Page 28 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
E lizabeth stood at the window as the Bennet carriage was brought around. The mid -day light shone harshly against her eyes as she considered how much had altered since her stay at Netherfield. Her certainty was as evanescent as the morning dew.
She could term the magistrate’s investigation nothing more than a travesty.
Poor Tibby Morrison branded a criminal and driven from her position by accusations that rang hollow to anyone with sense.
Her indignation over this miscarriage of justice paled beside the more personal upheaval that seized her each time she caught sight of Mr. Darcy.
“Lizzy, my dear, you look quite overset.” Jane’s gentle voice drew her from her reverie. “Are you well?”
Elizabeth turned from the window. “Merely troubled by the morning’s proceedings. Poor Tibby Morrison. It sits ill with me.”
Jane’s expression grew thoughtful. “Mr. Bingley mentioned you mean to visit the Morrison cottage tomorrow. Whilst I agree that the matter ought not to rest with Mr. Harding’s conclusions, I worry about you.”
“Someone must seek the truth,” Elizabeth said.
“Indeed. Must it be you?” Jane asked softly as their father appeared in the doorway.
“Come, girls,” he said briskly. “The horses grow restless.” His gaze settled on Elizabeth. “I trust you will conduct your expedition tomorrow with good sense?”
“Of course, Papa.”
“Excellent. Mr. Darcy has expressed considerable interest in accompanying you.” He paused, studying her face. “Would that arrangement meet with your approval?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, but she managed to nod. “If Mr. Darcy believes his presence would be beneficial to our inquiries, then naturally I welcome his assistance.”
“Very well then,” her father replied, and something in his tone made Elizabeth suspect her acquiescence did not entirely surprise him.
That night, Elizabeth once again remained wakeful. Her mind returned—despite her best efforts—to the music room, to the strange intimacy of that encounter, and to the man who had so persistently unsettled her composure.
Seeking rest, she resumed her silent acrostic poem, choosing again the name that now refused to leave her thoughts. “Darcy.”
D—determined. There could be no denying it.
A—adroit. His manner might be proud, but there was a quickness of thought beneath it she had come to respect.
R—reserved. Still true, but not without reason.
C—confident. Undeniably so. His wealth, his connexions, his great, tall person, all surely gave him a sense of his elevated place in the world. Yet he was, perhaps, no longer quite so insufferable.
Y—here, she faltered. Few words began with Y, and fewer still suited him. She pondered for a while before settling upon Yieldless. Perhaps it was not truly a word, but it would do. Not yielding to society’s flattery, nor to the errors of others, nor—thus far—to her own doubts.
With that, her mind quieted. She turned onto her side, the covers rustling softly, and closed her eyes.
Fletcher entered quietly, bearing a tray with coffee. “The weather is fair, sir. A warm day in prospect, though there is a little breeze from the west. It may be of some comfort on the road.”
Darcy glanced up from his bath. “Thank you.”
Fletcher set the tray down and moved to the garments laid out upon the stand. “I took the liberty of selecting the blue coat—it becomes you well and will not appear overly formal for a morning call on a tenant family.”
Darcy rose, allowing himself to be attended. “You are uncommonly attentive this morning.”
“One endeavours to be equal to the occasion, sir,” Fletcher said mildly, smoothing the coat’s shoulder seam.
“If I might offer a small observation—ladies, in my experience, are more inclined to hear a gentleman kindly when he speaks with candour, yet without severity. Truth, without censure—that is the thing.”
Darcy gave a short laugh. “You speak as one who has long studied the matter.”
“Only insofar as my duties require, sir. Cloth must be well cut, and words no less so. Both ought to fit the occasion.”
Darcy’s brows drew together in faint amusement. “Then let us hope the fit of each is to her liking.”
Mr. Darcy arrived at Longbourn promptly at ten o’clock, mounted on a handsome bay and leading a gentle mare for Elizabeth’s use.
Before he could knock, Elizabeth emerged from the house carrying a well-filled basket.
She had dressed in serviceable clothing suited to a long walk and a tenant visit.
Her dark gown bore careful mending, her gloves showed worn edges, but she carried herself with unmistakable dignity as she approached, despite several faces pressed against the window glass watching her departure.
