Page 2 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

E lizabeth Bennet summoned every ounce of her gentlewoman’s breeding to suppress the impulse to stamp her half-boots most emphatically as she ascended the muddy slope towards Netherfield’s imposing facade.

The ground was soggy. The remnants of the prior days’ afternoon rains saturated the already damp area around the stream.

At least the stone bridge had not been submerged.

It was insupportable. Her mother, Mrs. Bennet had, with typical reckless machination, insisted that Jane go on horseback to join Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst for tea.

No begging or cajoling, and certainly no logical reasoning, would dissuade her from sending her eldest daughter out in the threatening weather in hopes that she might encounter and, with luck, ensnare Mr. Bingley.

Once a single man of good fortune entered her neighbourhood, Mrs. Bennet was certain he was in want of a wife and was thus the rightful property of her eldest, most beautiful daughter.

Elizabeth had contended that Jane would fall ill from riding the three miles in a drenching rain, and as was most often the case, she was proven correct.

Jane’s pathetic note received that morning had treated her illness as a trifle- “there is not much the matter with me,” she claimed, yet her sore throat and headache had caused her to stay the night at Netherfield.

Mr. Bingley—presumably, as the only civilised member of that party — had called for the apothecary, Mr. Jones, to attend her.

Elizabeth muttered several unladylike imprecations as she strode up the hill towards Netherfield’s pleasure gardens.

She would not, could not, remain at home at Longbourn whilst her sister suffered under the disinterested care of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Miss Bingley, tall and handsome, made no secret of her disdain for the company, and Mrs. Hurst, a paler, plumper imitation of her sister, merely went along with whatever Miss Bingley chose.

Those grand ladies were only superficially amiable at best. She could not trust them to nurse her poor, ill, dearest sister.

A three-mile walk through the muck was nothing if Jane needed her.

As Netherfield House emerged from the morning mist, Elizabeth shook her head.

She could expect no true welcome, as whilst Mr. Bingley had been agreeable, his sisters and brother had been indifference itself.

His guest, the handsome, wealthy and thoroughly ill-humoured Mr. Darcy, had been frankly rude.

At the midsummer Assembly whence one would expect a gentleman would wish to make a pleasant first impression, if only to smooth his friend’s entry into the local society, Mr. Darcy had spoken only to his own party, danced only with his hostess and her sister and, in his greatest offence, he had insulted Elizabeth herself.

“Not handsome enough to tempt me.” Without even having the grace to accept an introduction, and on the basis of a cursory glance across the assembly room, he had dismissed Elizabeth as a young lady “slighted by other men.” The effrontery of the gentleman!

As was customary where ladies outnumbered gentlemen, Elizabeth chose to sit out some dances to ensure all her neighbours had a chance to join a set.

But Mr. Darcy had dismissed and insulted… .

Elizabeth stopped, took a deep breath, and pushed her ire down.

It would not do to appear at Netherfield ready to challenge a member of the party to a duel.

It mattered not what they thought. Her only purpose was to ensure her dear sister was cared for.

Elizabeth brushed moisture from her skirt, noting the several inches of dirt on her petticoat and an appalling accumulation of mud on her boots.

Surely her disreputable appearance would provide further fodder for the Netherfield Park denizens to fuel their critique of all things Bennet. So be it.

Elizabeth was met at the door by a footman, and then by Miss Bingley herself, who swept forward with an elegance intended to impress.

“My dear Miss Eliza,” she said, offering a hand more ornamental than sincere. “What a surprise.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “Good morning. I have come to attend my sister.”

Miss Bingley’s brow lifted. “Indeed. I believe she is still at rest.”

“No doubt,” Elizabeth replied, brushing a stray damp curl from her face.

Miss Bingley glanced at the state of Elizabeth’s hem with the faintest pursing of her lips. “Had we known you were expected, we might have sent the carriage.”

Elizabeth met her gaze evenly. “No need. I had not planned to visit until I read Jane’s note. But I was relieved to receive it.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed across Miss Bingley’s face, but she said only, “I am certain my brother will be delighted.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I hope he has not been too inconvenienced.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Bingley, her tone smooth. “He has been most attentive.”

“I am glad,” Elizabeth replied, without inflection. “Jane speaks highly of him.”

