Page 26 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
“I believe,” Darcy said carefully, “that Mr. Harding’s investigation has been rather selective in its focus. The testimony of one servant against another, particularly when the accused cannot defend herself, seems insufficient grounds for such definitive conclusions.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “I must I am curious about this Bet who so conveniently provided all the damning details about poor Tibby’s supposed malice. It strikes me that her account deserves rather more scrutiny than our magistrate saw fit to provide.”
Elizabeth straightened, purpose rising. “I agree. She should be questioned more thoroughly.”
“By someone other than Mr. Harding, certainly,” her father replied.
“Someone who might ask questions not found in his impressive collection of books. Then there is the matter of this Tibby Morrison. The name is familiar to me, though I cannot immediately place it. Is she, Lizzy, one of the Morrisons who rent a cottage beyond the Longbourn border, on Matthews’ land I think. ”
“Yes. I know the family,” Elizabeth said, memory stirring. “They have been tenants of Lord Matthews for several years. Tibby is their eldest—a quiet, careful girl, timid. Not at all the type for malicious schemes.”
“You are familiar with the family?” Darcy asked.
“For at least two generations.” Mr. Bennet said. “I would bet a good bottle of brandy that Tibby went home and can be found in the poultry yard at this very moment.”
“If such is indeed the case, it warrants further inquiry. If nothing else, we can ensure she is not put in irons and transported before she has even been questioned.” Mr. Darcy said.
Darcy’s gaze fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“Miss Elizabeth, you have a particular gift for inspiring confidence in those who might otherwise be reluctant to speak freely. A young girl might be more inclined to speak openly with someone less intimidating than a magistrate, or indeed, a gentleman.”
“You would have me speak with her?” Elizabeth asked, though the idea had already taken root in her mind.
“If you are willing,” Darcy said. Elizabeth looked at her father, then nodded.
“Then we are agreed,” Darcy said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of decision. “The magistrate may consider the matter settled, but much remains to be done.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled with something approaching approval as he regarded the younger man. “How rare and gratifying to meet someone who places truth above convenience. Very well—shall we consider ourselves an informal committee of inquiry?”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, feeling a surge of anticipation. “I suspect our methods will prove rather different from Mr. Harding’s approach.”
“One can only hope,” her father replied dryly. “Academic theory has its place, but it seems rather inadequate when faced with actual human complexity.”
As they discussed the practical details of their alternative investigation, the ready collaboration between her father and Mr. Darcy struck Elizabeth with some surprise.
Whatever her previous reservations about the latter’s character, his commitment to uncovering the truth seemed both genuine and determined.
After Harding’s performance. Mrs. Nicholls had asked Miss Bingley for instructions for attending to the guests, and being given none, turned to Mr. Darcy as the only member of the party who seemed able to consider the proprieties.
He directed that the Bennets be shown to the library to take refreshments after the events.
He told himself it was merely courtesy, ensuring their guests were comfortable.
But it was far more complicated than that.
For days, fragments of memory from that disastrous evening had been tormenting him.
Glimpses of himself in the music room, Miss Elizabeth’s concerned face above him, and then impressions so vivid and yet so impossible that he had questioned his own sanity.
Had he really taken her in his arms? Had he actually pressed his lips to the soft skin of her neck whilst whispering endearments that should never pass between an unmarried gentleman and lady?
God help him, had he actually spoken of marriage—declared his feelings with a passion that years of careful restraint had never allowed?
The memories felt too real to be mere fevered dreams, yet too extraordinary to be fact.
Miss Elizabeth had shown no indication that anything improper had passed between them.
Surely, if he had compromised her as thoroughly as his fractured recollections suggested, she would not treat him with such easy composure?
But in her words, her expressions whilst she spoke to Mr. Harding, there was a subtle alteration, though he could not at once define it.
Unless she too remembered nothing. He had nearly hoped that the effects of whatever poisonous substance he had consumed had clouded her memories as thoroughly as his own. But it was clear now that she had avoided the dishes, which caused such strange effects on the rest of them.
