strange, after what had passed, to sit thus in Mr. Darcy’s presence, speaking of nothing but the weather.

Their eyes met briefly across the room, and she searched his face, wondering how much he remembered—or whether his wits had been too clouded to recall the words he spoke—and the liberty he took—in the music room.

She dared not assume. What could she possibly say?

Sir, do you recall informing me you ardently admire and love me?

Or perhaps you recollect kissing my shoulder and neck?

A thrill passed through her at the memory, even as the thought was absurd.

Still, pretending nothing had happened felt equally absurd.

At length, Miss Bingley rose, her movements deliberate. “We must not impose longer. Shall we, brother?”

Mr. Bingley’s face fell, but he stood at once. “We thank you for receiving us. We hope to bring you better news when next we call.”

“Pray give our regards to Mrs. Hurst,” Jane said warmly.

“Yes, we will keep her and Mr. Hurst in our prayers,” Elizabeth added.

Mrs. Bennet attended Mr. Bingley to the door. “You are always most welcome at Longbourn.” She nodded curtly at Miss Bingley’s back. Mr. Darcy warranted the merest inclination of her head.

As the party moved towards the door, Darcy’s eyes met Elizabeth’s and held them for a moment longer than courtesy required — steady, questioning. She held her breath and her pulse quickened.

He remembers — or suspects — something, she thought. What am I to do with it?

The party departed, and Elizabeth let out a slow breath. Behind her, the room settled into the typical sounds of family activity.

The drawing room at Longbourn was oppressively small, too warm, and far too crowded for the comfort of anyone whose nerves were already strained. Darcy took his seat, painfully aware of Elizabeth’s presence across from him.

She did not meet his gaze at first. Her composure was perfect, her posture easy, her smile attentive as Mr. Bingley made his inquiries after their health. Yet Darcy could feel tension beneath it.

Miss Bingley’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Whilst others fell dreadfully ill, your family was spared entirely.”

Darcy’s stomach clenched. The insinuation was expertly deployed—too subtle for direct challenge, too pointed to ignore. Elizabeth absorbed it without flinching.

Mrs. Bennet replied lightly, deflecting her. Elizabeth’s still expression masked the slightest tremor as Miss Bingley continued.

“One might wonder at such favourable circumstances,” Miss Bingley offered, her voice smooth, her meaning unmistakable.

He wished to speak with an unbearable urgency. Yet how? No word could be safely offered in company. Any inquiry here would only compound the offence.

As Miss Bingley soon rose to conclude the call, Darcy stood and bowed with the others.

He allowed himself one last glance towards Elizabeth.

She met his gaze, steady and questioning.

Her eyes held not accusation, nor even unease.

It was something gentler—concern, perhaps.

A kind of quiet forbearance in her eyes struck more deeply than any reproach might have done.

That she should meet him with such grace, when he feared he had been ungentlemanly, only deepened the weight upon him . If all he thought he remembered had passed – if indeed he had so far lost himself — he had committed an offence no apology could remedy.

As he approached her, she curtsied. “I am pleased to see you are well now, sir,” she said quietly.

He wanted to respond but the thought of his failure of self-command, his terror that he compromised her, reduced him to silence. He nodded his thanks as he passed outside, welcoming the frigid air to cool his discomfort.

Mr. Jonas Harding brought an air of authority that Darcy initially found reassuring. Bingley ushered the magistrate into Netherfield’s study, and Darcy stood near the bookcase, quietly observing the proceedings.

Mr. Harding was middle-aged and stout, a sheen of perspiration already visible on his brow despite the coolness of the day.

He seated himself importantly behind Bingley’s wide oak desk, immediately setting out several thick and well-worn books.

Peering through spectacles balanced low on his nose, he flipped through the pages with furrowed concentration. .

“Yes, yes,” Harding murmured to himself, fingering the pages anxiously.

“Poisons … poisons…ah, yes, here we are.” He cleared his throat impressively and addressed Bingley.

“Now, Mr. Bingley, a poison may be defined as any substance injurious to the preservation of the human body—ultimately resulting, you understand, in dissolution.”

Bingley shifted uncomfortably, glancing uncertainly towards Darcy, who suppressed a sigh.

The magistrate blinked owlishly. “It is vital first to grasp the principles.” Mr. Harding looked around at the assembled parties, then spoke as if lecturing.

“The first object is to determine the nature of the poison. Without that, every subsequent question is mere conjecture. One must also consider sharp mechanical poisons, such as powdered glass—unlikely here, but not to be dismissed. Nor may we neglect the possibility of poisonous vapours or noxious mists, which can be as deadly as any draught.” He glanced at his notes, nodding sagely as he read aloud.

“Suffocating vapours, viscid acrimony, thickening of the humours.”

He read from his text with careful emphasis. “Poisons act through various means. Acrids, for example, constrain and erode the solids or coagulate and resolve the fluids—quite serious, you see. A stupefying power destroys the powers of sensation and motion—”

“Indeed, Mr. Harding,” Darcy interrupted. “We suspect something may have contaminated the dinner. Nearly everyone who partook of the meal fell ill, but Mr Hurst suffers far more than the rest. Might we assume that a substance found its way into the dinner?”