Miss Bingley did not answer immediately. Then, with a brittle smile, she gestured towards the housekeeper standing a pace behind her by the stairs. “Shall I have Mrs. Nicholls show you up?”

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, and followed the housekeeper without another word.

Mrs. Nicholls led Elizabeth up two flights of stairs and down a narrow corridor not generally used by guests.

The carpeting, such as it was, bore the unmistakable scent of damp wool, and the narrow casement windows let in scarcely enough light to guide one’s way.

At last, they paused before a modest chamber tucked beneath the eaves.

“Miss Bingley said Miss Bennet would prefer a quiet part of the house. I hope the room is warm enough.” Mrs. Nicholls did not meet Elizabeth’s eyes as she knocked once and entered.

Jane was curled on the narrow bed, her fair hair half-loosened upon the pillow. Her pale face turned from the pillow. “Lizzy,” Jane said, her voice a little hoarse but steady. “I did not expect you.”

Elizabeth crossed the room at once and took her sister’s hand. “You ought to have. As soon as I read your note, I set out.”

“You walked?”

“I could not have stayed away,” Elizabeth said simply. “How do you feel?”

Jane smiled faintly. “Tired, but better. Mr. Jones says it is nothing serious.”

Elizabeth touched her brow. “Still warm. Have they given you anything?”

“A bit of cordial and some broth,” Jane murmured.

Mrs. Nicholls hovered by the door. “If there is anything you require, please ring.” She backed away.

Elizabeth thanked the housekeeper and adjusted her sister’s coverlet. “You ought never to have been sent out in such weather.”

“I am much better,” Jane insisted, though her voice was hoarse.

Elizabeth sat at the edge of the mattress and glanced about.

The room was neat but ill-furnished, lacking even a chair for her to occupy.

The fire burnt low, the curtains were thin, and the coverlet had seen better days.

A chipped basin sat on the washstand, and there was no bell pull within reach of the bed.

“This is scarcely fit for an invalid,” she said under her breath.

Jane squeezed her hand. “Do not fuss, Lizzy. I am well enough—and everyone has been kind.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Truly? Everyone? Was it Mrs. Hurst who saw to the fire? Or Miss Bingley, who arranged your supper tray? I suspect the servants who know you have been kinder.”

Jane’s only answer was a rueful smile.

“I shall see to you myself,” Elizabeth said briskly. She rose, drew the curtains against the persistent chill, and laid another shawl across her sister’s feet. Then she stirred the fire until it gave off a more satisfactory glow.

“I shall not leave you alone to-night,” she said.

“You will do no such thing—Miss Bingley will think you quite the barbarian.”

“Miss Bingley will think what she likes,” Elizabeth said shortly. “But she will not think no one cares for you. I will see that our things are sent from home.”

Only when Jane was settled again and drifting towards sleep, did Elizabeth prepare to rejoin the company below—her gown damp, her hem muddy, and her temper in no better condition.

“I shall return shortly,” Elizabeth said at last. “You must rest.”

Jane nodded and closed her eyes. Elizabeth pulled the coverlet higher and slipped from the room.

Satisfied that Jane was indeed not in mortal danger, Elizabeth descended to join the others, muddy hem and all.

It would not do to appear flustered or accusatory, no matter the state in which she had found her sister.

The drawing room door stood ajar, voices low and indistinct within.

She stepped through with a composed air, patting a damp curl in place.

The drawing room at Netherfield was warm but not welcoming.

A low fire flickered in the grate, more for effect than warmth, and the fragrance of orange pomanders mingled with the faint, astringent tang of starched linen.

The room had once been tasteful—muted damasks, restrained ornamentation, a quiet harmony of colour and line.

Now it bore the unmistakable imprint of Miss Bingley’s vulgar ambition: gilding on every available surface, a profusion of cushions in hues that battled rather than blended, and an arrangement calculated less for ease than for theatrical effect.

Elizabeth took it in at a glance and suppressed a smile.

Elegance, it seemed, had once lived here, but had been evicted by pretentiousness and an enormous bill for trimmings.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst occupied the most prominent positions near the fire, ensconced in damask chairs and trailing languid fingers over their embroidery. Mr. Hurst, as ever, reclined on a chaise with a wine glass balanced on his ample middle, apparently dozing or feigning it.