Page 23 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Harding turned to Jane, asked the same questions, and received the same calm denials. Neither sister had touched the ragout. Neither had felt ill.
Harding turned to Miss Bingley. “Miss Bingley, if you please. You partook of the ragout and mushroom catsup?”
She gave a dainty sniff. “Of course I did, as did everyone else. It was an excellent dinner. I fail to see why I should be singled out for it.”
Harding ignored her digression. “When did you notice you had become unwell?”
Her lips tightened. “Sometime after the main course, I believe. Or perhaps during the fowl. It is difficult to say. I recall a most disagreeable lightness of head and an unfortunate … loss of composure.”
“What symptoms did you experience?”
Miss Bingley hesitated, then pressed a hand to her temple with theatrical refinement. “I daresay I was quite undone. I recall the room spinning dreadfully and being obliged to lie down. Beyond that, very little. I believe my maid said I was speaking. I cannot imagine about what.”
“So, you recall little of the evening?”
She offered a thin smile. “I was, sir, quite wretched. It does strike one as curious, however, that not everyone present was similarly afflicted. One might wonder whether it was entirely accidental?”
Harding jotted notes, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Thank you, Miss Bingley. From what I have learned, Mr. Hurst, who consumed the greatest quantity of ragout, remains gravely ill. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, both of whom ate the ragout and the catsup, suffered significant distress—mental and digestive. Mr. Bingley, the same, with mental disturbances and dyspepsia. You, Mr. Darcy, partook of both and were affected. The Misses Bennet, who ate neither, were untouched.”
“Correct,” Darcy said.
Harding sat back with a great exhalation. “The pattern is unmistakable. The agent of disorder lies in the ragout and catsup, not in the fish, soup, or fowl.”
Miss Bingley spoke with sharp emphasis. “Do you not think it curious that Miss Bennet and Miss Eliza should be the only persons unconnected with this house and the only members of the party who did not fall ill?”
Harding blinked. “Unusual, yes. Suspicious, not necessarily. It aligns with our theory. The substance was in the ragout or the catsup. Most likely, the mushrooms in those dishes. Those who consumed them were affected. Those who did not … were not.”
Miss Bingley’s lips thinned, but she said no more.
“Now,” Harding continued, flipping a page, “Mr. Hurst’s man—he can confirm the extent of his master’s distress, yes?”
“He can,” Bingley replied. “But I should tell you: Hurst fell into a paroxysm after dinner. His man had to restrain him. Hurst has been insensible since.”
“So noted,” Harding murmured, inappropriately pleased. “I will take his statement.”
Darcy cleared his throat. “Mr. Harding, I believe the substance of your inquiry has reached a clear conclusion. It would be useful to document the testimonies properly, but I trust you now understand the pattern.”
Harding nodded, still scribbling. “Indeed, indeed. I shall write to the Assize Court with a summary—the matter must be officially recorded.”
“The preparation of the ragout—what of that?” Bingley asked.
“The evidence is destroyed, alas,” Harding said with a melancholy shake of the head. “The pig provides our best confirmation.”
“Poor creature,” Bingley muttered.
“Very well,” Darcy said. “Might you bring this formal inquiry to a close and let us turn our attention to safeguarding the household?”
Harding looked momentarily disappointed but acquiesced. “Yes, yes. Though I had hoped to conduct a final test on the mushrooms’ combustive properties… “
“No,” Darcy said flatly.
Harding sighed and then began to stack his papers. “Very well. I shall write my report to-night and return tomorrow to inform you of my findings. A most stimulating case, gentlemen. Rarely do I encounter such a situation, where what was served for pleasure may have given offence.”
Mr. Bingley stood beside Miss Bennet in the Netherfield drawing room, his expression unusually earnest, a warmth in his eyes that contrasted with his customary cheer. Even Miss Bingley, observing from across the room, fell uncharacteristically silent.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley began, his voice low yet distinct, “I cannot express how very much I have anticipated your return to Netherfield. These days apart have seemed excessively long.”
Jane took a quick breath. “You are exceedingly kind, sir. My family deeply appreciates your care of me during my illness.”
His smile broadened, the admiration unmistakable. “Your presence brightens this house in a manner I did not know it lacked. Every hour in your company brings a sense of gladness.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to conceal the colour rising in her cheeks. “That is … most gratifying to hear.”
He stepped closer, studying her with a fervour that left no doubt of his admiration. “It would be the greatest contentment to spend each day with one whose conversation delights me, whose smiles bring unlooked-for happiness.”
Jane’s lips parted, but no words emerged.
Bingley hesitated. A flicker crossed his features, and he looked aside, as if recalling a caution unspoken. “Forgive me,” he said quietly, retreating with a formality that belied his earlier warmth. “I speak too freely. Allow me to fetch you some refreshment.”
He bowed, his manner already clouded by sudden reserve. Jane, left standing, glanced after him in confusion.
Miss Bingley’s voice, sharp as a needle, pierced the quiet. “My brother is all politeness; he has something amiable to say to every lady . You must not take him too strictly at his word,”