Page 29 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
He opened his mouth to press the matter further, to demand the clarity that seemed to dance just beyond his reach, when the sound of voices ahead drew their attention.
As they rounded a bend in the path, they encountered an unexpected obstacle: a large tree had fallen across the way, blocking their route.
Several men with ropes and saws were working to clear it, whilst a gentleman in a dirt-splattered coat supervised their efforts.
“Is the path entirely impassable?” Darcy called out as they approached.
The gentleman turned, revealing a pleasant face marked by exertion and concern. “I am afraid so, sir. Wind brought down this old oak in the night. We will have it cleared presently, but it may be a bit.”
Elizabeth surveyed the obstacle with a practical assessment. “Is there no way around?”
The rasp of the framesaw ceased as a burly workman straightened and touched his cap.
“If you turn back a mile, you may take another road; but if you’re bound for the western way to Alton, I can spare you the trouble.
My cart stands just beyond, and I go that way when we’re done.
I can carry you, miss. Happy to give you a ride, miss, sir. ”
“That is very kind,” Elizabeth replied. “We would be most grateful.”
Darcy kept his counsel, though frustration rose at this development. The prospect of bouncing along in a worker’s cart, with no opportunity for private discourse, was the last thing he desired when so much remained unsettled between them.
“The cart’ll be a bit rough, mind,” the man continued cheerfully, “but it’ll get you there dry and save your feet. Give us a quarter-hour to shift this timber.”
As they waited by the roadside near the workmen, other travellers gathered—a farmer with his wife, two women carrying market baskets, an elderly clergyman on foot.
What had begun as a private expedition was rapidly becoming a public conveyance, with any hope of meaningful conversation thoroughly extinguished.
Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye, and her expression was decidedly pleased. Whether it was relief at escaping further interrogation or amusement at the prospect of seeing him reduced to travelling by a farm cart with all manner of company, he could not determine.
The cart ride proved every bit as uncomfortable as promised.
Elizabeth perched on a wooden bench beside the farmer’s wife, whilst Mr. Darcy occupied the narrow space behind, his long legs folded awkwardly to avoid the various people, baskets and bundles that filled the cart bed.
He navigated this entirely foreign experience with tense posture and a slight flush creeping up his neck.
At first, his discomfort was evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and the careful way he held himself apart from the other passengers.
But as the elderly clergyman began relating the history of the fallen oak—apparently a landmark for fifty years—Darcy listened with what appeared to be genuine attention.
As the cart shook him violently, he ceased holding himself rigidly and accommodated the jolts with agility.
“My great-grandfather planted it himself as a young curate,” the old man wheezed. “Watched it grow from a sapling. Sad to see it go, but I suppose everything has its season.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied gravely. “Three generations is a considerable span for witnessing such growth.”
When one of the women complained about the difficulty of reaching town with her eggs, Darcy inquired politely about her farm and listened thoughtfully to her concerns about the lack of decent roads.
Elizabeth observed this exchange with surprise.
She had expected him to endure the journey in stony silence, yet here he was engaging in conversation with people he would never normally encounter.
The cart jolted over a particularly deep rut, sending everyone clutching for stability. The farmer’s wife laughed good-naturedly. “Begging your pardon, sir. These roads weren’t made for fine gentlemen.”
“Indeed, they are in poor repair,” Darcy replied with the ghost of a smile. “I have observed similar difficulties in my home county, Derbyshire.”
Who was this man? There was no condescension in his manner, no sense that he was playing a part for her benefit. He seemed genuinely interested in these glimpses into lives so different from his own.
When they reached the lane leading to the Morrison cottage, Elizabeth and Darcy alighted with thanks to their fellow travellers. The cart continued towards Alton with much waving and well-wishes, leaving them standing at the entrance to a narrow path bordered by untidy hedgerows.
“That was more tolerable than I feared,” Darcy observed, brushing dust from his coat.
“You seemed to bear the indignity remarkably well,” Elizabeth said, unable to keep a note of teasing from her voice.
He looked at her sharply, then seemed to recognise her tone. “I found them quite agreeable company. They are refreshingly direct in their conversation.”
“Country people generally are,” Elizabeth replied. “They have little patience for ceremony when there are practical matters to discuss.”
