Page 3 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Miss Bingley’s expression as Elizabeth entered was that of a woman approached by a wet dog desirous of jumping on her person. “Miss Eliza,” she said, rising just enough to preserve manners, “we hope your sister has improved—”

“Not to any great degree,” said Elizabeth. “But I am grateful she is resting.”

Before another frigid pleasantry could be offered, Mr. Bingley bounded forward. “Miss Elizabeth! You have come all this way on foot? That is above kindness—it is devotion.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “A little mist is no trial. The path was tolerably dry until the last half mile.”

“It ought not to have been required,” he said, frowning faintly. “I would have sent the carriage had I known.” His gaze darted upward, towards the stairs. “How does she fare?”

“She rests. I believe the apothecary has done what is needed. She would benefit from more blankets and a seat for the maid when she is attending her. If it would not be a burden on the household, I would stay to attend her myself.”

Bingley looked vastly relieved. He assured her it was no trouble at all and offered her a seat near the fire. He eyed his sister with a pointed look, and she called for the housekeeper to attend to Miss Bennet’s room.

Elizabeth took the farthest edge of the ottoman, arranging her skirts with care.

Mr. Hurst, sprawled in an armchair, lifted his eyes just long enough to ask, “Have they sent up the tea tray?”

His wife, flipping through a fashion journal with deliberate languor, did not look up. “You have eaten, Reginald.”

“Only a trifle,” he muttered.

Darcy stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed not upon the garden but on some point far beyond it. He had yet to speak, but Elizabeth felt the weight of his attention before he turned.

“Your walk was not unpleasant, I hope?” he asked, still without looking round.

“I found the scenery invigorating,” she replied. “Though the mud made every step an exercise in management.”

“A trial well suited to one well-schooled in disputation,” Darcy answered. He turned. His voice was even, his gaze brief and cool. The corners of his mouth were scarcely less severe. “Perhaps such management suits you.”

To her ear, the evenness of his tone sounded more of correction than compliment . She lifted an eyebrow the least degree and looked back to the window.

Miss Bingley, who had been adjusting a vase of fading flowers near the settee, straightened at once. “Management?” she repeated sweetly. “In a lady, it bears an uncomfortable resemblance to wilfulness. A lady should rely on a gentleman for such matters.”

Elizabeth regarded her with mild annoyance.

Depend upon Miss Bingley to disparage her own sex.

“I believe the women of Sparta were famed for managing their own concerns.” Miss Bingley smiled thinly.

“Famously savage.” Darcy smiled, his eyes on Elizabeth.

“It is a matter of debate. Aristotle censured the liberty and influence of Spartan women, attributing the state’s ills in part to their freedom, and holding that by nature men are to govern.

” Elizabeth could no longer hold her peace.

She responded. “Is it not as often maintained that it strengthened the state? Spartan women were charged with their own households and prospered. They were educated and took exercise publicly, though they did not bear arms.”

Bingley gave a laugh a shade too quick. “I daresay Miss Elizabeth might wield a sword as ably as a bonnet.”

Darcy, now fully facing the room, added, “Let us hope she does not mistake one for the other.”

Elizabeth’s brow arched . Her eyes met his a moment longer than civility required . She was to be schooled, it seemed “A bonnet may prove equally serviceable, sir—if employed at the proper angle.”

Darcy s mouth smiled but his eyes kept their distance at her tease. “Provided there is sufficient determination.”

Elizabeth let a small silence stand; her smile cooled. He cannot be easy without the last word.

Miss Bingley’s laugh arrived a moment too late and a shade too loud. “Really, such talk! One might think we were in a barracks.”

The fire gave a muted pop, and Mr. Hurst stirred.

He reached for a sweetmeat and spoke without looking up.

“There is something to be said for compulsory repose. I dare say your sister has the better of it—no need for exertion, no tedious social obligations.” Miss Bingley gave a brittle laugh.

“Yes, well. Not all find convalescence equally becoming.” “My dear Caroline,” said Mr. Hurst, “my object is to eat more and be scolded less.” Miss Bingley gave an audible sigh.

