Page 32 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“Miss Elizabeth.” He removed his hand from her arm. His voice was gentle but pleading. “I perceived there to be something further. Will you not tell me?”

She looked away quickly, her colour deepening. Perhaps, facing away, she could recite the facts without seeing the impression they made on his countenance. Her back to him, she spoke haltingly.

“You spoke of tender feelings rather unguardedly.” She drew a shaky breath. “You said that you were not sure whether you were dreaming.”

The words hung between them like an accusation.

Darcy’s breathing had grown unsteady, and when she glanced back at him, the struggle played across his features.

How could such a proud man come to terms with having as good as made an offer to a woman he hardly knew?

She would not be the means of trapping a gentleman of honour into a marriage he did not desire.

Elizabeth’s cheeks burnt. “You were quite out of your wits and fevered. No censure should attach to you for what transpired.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said carefully, watching her face, “when you speak of what transpired, you do not mean only words?” His voice was low and tense.

She should have chosen her words with more care. Elizabeth’s hands twisted anxiously, and she again discovered a great interest in the hedgerow beside the path. “You were very ill, Mr. Darcy. People might do all manner of things when they are not themselves.”

In her agitation she likely convinced him that her account was incomplete.”

“I beg you will answer me plainly. Without reserve.” He paused. His own voice was unsteady. “Did I conduct myself as a gentleman ought?”

“You were not master of yourself,” she said quickly, still avoiding his gaze.

“You retreat into reserve when I would have frankness.”

For some moments, neither spoke. She could no longer soften it without falsehood. He had asked it of her, and justice was due even to a proud man. Better to be plain and have done. Elizabeth spoke so quietly he could barely hear her. “You took my arm and brought me close to your person.”

Darcy looked as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. Then his brow quirked. “How close?”

“It matters not—” she began, but plain dealing was the safer kindness.

“How close, Miss Elizabeth?” His voice was gentle but insistent.

She was silent for so long he likely thought she would not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “You brought me to rest upon your lap.”

Darcy froze, then turned away from her, one hand pressed to his forehead. “What must you think of me! I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I am grievously sorry for the offence.” Then, suddenly, he turned to face her again, his face a mask of horror as if he had recalled something further.

“What more occurred?”

“I beg you would not give consequence,” she said. He had not been himself. She would not profit by it.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He shook his head, his expression grave but tender. “I again perceive by your reluctance that there is more to be told. You have my word as a gentleman that nothing you might reveal could lessen my regard for you. Any transgression is mine alone.”

Elizabeth’s composure finally cracked. Hot tears filled her eyes. She knew not why. She felt shame, and alarm and a strange sensation like longing. All of it spilt out,

“You held me very near. Your arms were quite about me. You spoke my Christian name.” she said, scarce above a whisper, then continued, “You pressed your lips to my neck, my shoulder, and caressed…”

She faltered, then went on. “You told me you ardently admired and loved me. You said that, had you been other than you are, you would long since have begged for the honour of my hand. You said you were never yourself but with me.” Her colour rose.

She could not meet his eyes. “I would never say it, if you had not asked me to be plain. You were quite beside yourself with illness. You knew not what you were about.”

Darcy closed his eyes as though in physical pain. When he opened them again, his expression was one of profound self-reproach.

“You were nearly insensible—” Elizabeth repeated, wishing to relieve the distress her report had caused. She would not hold a man to words and actions, however improper, brought on by illness.

“Good God.” He turned away from her, running his hands through his hair in distress. “I beg you will forgive me. I have insulted you-.”

“You have done nothing of the sort—”

“I might have—” Darcy stopped, unable to voice the words.

His hands clenched at his sides. “Miss Elizabeth, when a gentleman… that is, when such liberties…” He drew a ragged breath.

“I scarce know how to speak of it. That I was insensible with fever excuses nothing. The fault remains entirely mine.”

“None are aware of it,” she said softly. “Nor shall they be.”

He faced her again, colour high. “Your forbearance shames me. Tell me what I must do.”

