Page 22 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

W ith a rustle of papers and a sigh heavy with ceremony, Mr. Harding resumed his seat in the study, now transformed into an impromptu tribunal.

Whilst Darcy and Bingley had been in the kitchens, the Bennets had arrived promptly in response to Mr. Harding’s urgent summons.

The assembled party waited in various degrees of discomfort.

Darcy remained standing near the window, arms crossed, whilst Mr. Bingley paced in agitation.

Mr. Harding, perspiring more freely now, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and arranged his notes with solemn care.

“We shall proceed in strict order,” he declared, “each guest to speak for themselves. This is a formal inquiry under my supervision, with notes to be submitted to the quarter sessions. I understand Mrs. Hurst is too ill to present herself for further questioning, so I will rely upon my notes from her early report.” He cast an assessing glance over the assembled parties.

“First witness. Mr. Bingley,” Harding began, adjusting his spectacles with great ceremony.

Bingley stood and faced the magistrate.

“For the record, on the evening in question, you were among the party, and you partook of the ragout served at dinner?”

“I did,” Bingley replied. “As did my sisters and Mr. Darcy. Mr. Hurst consumed rather a large portion—he had a particular fondness for the mushroom catsup.”

“Yes, yes, noted,” Harding muttered, scribbling. “During or following the meal, at any point did you begin to feel unwell?”

Bingley considered. “Later that evening—perhaps an hour or two after the meal. At first, I felt light-headed, with some dyspepsia. Then … confused. I experienced—” he flushed — “what I can only describe as hallucinations.”

“Describe them, if you please,” Harding prompted eagerly.

“There was a … sense that time moved strangely. Colours shifted. I believed I heard a voice coming from within the clock.”

Harding nodded sagely, as if this confirmed his every expectation. “Did you experience any digestive distress?”

“Yes. Quite severe. I remained abed most of the following day. I was unable to keep anything down. It is only today I have begun to feel like myself again.”

“I see,” Harding said with a smile of satisfaction. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley.”

Thus dismissed, Mr. Bingley raised a brow. Darcy responded with a slight shrug.

Mr. Harding tapped his pen against his medical tome, and with theatrical import, he called, “Next witness. Mr. Darcy, if you please.”

Darcy stepped forward, tall and grave. The study had grown warm from the press of bodies, yet he felt cold. His eyes flicked—once—to Elizabeth, who sat beside her sister with perfect composure, though her hands were tightly clasped.

“Will you confirm, sir,” Harding began, “that you partook of the ragout as Mr. Bingley stated?”

“I did.”

“The mushroom catsup?”

A pause. “Yes. A modest portion.”

Harding nodded with great satisfaction. “Describe your symptoms.”

Darcy’s voice was steady, but the words came slowly.

“It began subtly. Some nausea and fatigue and the light in the room seemed too bright. Sounds were oddly distorted—voices, footsteps. Then I saw flashes—bright motes across my vision. There was first merely a sensation of heaviness. Then my consciousness became—odd. I could not always tell if I had spoken aloud or only in my mind. My limbs did not obey me as they ought. At one point I believed the candelabra were … moving of their own accord.”

Bingley made a startled noise. Darcy ignored him.

“I felt heavy. I could not quite tell whether I was standing or sitting. I recall walking—but I do not remember where. Or why.” His voice lowered. “I had the sense I had to attend to something urgent.”

There was another pause. Darcy glanced again towards Elizabeth—this time with an open question in his expression. Her face was composed, but her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

Harding scribbled notes. “Very helpful. Did you speak with anyone, sir?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “It is possible.”

“Possible? You are uncertain?

“I recall speaking to someone … or thought I did. But the words felt unreal to me even as I said them. As if I were only overhearing myself.”

Harding leant forward. “Did your thoughts remain coherent?”

“No.” He looked away, then back towards Elizabeth. “There are gaps. Moments I believed I had said things only thought. Or the reverse. Others where I cannot recall speaking at all.”

Harding’s pen scratched the page. “Any fits of mirth? Confusion of identity?”

Darcy hesitated. “I may have … I believe I may have mistaken a mirror for a person.” He glanced towards Elizabeth. “I … may have spoken quite unguardedly.”

Elizabeth’s expression did not change. She studied the pattern on the rug.

Harding blinked. “Unguarded?”

Darcy drew a breath. “My recollection is imperfect. I recall the distinct sensation of having acted perhaps too freely. I believe I may have expressed myself with a frankness not altogether characteristic.”

Harding looked perplexed. “This was to whom?”

“I do not know,” Darcy said carefully. “I believe I thought I was alone. But it is possible—” he broke off, then said flatly, “I cannot say.”