“I am, in truth, a farmer as well. I spend half my year among my steward and tenants. Their manner is much the same.”
A gentleman farmer? She had imagined him above such concerns. The admission checked her. It was not what pride would have chosen to reveal.
As they walked up the path towards the cottage, Darcy took in the modest surroundings with no visible disdain.
The Morrison dwelling was tiny—two rooms at most—with a kitchen garden that showed signs of careful tending despite clear signs of poverty.
Chickens scattered as they approached, and children’s laughter rang out from within.
Mrs. Morrison appeared at the door, a woman of perhaps forty with care-worn features and an infant balanced on her hip. Her eyes widened at the sight of such unexpected visitors.
“Miss Bennet!” she exclaimed, dropping a hasty curtsy. “We are honoured, Miss. Please, won’t you come in?”
“Mrs. Morrison, how good to see you,” Elizabeth replied warmly. “I hope you will forgive the intrusion. This is Mr. Darcy from Netherfield. We wished to speak with Tibby.”
At the mention of her eldest daughter’s name, Mrs. Morrison’s face clouded with worry. “Oh, Miss, we’ve heard such terrible things. They say she’s wanted by the magistrate for poisoning folk at the great house.”
“That is why we are here,” Elizabeth said encouragingly. “We believe there may have been a grave misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Morrison ushered them into the cottage’s main room, where three small children ceased their play to stare with wide eyes at the visitors. Darcy, Elizabeth observed, seemed momentarily uncertain in such close quarters with so many curious observers.
The youngest boy, perhaps four years old, approached Darcy with the fearless curiosity of childhood. “Are you very tall, sir?” he asked, craning his neck upward.
“I suppose I am, compared to you,” Darcy replied gravely. “Are you very short?”
The boy giggled at this response, emboldened by Darcy’s serious tone. “I am growing,” he declared. “Mamma says I’ll be tall as the church steeple someday.”
“An admirable ambition,” Darcy said solemnly. “Though you might find the wind rather fierce at such heights.”
This exchange amazed her. She had never seen Darcy interact with children, and his natural gravity seemed to strike exactly the right note with the boy, who found this tall, well-dressed gentleman fascinating.
“Can you touch the ceiling?” another child asked, a girl of perhaps six.
Darcy glanced upward at the low beams. “I believe I might if I were to stand on my toes. Shall we see?” He rose and extended one hand, his fingertips easily brushing the whitewashed wood. The children applauded this feat as though he had performed magic.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Morrison said apologetically, “you mustn’t mind the little ones. They’ve hardly seen a gentleman before.”
“They are no trouble at all,” Darcy assured her. “I am charmed by their friendliness.”
Mrs. Morrison sent one of the older children to fetch Tibby from the field where she was helping to scythe hay.
Whilst they waited, Elizabeth accepted the offered cup of tea for them both and made gentle inquiries about the family’s circumstances.
She was pleased to note that Darcy contributed to the conversation with no appearance of awkwardness, asking thoughtful questions about the cottage and whether it had suffered damage from the recent storms.
When Tibby finally appeared at the door, Elizabeth’s heart sank.
Her face was pale and her hands trembling as she approached.
She was perhaps sixteen, small for her age, with a thin frame that spoke of insufficient meals and too much hard work.
Brushing her brown hair off her face, she averted her eyes.
“Tibby, dear,” Mrs. Morrison said, “Miss Bennet has come to see you, and this is Mr. Darcy. They want to help.”
But Tibby’s eyes had fixed on Darcy with something approaching panic. She shrank back against the doorframe.
Darcy observed her reaction with concern. He rose slowly, taking care not to make any sudden movements. “Miss Morrison,” he said in his most gentle tone, “Please know that neither Miss Bennet nor I wish you any harm. We are here because we believe you have been wrongly accused.”
Tibby’s eyes darted between them, but she remained pressed against the door as though ready to flee at any moment.
Darcy continued, “I give you my word as a gentleman that you are in no danger from us. We simply wish to learn the truth about what happened.”
The girl’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and Elizabeth could see that Darcy’s presence, however well-intentioned, was only adding to her distress. For all his gentleness, he remained an imposing figure of authority—exactly the sort of person who could destroy a servant’s life with a word.