“There is nothing you must do,” she answered. “Only be easy and let it rest.”

“I cannot. That it happened in privacy matters not a whit. Every principle of honour demands… yet I hardly know how to…” He faltered again, then forced himself to continue. “I believe I must speak to your father.”

The idea struck her like a physical blow. “I cannot agree, sir.”

“But surely—” He looked at her then, confusion evident in his features. “Miss Elizabeth, I have behaved abominably. There remains but one means to make amends for such impropriety, and my honour leaves me no choice.”

“I comprehend, sir, that in such a case as this, you feel a sense of obligation; however, binding us both in a marriage neither of us desires would deepen any injury, not remedy it. I will not—cannot make any demand upon you for what occurred when you were wholly out of your wits.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth continued carefully, “Pray, consider what you suggest. You would be obliging yourself to ally your name with connexions far beneath your own sphere.” She meant to spare his pride and keep her liberty. She would not fix them in a marriage born of scruple.

He stiffened slightly. “Miss Elizabeth—” began, but she broke in. Did he not see she was offering him a kindness?

“Can you deny it? Your family’s standing, your position in society—all would be materially affected by such an alliance.

My family remains what it is, with our want of connection and propriety.

” She paused, keeping her tone measured.

“Could you truly bear to introduce my younger sisters among your distinguished acquaintance?”

Darcy’s expression changed, with something uncertain flickering in his eyes.

Elizabeth’s voice wavered, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Mr. Darcy, please consider your position. You cannot take as your wife one whose relations you find unworthy of your notice. You, and your relations expect the highest in birth, in fortune, in consequence. Would you not be condemned to a lifetime of regret? All because, for a fleeting moment when you were not master of yourself, you conducted yourself in a manner wholly contrary to your nature?”

Her voice softened to barely a whisper. “You would be perpetually renouncing your own happiness, Mr. Darcy, and I mine. I cannot countenance that we should both endure such consequences for what passed in delirium, not from inclination.”

Darcy stared at her as though her words had overturned a conviction long-held. His brow furrowed, and when at last he spoke, his voice was unsteady.

“These considerations,” His voice was strained.

“Are they not valid, sir? I merely speak what you yourself must know to be true.” Her tone remained gentle, almost sympathetic.

Darcy stood very still, as though her words had revealed something he had not expected. “You believe I would… regret such a choice?”

“How could you not? Every day would remind you of what you had forgone. Every introduction would require you to bear what must pain a man of your stature?” She met his gaze steadily. “I could not accept an offer made from obligation, especially not knowing what it would mean for you.”

His hand rose unconsciously to his temple. “I had not thought… That is, I assumed…”

“That I would accept?” Elizabeth’s voice softened further. “Mr. Darcy, we are too different in our situations. What seems a matter of honour to you would become a daily burden. I would spare us both that fate.”

“Then what am I to do?” he asked, almost to himself. “How can I make amends?”

“By allowing the matter to rest. By returning to your life as it was, unencumbered.”

“I feel bound to act as honour dictates to repair what I have done. Yet if by doing so, I would bind you to a marriage not of your choosing…”

Elizabeth mustered her courage and spoke softly.

“I had always hoped — if I were ever to marry — that it would be for love, Mr. Darcy. Not from duty. Certainly not from a regrettable accident.”

Darcy’s eyes widened, then he sighed. For a moment he could say nothing, torn between conscience and feeling.

“No harm has been done. I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I weathered your delirious advances without losing my senses entirely. Let us return to Longbourn.” She touched his arm to urge him forward.

Mr. Darcy obediently resumed walking, his posture rigid, his steps heavy.

Elizabeth felt it incumbent on her to relieve him of so unpleasant a situation but knew not how.

She quickened her pace to match his longer legs.

He glanced at her from time to time, with an agonised expression.

She could think of nothing- nothing to say to console him.

They continued on the familiar path, the late afternoon sun soon illuminating the outline of Longbourn’s gates. Elizabeth exhaled with quiet relief.

“Shall we speak to my father concerning Tibby?” she asked.