Page 24 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
T he vicarage parlour hummed with the industrious activity of a dozen ladies bent over their needlework, their voices creating a steady counterpoint to the whisper of thread through linen.
Mrs. Whitmore presided over the charitable gathering with the same earnest efficiency she brought to all her domestic endeavours, directing the cutting of fabric and the distribution of patterns for infant gowns and children’s shifts.
“How gratifying it is,” she declared, holding up a tiny sleeve, “to know that our labour shall provide comfort to those less fortunate. Mr. Whitmore was just remarking yesterday how pleased he is to see such Christian charity flourishing in our parish.”
Elizabeth bent her head lower over her seam, focussing on the neat rhythm of her stitches. Beside her, Jane worked her stitches small and even, whilst Mary had taken charge of marking hems with methodical care.
“Such a blessing that you are recovered, Miss Bennet,” said Mrs. Goulding, looking meaningfully at Jane. “What a dreadful business that was at Netherfield. To think that such a thing could happen in a respectable household.”
A flutter of interest passed through the room like wind through wheat. Needles paused mid-stitch as ears strained for details.
“Indeed, we are most grateful for Jane’s swift recovery,” Elizabeth said carefully, not lifting her eyes from her work. “Mr. Jones attended her with great skill.”
Mrs. Harrington, whose home was on the land adjacent to Netherfield, leant forward with barely concealed eagerness. “But surely you must know all about the poison. Have you any notion of how such a thing came to pass? Poison does not find its way into a household by accident.”
Jane’s needle trembled in her tight grip. “I fear I can shed little light on the matter. I was quite unwell.”
“The staff must have been in such an uproar,” pressed Mrs. Long, her small eyes bright with curiosity. “What did the family make of it all?”
“They were naturally concerned,” Elizabeth replied with studied composure. “As any household would be when faced with such a trial.”
Mary looked up from her hemming. “It serves as a reminder that Providence may test us in the most unexpected ways. We must be on our guard, for mischief may lurk beneath the fairest show of safety.”
Mrs. Goulding nodded sagely. “Mr. Jones says there are any number of things that might cause such symptoms. Why, just last month, old Mrs. Prescott took ill from eating mushrooms her grandson gathered. Nearly killed her, they did.”
“How fortunate then,” said Mrs. Harrington with an arch look, “that Miss Bennet had such devoted nursing. I understand Mr. Bingley was quite beside himself with worry. Called upon her several times each day, or so I heard from my kitchen maid, who has it from the Netherfield cook.”
Jane’s cheeks coloured with a modest flush, and she bent her head lower over her work.
“Mr. Bingley is kindness itself,” Elizabeth said firmly. “His concern extended throughout the entire household during such a trying time.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Mrs. Harrington continued with a knowing smile. “Though I daresay his particular solicitude for Miss Bennet’s welfare did not escape notice. The servants do talk so, and such devoted attention from a young gentleman of fortune well, it does give rise to certain expectations.”
The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Jane’s needle had gone quite still in her hand.
“Expectations are dangerous things,” Mary observed quietly. “They often lead to disappointment.”
Mrs. Whitmore, perhaps sensing the discomfort of her guests, cleared her throat. “Mrs. Harrington, would you be so good as to examine these buttonholes? I fear my stitching is not as neat as it should be.”
The conversation gradually turned to safer topics—the recent sermon, the state of the roads, the prospects for the harvest—but Jane remained uncommonly quiet for the remainder of the circle.
The summer afternoon was warm as the three sisters made their way home along the familiar lanes, their steps quiet on the sun-dried path. Mary had hurried ahead, eager to return to her correspondence, leaving Jane and Elizabeth to walk at a more leisurely pace.
“You have been very quiet since we left the vicarage,” Elizabeth observed. “Mrs. Harrington’s remarks troubled you.”
Jane sighed, pulling her shawl more closely about her shoulders. “Was I so transparent?”
“Only to me. But her words carried a certain weight.”
“That is what concerns me.” Jane’s voice was a whisper. “Such expectations, as Mary said, are indeed dangerous things.”
Elizabeth waited, knowing her sister would speak when ready.
“He has been very attentive,” Jane continued at length.
“During my illness, and since our return. More attentive than I had dared hope. He was quite warm in his words when we visited Netherfield last. But Lizzy, what if it signifies nothing? What if his kindness springs merely from civility, and I am reading meaning where none exists?”
