Page 4 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Mushroom Catsup.
D arcy did not immediately follow the others from the room. Instead, he stood s beside the window, the volume still in his hand, though the words had long ceased to signify. Miss Elizabeth’s presence had discomposed him more than he cared to admit.
He had spoken more than he had intended—and more, perhaps, than was wise.
That quickness of mind, the poise beneath her impertinence—it disturbed his peace yet drew him.
He ought to be cautious. He meant to be distant.
But somehow, every exchange drew him further from indifference and nearer to something he could not allow.
He feared a lapse in the self-command that had preserved him from attachments.
He pressed a hand briefly to the spine of the book, then set it down.
He went up to dress for dinner with no relish, his self-command uncertain. If his attentions betrayed him, Miss Bingley would mark it.
Fletcher, his valet, had laid out the usual evening coat.
Darcy stared at it for some time before donning it with reluctance.
Another dinner. Another evening of Caroline Bingley’s calculated smiles, trailing fingers, and borrowed cleverness so finely embroidered from others’ witticisms it lacked any thread of her own.
Miss Bingley would appear, dressed as if posed for La Belle Assemblée, and equipped with opinions on music she barely played, books she scarcely read, and estates forever out of reach.
He had nearly exhausted his stock of civility.
He passed a hand through his hair and exhaled a muted curse. Miss Elizabeth Bennet—sharp-eyed, warm-voiced, and wholly unaware of her dominion over his thoughts—would no doubt be placed as far from him as Miss Bingley could contrive.
He would conduct himself as required, speak but little, and withdraw at the first civil opportunity.
“Mrs. Christopher has quite outdone herself to-night,” Miss Bingley announced after the fish course, drawing attention to the footman placing an ornate silver tureen in the centre of the table.
A fresh decanter was set down as the cover was lifted, and the steam carried a heady savour of wine “A ragout prepared as recommended in the latest culinary publications. I am told it is the very dish favoured by the Dowager Countess Spencer. I trust it shall meet with your approval, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes flashed at him, her smile hungrier than he felt after the preceding rich courses.
“You are very kind,” Darcy replied with a nod, watching as the footman ladled fragrant ragout carefully onto his plate.
“Mr. Hurst, I believe this particular dish will especially delight you,” Miss Bingley continued her self-congratulations.
Mr. Hurst, whose languid interest seldom extended beyond the table, sat forward with genuine eagerness. “Indeed, there is nothing like a ragout! I find it to be among the finest delicacies.”
Elizabeth blanched at the dark, glistening sauce as the footman, Simon, approached her. She spoke only for his ears. “Thank you. If you please, I should prefer the roast fowl alone.”
“Certainly, Madam,” he said with a quickly hidden grin. He placed a slice of golden roasted fowl on her plate, forgoing the ragout and wine laced sauces.
“Do you not take the ragout, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Hurst’s sudden inspection of her plate made Elizabeth startle.
“I prefer plain dishes,” she said with as much sweetness as she could muster.
Miss Bingley gave her a thin smile. “Indeed, Miss Eliza. Your taste, I see, remains consistently rustic.”
Elizabeth swallowed several retorts—each of which, she was certain, would have proved more palatable than Mrs. Christopher’s ragout—and merely said, “Thank you.” Miss Bingley could riddle out who she was thanking and for what.
A third, or perhaps fourth, decanter was brought in and set to breathe.
The others received their servings with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
. Mr. Bingley, always amiable, praised his sister warmly, whilst Mrs. Hurst offered polite acknowledgement.
The footman went from glass to glass without respite, topping each to the brim with a particularly potent claret.
Conversation dwindled as the guests sampled the richly fragrant dish.
Mr. Hurst, in particular, praised it repeatedly, requesting a second generous helping.
Yet another bottle of wine was opened and decanted.
Darcy, tasting the sauce carefully, remarked, “This sauce has an unusual piquancy.”
“Mushroom catsup,” Miss Bingley remarked with pride. “Mrs. Christopher prepared it exactly as I instructed. The mushrooms are from the Netherfield grounds—there is such a delightful profusion of them at present.”
A brief silence followed, broken only by the soft clink of glass and the glide of another decanter.
Miss Bingley resumed her campaign, detailing at length the labours she had directed below stairs, her every remark punctuated by a glance toward Mr. Darcy, as if awaiting a compliment.