“This is all quite charming, but surely we need not reduce conversation to the state of Mr. Hurst’s appetites. .”

There was a silence, brief but charged. Bingley beamed. Darcy turned again to the window. The faintest smile touched his mouth. Miss Bingley bent over her work, stabbing stems into the vase with more vigour than elegance, her temper scarcely better contained.

Elizabeth’s brows lifted, but she said nothing. Repose, indeed—Miss Bingley would have Jane tucked in a draughty corner room with a single blanket and an indifferent housemaid, and only the thinnest broth to nourish her during her stay.

Mrs. Hurst gave a light sigh. “Reginald is quite right, for once. Jane is fortunate in that she has no demands on her time. I dare say she will recover swiftly.”

“She is not one to indulge in idleness,” Elizabeth said, her tone mild. “If she remains abed, it is because she must.”

“You thought her colour improved this morning,” Bingley offered. “Or was that incorrect? I beg you to tell me after you look in again.”

“Do let her know we are thinking of her,” said Mrs. Hurst. “A few kind words are often as curative as the apothecary’s draught.”

Miss Bingley spoke without lifting her eyes. “Illness has a way of inspiring misplaced sentiment. A gentleman’s kindness is so easily mistaken for something more.”

Bingley turned to her with mild surprise. “I do not think I am often misunderstood.”

“Your meaning may be plain to you,” said Darcy, “but not always to those watching.”

Miss Bingley’s smile thinned. “It would be a pity if good manners were mistaken for serious interest.”

Bingley blustered. “Surely civility cannot be faulted.”

Darcy said evenly, “Civility is not faulted, no. But there are times when a gentleman must weigh the appearance of his attentions as carefully as their intent—for what begins in kindness may end in obligation. ” The word “obligation” hung in the air till Bingley sat back and was still. Miss Bingley looked faintly smug.

From her place by the fire, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

But her thoughts were not still. For Mr. Darcy, affection must ask leave of consequence.

Obligation, indeed. Mr. Darcy, it seemed, could not allow his friend to admire a lady without first consulting his moral compass and weighing the cost in scruples.

Jane’s goodness was nothing without pages of names before hers in Debrett’s.

She turned her gaze to the hearth, composing her features with care. So much for kindness for kindness’s sake.

The conversation lapsed into uneasy fragments—remarks on the weather, the state of the roads, a tiresome anecdote from Mrs. Hurst involving a distant cousin’s carriage accident and a broken bonnet box.

Miss Bingley seemed incapable of uttering three sentences without including a remark to Mr. Darcy about “your uncle, the Earl.” Mr. Hurst’s snores resonated from his corner with the steady persistence of a badly tuned organ.

Mr. Darcy held his book at just such an angle as to obscure his face from the room—though she doubted he read a word.

His thumb had not turned the page for some minutes.

When she laughed at something Bingley said in praise of Jane’s gentle disposition, his hand tightened on the binding, and he turned fractionally further away.

She might have imagined it—but in Mr. Darcy, such gestures too often concealed censure to be easily mistaken.

“Perhaps I should just step up and see if she requires anything,” Bingley said for the third time in an hour, half-rising from his chair.

“You need not disturb her. The poor dear needs her rest,” Miss Bingley interjected smoothly, not looking up from her embroidery. “Besides, Charles, such frequent visits might be misconstrued.”

Elizabeth’s teacup met its saucer with the faintest clink.

“Jane would not wish to be a trouble to anyone,” Elizabeth said, her voice perfectly level.

“Oh, but she is no trouble at all,” Bingley protested. “I only thought—”

“Yes, we know what you thought,” Miss Bingley murmured, her needle piercing the fabric with particular force. “How fortunate that some of us think beyond the moment.”

The fire crackled. Mr. Hurst’s snores provided a steady counterpoint. Darcy closed his book with more force than necessary.

When the bell rang to signal it was time to dress for dinner, Bingley sprang to his feet as though released from a trap.