Harding made a noise of disappointment, but Darcy did not elaborate. Instead, he looked steadily at Elizabeth for a long moment—searching her face for some trace of confirmation or denial.

She, after a beat, inclined her head in the smallest of nods.

Harding moved on, unaware. “Were you overcome with laughter, sir? Hysteria?”

“No. Not laughter, but I remember smiling … at nothing.”

“Were you able to answer questions if posed?”

“I have no recollection of questions. I simply do not recall what was real, or whether my thoughts were based on facts or fancies.”

“Very well,” Harding said, jotting a note with interest. “This matches with a case documented in the Medical and Physical Journal , in which a gentleman, following ingestion of liberty-cap mushrooms, ‘answered questions indifferently, without relation to what was asked.’ You appear a solemn man, not inclined to an excess of mirth, yet you recall smiling at nothing. Quite out of character. This is most instructive.”

Darcy remained silent, his gaze still fixed on Elizabeth.

Mr. Harding finally looked up. “That will do, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy stepped back, his face unreadable.

Harding turned. “Let us proceed. Mr. Bennet, if you would permit me to question your daughters?”

Mr. Bennet rose with a smirk of polite scepticism. “We are, of course, at your disposal, sir. I trust the ladies’ constitutions will withstand the rigours of civil inquiry.”

Harding blinked and turned to Elizabeth, who had seated herself before him. “Miss Elizabeth, did you partake of the ragout or the mushroom catsup?”

“I did not,” Elizabeth replied calmly.

His brow furrowed. “May I ask why not?”

“I prefer simple dishes, sir,” she said. “As is my custom, I refrained from the sauces and ragout. I requested some plain fowl from the footman, and he served it with no accompaniments.”

Harding jotted a note. “And your sister?”

Elizabeth glanced at Jane beside her. “She likewise took only a little of the fowl and bread.”

“No sauce? No ragout?”

“No, sir. We declined them.”

He squinted at her. “By mere coincidence?”

Elizabeth’s tone remained even. “No coincidence at all, sir. I have long preferred plain fare, as rich dishes do not always agree with me. My sister, having but lately recovered from a cold, was similarly not inclined to eat heavily.”

“Hm.” Harding sniffed. “Very well. Let us turn to your observations of the others. You sat at the same table, did you not?”

“I did.”

“What did you observe of Mr. Hurst?”

Elizabeth’s brows lifted faintly. “Mr. Hurst enjoyed the ragout with great enthusiasm. He served himself twice and had requested the mushroom catsup again, having praised it the previous evening.”

“Did he display any signs of unease during the meal?”

“Not at first. He seemed in quite high spirits.”

“Did he later?”

“He became florid, somewhat unsteady on his feet, and began laughing rather loudly. He appeared far more animated than is his custom.”

“Mrs. Hurst—how did she fare?”

“Her face seemed flushed, and her bearing unsteady. Mr. Bingley requested that she join him when her husband became ill. As she rose to leave the drawing room, she stumbled a little.”

“Miss Bingley?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “She complained of a headache not long after the ladies retired to the drawing room. I noticed her grow pale. Her speech became somewhat … erratic.”

“Mr. Bingley?”

Elizabeth turned to glance at Bingley, who was looking down at his hands. “He left with Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. I believe he said he felt unwell when we met the following morning.”

“Did you observe Mr. Darcy that evening?”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. “He, too, appeared unwell.”

“Can you describe how?”

She hesitated . “ Discomposed and uncommonly languid, yet not incoherent.”

Mr. Harding regarded her. “Did he say or do anything?”

Elizabeth paused. Mr. Darcy kept his eyes upon the floor, very still.

Elizabeth met Mr. Harding’s gaze evenly. “Nothing of note, sir.”

“Did he speak as usual?”

“His conversation was perhaps less measured than is his custom, yet within all propriety.”

A quiet breath escaped Darcy—he had been holding it in whilst listening to her. Whatever he had said, she would not hold him to it. Yet she remembered.

Harding blinked. “You, during all this, remained unaffected?”

“I did,” she said. “Jane and I retired when we learned Mr. Hurst was unwell. We both remained perfectly well the following morning.”

Darcy, standing nearby, drew a breath as if to speak, then changed his mind.

Harding excused her. “Miss Elizabeth, thank you. Your testimony is most helpful.”

Elizabeth stood, offered a composed curtsy, and returned to her seat beside her sister—though her gaze, just for a moment, flickered to Darcy’s.

He did not look away.

Darcy exhaled once—whether in disappointment or relief, even he did not know.