Page 34 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

C aptain Denning swirled the last of his brandy, watching it catch the lamplight. “They say he cannot even keep down broth, and his wife has taken to prayer.”

The lieutenant, lounging with one boot up on the coal fender, gave a disinterested grunt. “Hurst? I thought he just drank himself insensible.”

“Not this time. The apothecary said he was poisoned—and the magistrate says it was by a servant girl. Mushrooms, they think. Some variety that grows damp and low and makes a man forget his own name.”

His fingers stilled on the rim of his glass. “I had not heard that.”

“Scullery maid’s gone, sacked without ceremony. Tibby something. Pretty enough for a kitchen wench. Word is, she’d been gathering wild fungi.”

There was a pause. The lieutenant tilted his head. “Is not Mr. Darcy in the house?”

“Darcy? What of him?”

He gave a brief shrug. “He was at Netherfield, was he not?”

Denning gave a derisive breath. “From what I gather, he was about when the thing occurred. He survived unscathed. Hurst is the one who nearly died. Miss Bingley’s kitchen is still under suspicion in some quarters—especially now Miss Bennet has taken it upon herself to play detective.”

“Miss Lydia Bennet? Surely not.” That chit had feathers for brains, despite a tempting figure.

“No. Miss Elizabeth. Seems she’s fond of lost causes.”

He said nothing for some time, staring into the fire as if considering whether it had betrayed him. Capital. Hurst lies gasping like a landed trout, Darcy remains vexingly upright, and some provincial chit fancies herself clever enough to turn inquisitor.

He tossed back the remainder of his drink and stood. “One ought never to rely on servants.”

The following morning, at Mr. Darcy’s quiet instruction, Mrs. Nicholls summoned Bet to the housekeeper’s office.

The small chamber, plain but orderly, smelt faintly of lavender and beeswax.

Bet entered hesitantly, her head bowed, her fingers twisting at her apron.

Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley stood just within, silent and observing.

Mrs. Nicholls gestured to the wooden chair before her desk. “Sit down, child.”

Bet obeyed, her shoulders tense and drawn.

“You are not here for punishment — not yet,” Mrs. Nicholls began, her voice firm but measured. “But you have been questioned once already, and your answers have not satisfied. We know you gathered the mushrooms, that much is certain.”

Bet swallowed. “Tibby did, ma’am. I was sent with Tibby.”

Mrs. Nicholls regarded her steadily. “You were sent to supervise Tibby. You have gathered mushrooms for the kitchen before, Bet. You know the proper sorts.”

“Yes, ma’am. I always take care.”

“Yet this time, what you brought in was not proper.”

Bet shifted, twisting her apron still more tightly. “There weren’t many of the good ones, ma’am. I—Tibby thought these looked near enough.”

Mrs. Nicholls’s expression remained calm. “They were a substitute?”

Her voice dropped lower. “Aye, ma’am. But then he told me they was safe.”

Mrs. Nicholls allowed a moment’s pause. “Who told you?”

Bet’s eyes flickered nervously towards the gentlemen standing silently behind. “A gentleman, ma’am. A friend of Tibby’s.”

“His name?”

The girl lowered her voice further, as though secrecy might somehow lessen her culpability. “I believe he is a Mr. George Wilkins, ma’am. He said he was to be an officer in the militia.”

Mrs. Nicholls’s tone remained even. “Did you meet this Mr. Wilkins yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just the once. He showed Tibby which ones to pick. Said as long as they was prepared proper, there was no harm.”

Darcy held his hands rigidly behind his back.

Mrs. Nicholls’s gaze sharpened on the girl. “Tell me how he appeared.”

Bet swallowed hard. “A fine gentleman, ma’am.

Golden hair. Handsome. His uniform was very fine — had a sash and sword.

” Her voice grew softer, almost wistful.

“He spoke very agreeable, ma’am — like a proper gentleman.

He was kind to me — respectful, like. Not like some as think themselves above speaking decent to a servant. ”

Mrs. Nicholls regarded her in silence for a moment longer, then folded her hands. She looked to Mr. Bingley who nodded.

“Very well. That will do for now. You are not dismissed from service — but you will attend to scouring until your conduct is better determined. Hear me well, Bet — if you have withheld anything, you would do wisely to speak before it is discovered otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bet bobbed a nervous curtsy and hastily withdrew.

When the door had closed, Bingley let out a quiet breath. “George Wilkins?”

Darcy shook his head, his jaw tightened. “We must determine whether an officer by that name is attached to the militia.”