“I prefer to walk, Mr. Darcy. The distance is not excessive, and I am quite accustomed to the exercise.”
“Will you not find the heat disagreeable?” he asked, his brow arching.
“Only if you lag behind,” she said, glancing up with a half-smile.
He directed his groom to return the horses to Netherfield.
“Allow me,” he said, relieving her of the basket before she could protest. The weight of it surprised him—she had prepared substantial provisions for the Morrison family.
“You are very kind to visit the Morrison family,” he said as they set off along the lane that led towards Lord Matthews’s estate.
“It is no kindness to seek the truth,” Elizabeth replied. “I am certain Mr. Harding’s conclusions have grievously wronged Tibby.”
They continued in silence for some minutes, Darcy acutely conscious of the woman beside him.
The morning air was still cool, lending colour to her cheeks, and he stole glances at the graceful line of her neck where it disappeared beneath her pelisse.
The sight stirred memories he could not quite grasp, impressions of warmth and softness that made his step falter.
“I am troubled by Bet’s story to Mr. Harding,” Elizabeth continued, apparently unaware of his distraction. “Her account seemed remarkably convenient, did it not?”
“Indeed,” Darcy managed, forcing his attention to the matter at hand. “I wonder whether she might have a reason for directing suspicion away from herself.”
“My thoughts exactly. A more thorough questioning might prove most illuminating, if it can be arranged.”
As they crossed Lord Matthews’s property, Darcy noted the signs of an estate without resident oversight—overgrown hedgerows, gates in need of repair, paths less carefully maintained than they might be under an attentive landlord’s eye.
The thought led inevitably to considerations of security, of protection, of the kind of establishment a woman of Elizabeth’s intelligence and spirit deserved. His mind, already unsettled by her proximity, began to drift towards more dangerous territory entirely.
His mind slipped, unwilled, to the music room—the nearness, the words that would not come back in order. If, in his disordered state, he had presumed upon her, or seemed to pledge himself, honour required he learn it from her—and at once.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said abruptly, then stopped, uncertain how to proceed.
She glanced at him with those fine dark eyes. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
“I must speak of matters from the evening of the dinner which remain uncertain in my mind.”
Slight tension entered her shoulders, her hands clasped more tightly at her sides.
“I, I do not take your meaning,” she said with careful neutrality.
“The effects of whatever I consumed that evening,” he pressed on, his voice low. “They were significant. My recollection of the evening is far from complete. I cannot but feel apprehensive that my conduct may not have been entirely what it ought to have been.”
Elizabeth’s step slowed, but she did not look at him. “The evening was distressing for everyone, Mr. Darcy. I am sure no one expects perfect recollection of such circumstances.”
“Nevertheless,” he persisted, desperation making him less than diplomatic, “I believe something occurred between us that evening. Something that demands acknowledgement.”
“You were unwell, as were the others. Whatever impressions you retain are doubtless confused by illness.” Elizabeth said quietly.
Darcy stopped walking entirely, frustration overwhelming caution. “Miss Elizabeth, I must know. Did I say-or do- anything that evening that might have caused you distress?”
The directness of the question hung between them like a challenge. Elizabeth turned to face him fully, and a flash lit her eyes—knowledge, perhaps, or wariness.
“What exactly do you believe may have occurred, Mr. Darcy?”
The question trapped him completely. How could he admit to impressions of declaring his love, of speaking of marriage, of holding her in his arms with an intimacy that made his blood heat even in memory?
How could he confess to such behaviour without knowing whether it had actually occurred or was merely the fevered product of a disordered mind?
“I am not certain,” he admitted, his voice strained. “But I have impressions, fragments of memory that suggest I may have been less than proper.”
“Mere impressions,” Elizabeth repeated carefully. “Nothing more definite than that?”
“Nothing I can trust as accurate recollection,” he said, the admission costing him considerably.
Her expression softened, became almost sympathetic? “Then perhaps it would be best to let such uncertain memories rest, Mr. Darcy. What good can come of dwelling upon impressions that may bear no relation to actual memories?”
Her tone was gentle, but Darcy detected something beneath it—a kind of deliberate evasion that convinced him more than any direct confirmation that something had indeed occurred.