Now a bottle of Barsac was decanted, as Mr. Hurst raised his glass, directing a glare at the tardy footman.
Elizabeth ate little, instead admiring the butter in charming moulds—roses, shells, little beehives— melting, ignored on their silver dish, amidst the staggering platters of food, and the row of decanters standing all in active service.
Elizabeth had ventured a glance at Darcy. He looked serious. His expression was haughty, indifferent—though something in the set of his brow gave her pause. A slight sheen of moisture reflected in the candlelight on his forehead. Was he unwell?
Mr. Hurst leant forward, his eyes brightening as he gestured, almost knocking over his wineglass.
“Truly delightful, Caroline! Exquisite!” Elizabeth regarded the usually phlegmatic gentleman with curiosity, his colour high and his eyes alight.
He discoursed at length upon the dinner’s merits, speaking more than she had ever heard from him.
Across the table, Miss Bingley covered her mouth to stifle her laugh at her brother-in-law’s exaggerated accolades.
When Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst met eyes, they dissolved into laughter loud and unguarded, their usual polish blurred by an excess of wine.
Mr. Bingley joined in the lightened mood, speaking with enthusiasm, his hands moving exuberantly to illustrate his points.
Mr. Darcy appeared to be subtly loosening the edges of his typically reserved demeanour.
His eyes were cast more often and more openly to Elizabeth than was his custom.
His complexion bore the faintest flush .
Even he was not untouched by the evening’s liberality. Had the entire company over-indulged?
The tablecloth was removed, and on the polished wood of the table, platters of preserved fruits, nuts, and a syllabub were set out. Elizabeth tried a cherry only to find it steeped in potent brandy. She took instead a small portion of syllabub.
Miss Bingley again took it upon herself to comment on Elizabeth’s choice.
“I am sure you will enjoy the syllabub, Miss Eliza. I have had it prepared with the best Malaga sack and Seville lemons.” Miss Bingley’s attention to her menu began to make Elizabeth wonder whether she spent all her time in the kitchen, watching the preparations.
“It is lovely,” Elizabeth said, whilst stirring her portion on her plate to make it seem she had consumed some.
The strong flavour of fortified wine overpowered the light tang of lemon.
Elizabeth had rarely seen a dinner so steeped in wine, and by now the company were flushed, talkative, and too merry by half.
After the cheese course, Miss Bingley rose rather abruptly and caught the chair-back to steady herself before regaining her balance.
With an exaggerated air of playful flirtation directed pointedly at Mr. Darcy, she declared, “Do not dawdle over your brandy, gentlemen. We ladies will be anxiously awaiting your delightful company.” She cast a last longing glance towards Mr. Darcy before guiding the ladies from the room, her laughter lingering and her step a trifle uncertain.
Once seated in the drawing room, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst quite abandoned their composure.
Mrs. Hurst reclined carelessly on a sofa, laughing without restraint.
Miss Bingley sank into her chair rather than sat.
One arm sprawled along the rail , her gaze a trifle glassy. Her fan dangled and struck the carpet.
She leant nearer, her eyes shining with a calculating mirth as she pitched her voice low in pretence yet perfectly audible to Elizabeth. “Louisa—did you observe how very much Mr. Darcy’s manner softened after the third course?”
“Remarkably so,” Mrs. Hurst tittered softly. “Why, he actually smiled at your observation about the weather. When has Darcy ever found meteorology diverting?”
“When has he found anything diverting?” Miss Bingley’s laugh was a little too free.
“The Madeira was exceedingly well-received,” Mrs. Hurst murmured, casting a significant glance towards the dining room. “Mr Hegarty was most attentive in his service.”
“Indeed. Now, when the gennel.. gentlemen join us, shall we continue with a few hands of whist? I have planned such gracious hospitality,” Miss Bingley’s whisper dropped still lower, though the syllables carried across the room.
“I have instructed Mr. Hegarty to uncork the finest French brandy and that particularly smooth Scottish whisky Charles acquired.”
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes widened. “Caroline, surely you do not contemplate—”
“I mean only that our guest should be entirely at his ease—ease enough, perhaps, to lower his guard a trifle,” Miss Bingley replied with a look of studied innocence.
Her voice dipped again, though her volume scarcely altered.
“And if such ease should tempt him to speak more freely—or linger in my company after the others retire—well, such things happen quite naturally.”
“Should circumstance render him less guarded …”