Bingley frowned. “You recognise the name? “

“Not precisely,” Darcy said quietly. His gaze remained fixed on the door through which Bet had departed. “But the description grows increasingly familiar.” He paused, his voice lowering further. “We must speak with Colonel Forster.”

Mr. Hurst’s eyes opened slowly, blinking against the pale morning light that filtered through the heavy curtains of his chamber.

For a moment, he could not recall where he was or why his mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton wadding.

Then the memories returned—the dinner, the violent illness, the interminable hours of retching and fever.

“Ah, you are awake,” came a calm, authoritative voice from beside the bed. “I am Mr. Louden, Mr. Darcy’s physician. You have been unconscious for the better part of five days.”

Hurst turned his head with effort to see a distinguished gentleman of middle years seated in a chair beside the bed, his black bag resting on the floor nearby. The physician’s manner was crisp and professional.

“Water,” Hurst managed to croak.

Mr. Louden poured a small measure from the pitcher on the bedside table and helped him sit up enough to drink. The cool liquid was a blessed relief. Mr. Hurst’s hands trembled as he held the glass.

“My dear Mr. Hurst!” Mrs. Hurst’s voice pierced the quiet of the room as she swept in from the adjoining chamber.

“Oh, how I have suffered! You cannot imagine the torment I have endured, watching you so ill, fearing for your very life! I have scarcely slept a wink, and my nerves are quite shattered. Mr. Louden, surely you must give me something for my constitution—the strain has been unbearable!”

She collapsed dramatically into a chair, fanning herself with a handkerchief whilst casting expectant glances between her husband and the physician.

Mr. Louden regarded her with the sort of measured patience that suggested considerable experience with hysterical patients.

“Mrs. Hurst, I am pleased to inform you that your husband is past the worst danger. However, I must speak with him privately regarding his recovery. Perhaps you might take some air in the garden? The fresh morning breeze would do your complexion good.”

“Oh, but surely I should remain! What if he suffers a relapse? What if he requires my attention?”

“I assure you, madam, he is in no immediate danger. I will be here. A quarter-hour of solitude will not harm him.”

Mrs. Hurst looked as though she might protest further, but something in Mr. Louden’s tone brooked no argument. She departed with a final flourish of her handkerchief and a pointed sigh about the trials of devoted wives.

When the door closed behind her, Mr. Louden settled back in his chair and fixed Hurst with a penetrating stare.

“Now then, Mr. Hurst, we may speak plainly. You have survived an encounter with what I believe to have been liberty-cap mushrooms—a variety that could prove fatal in sufficient quantities, especially when consumed in combination with alcohol. You are fortunate to be alive.”

Hurst nodded weakly. “I feel as though I have been trampled by a team of horses.”

“Indeed, and that sensation will persist for several days. However, I must speak of a matter of considerably greater importance.” Mr. Louden leant forward, his expression grave. “The mushrooms may have brought you to death’s door, but they are not what will kill you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your liver, Mr. Hurst. Your heart. Your entire constitution. They are all in a state of considerable deterioration, and I can tell you exactly why.” The physician’s tone was matter of fact, almost clinical. “How much do you drink in a typical day?”

Hurst squirmed uncomfortably. “I—why a gentleman must take refreshment.”

“How much refreshment?” Dr. Louden’s voice cut through the evasion like a blade.

“Perhaps a bottle of wine or two with dinner. Port afterward. Brandy in the evening.”

“What about at breakfast? What of nuncheon?”

Hurst’s silence was answer enough.

“I see. Regarding your eating habits? You are a man of substantial appetite, I observe.”

“I enjoy good food, certainly.”

“Mr. Hurst, I have examined you thoroughly whilst you were insensible. Your liver is enlarged and hardened. Your heart struggles to pump blood through the excess flesh you carry. Your breathing is laboured even at rest. Even without the mushrooms, I would give you perhaps two years before your body simply refuses to function.”

The words fell like stones into still water. Hurst stared at the physician, his face pale.

“Two years?”

“Perhaps less, if you continue as you have been. Your constitution is that of a man forty years your senior.” Mr. Louden’s expression softened. “However, the human body possesses remarkable powers of recovery, if given the opportunity.”

“What must I do?”

“Cease drinking spirits entirely. Immediately. Not a drop of wine, port, or spirits. Your liver must have time to heal, if it can. Your long-standing habits of imbibing set a perfect situation for a poison to fell you.”

“But surely a glass of wine.”

“Mr. Hurst, I am not offering you a negotiation. I am offering you your life. The choice is yours.”

Hurst swallowed hard. “What of food?”