“Has he given you reason to doubt his sincerity?”
Jane was quiet for several steps. “That is my difficulty—I cannot tell. He is all warmth and solicitude in company, yet he has made no declaration. He has spoken no words that I might construe as of serious intent. I begin to wonder if his interest is merely that of a gentleman who finds it amusing to play at courtship with no thought of its consequences.”
Elizabeth frowned. “You think him a rake?”
“Not quite a rake but perhaps unsteady in his affections. Charlotte has often said that men of fortune may indulge in a flirtation with no intention of forming lasting attachments. If the servants are indeed talking, if expectations are being raised throughout the neighbourhood,” Jane’s voice grew strained.
“What becomes of my reputation if he should withdraw his attentions as suddenly as he bestowed them?”
“Jane, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I have observed Mr. Bingley closely, and his regard for you appears entirely genuine.”
“But how can I be certain? He laughs and compliments and pays me every attention when we are in company, yet when we are more private—when we might speak more freely—he seems to retreat. It is as though he fears to say too much or perhaps fears to commit himself to words he might later regret.”
Elizabeth considered this carefully. She had indeed noticed Bingley’s tendency to effusiveness in public, though she had attributed it to his natural open nature rather than calculation.
“Perhaps his restraint speaks well of him rather than ill,” she suggested. “A true gentleman of honour might well guard his words until he was certain of his own heart.”
“Or until he was certain of his family’s approval,” Jane said quietly. “I have not failed to notice that Miss Bingley seems to watch our interactions with particular attention.
“I cannot say Miss Bingley favours anything about our family. Do you think Mr. Darcy opposes the match?”
“I wonder whether Mr. Darcy considers it beneath his friend’s station. If that is so, then all Mr. Bingley’s apparent regard may come to nothing. I shall be left looking foolish, and the neighbourhood shall have its entertainment at my expense.”
They walked in silence for several minutes; each lost in her own thoughts. Finally, Elizabeth spoke.
“Jane, whatever Mr. Darcy’s or Miss Bingley’s opinion may be, you cannot govern your heart by it. If Mr. Bingley’s feelings are true, he will not be swayed by anyone else’s counsel. If they are not,” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “Then it is better to learn it now than later.”
Jane nodded, though her expression remained troubled. “I suppose you are right. I only wish I could quiet the expectations of others. It seems I am caught between hoping too much and fearing to hope at all.”
Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s arm warmly. “That, dear Jane, is the peculiar torture of affection. We ladies must simply trust that time will reveal the truth of things.”
“Yes,” Jane murmured. “I wish time would make haste about it.”
The following morning, the drawing room at Netherfield was arranged in a ceremonial order for Mr. Harding’s pronouncement of his findings.
The magistrate sat behind a hastily erected table, his collection of books spread before him as though to lend weight to his authority, whilst the assembled company arranged themselves in chairs with the solemnity of a tribunal.
Mr. Bennet occupied the chair nearest the window, Jane beside him with her hands folded serenely in her lap.
Elizabeth sat a short distance apart, her attention divided between the magistrate’s preparations and the tall figure of Mr. Darcy, who stood near the fireplace with his customary reserve.
Miss Bingley had positioned herself prominently near the centre of the room, whilst her brother paced nervously behind her chair.
Mrs. Hurst, still pale and unsteady, but improved, clutched, her vinaigrette tightly.
“Now then,” Mr. Harding began, adjusting his spectacles importantly, “before we proceed to the particulars of this most serious matter, I believe Mr. Louden wishes to address the company regarding Mr. Hurst’s condition.”
The physician, a distinguished gentleman of middle years with an air of competent authority that stood in stark contrast to Harding’s academic posturing, stepped forward and bowed to the assembled ladies.
“As you are aware, I was summoned by Mr. Darcy’s man when it appeared his master had been taken ill.
As Mr. Darcy soon regained his health, I have directed my attention since to Mr. Hurst,” Mr. Louden announced gravely.
“Though his condition is still grave, I do not at present apprehend danger to his life. The gentleman partook of a considerably larger portion of the tainted ragout than any other affected party, which accounts for the severity of his symptoms. Nevertheless, after the prompt emetic and draught, with the bowels duly opened, the corrupt matter has been removed.”