He had to assume she remembered everything and was simply too well-bred to acknowledge it.
The uncertainty was driving him to distraction. He stood outside the library door for a full minute, his hand raised to knock, before finally entering without announcement.
She looked up as he entered, and for a moment a flash of awareness, of recognition in her eyes made his heart race. Then her expression smoothed into polite attention, and he wondered if he had imagined it.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He heard the constraint in his own voice and cursed inwardly. How was he to broach such a fraught subject when he could barely manage ordinary conversation? “I hope you are comfortable in here. I thought that is, I believed you might prefer the library to—”
Her slight smile was as disconcerting as it was charming. “To more of Mr. Harding’s pronouncements? You were quite right. My father and sister have taken themselves with Mr. Bingley to inquire after the carriage.”
She set aside her book, and he occupied himself cataloguing every detail of her appearance.
The way the morning light caught the amber flecks in her dark eyes.
The graceful curve of her neck—had he truly dared to touch his lips there?
The slight parting of her lips as she studied his face with what seemed like exceptional intensity.
Lost in recollection he could not speak.
“Is the conclusion of Mr. Harding’s inquest to Mr. Bingley’s satisfaction?” she asked. Her raised brow and sparkling eyes indicated that, to her, it was not.
“I think not. I would be interested in your thoughts.” What was he about? He needed to speak with her about his actions, not blather about the investigation. This was his opening—perhaps his only chance to learn the truth without destroying them both with his uncertainty.
Before she could formulate a reply, he spoke again. “Miss Elizabeth, I must — that is, I believe there are other matters we should discuss.”
He searched her face for any sign of understanding, any indication that she knew what he was speaking of. Her quick intake of breath suggested she did.
“What sort of matters, Mr. Darcy?”
The careful neutrality of her tone told him nothing, yet everything. She was being cautious, which meant there was something to be cautious about.
“The evening of the dinner.” He forced himself to continue, though every word felt like stepping off a precipice. “I fear my recollection of certain events is not entirely clear. The illness, the effects of whatever I consumed, have left impressions I cannot distinguish between memory and dreams.”
The colour that rose in her cheeks was answer enough. She remembered. The question was whether she would tell him.
“Your recollection is unclear?” she asked quietly.
“Frustratingly so. As I said to Mr. Harding. I believe I spoke, but…” He moved closer. “I remember being in the music room, and I think you kindly remained with me when I was not entirely myself. But beyond that. I cannot rightly recollect.”
How could he ask this? How could he inquire whether he had behaved like a complete libertine without confirming his worst fears about his own conduct?
“I have impressions of having said things, done things, that in my right mind I would never presume.”
The way she looked at him then—with such understanding, such gentle sympathy—nearly undid him. She knew. Whatever had happened, she remembered it with clarity.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, but he interrupted before his courage failed entirely.
The words stuck in his throat. How did one ask a lady if one had compromised her? “Miss Bennet, if I behaved in any way that was inappropriate, if I said anything that might have given you distress or expectations, I wish to apologise.”
Something shifted in her expression, something that might have been tenderness, and his heart stuttered.
But before he could go on, before she could speak—before she could either damn him or absolve him—Bingley’s voice echoed in the corridor.
The carriage was ready, and Bingley sought Miss Elizabeth.
The interruption was both salvation and torture. Whatever she might have been about to say, whatever revelation might have ended his uncertainty, was lost.
“We will speak of this again,” he said urgently, needing her to understand that this conversation was far from over. “These are matters of consequence that must be discussed.”
As they followed Bingley from the room, Darcy’s mind was in chaos. He had learned enough to know that something significant had indeed occurred between them, but not enough to understand what it meant or what his obligations might be.
If he had indeed spoken of marriage whilst in that altered state—then honour demanded he make good on whatever promises he might have made. But he needed to be certain about what had transpired in those strange, dreamlike hours.