Page 41 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

T he morning post brought with it a flurry of excitement—or at least, it did for Lydia Bennet.

She burst into the drawing room waving a letter, cheeks flushed with delight.

“Mamma! Mamma, you shall never guess!” she cried, dropping into a chair.

“Mrs. Forster has written—she invites me to Brighton!” Mrs. Bennet looked up from her embroidery hoop, eyes wide. “To Brighton? With the regiment?”

“With the colonel’s household as her especial friend,” Lydia corrected, grinning. “But yes! She says she cannot imagine enduring the summer at camp without me and begs that I come and stay. She is to have her own quarters, you know, and promises I shall not want for any amusement!”

“Gracious heavens,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, clasping her hands. “To be invited in such a way, and at so young an age! Oh, what an honour—what an opportunity!”

Lydia beamed. “I knew she would ask me—I have been ever so agreeable since her wedding. Brighton! The sea air, the officers, the balls—it will be the making of me.”

Elizabeth, seated near the window with her mending, raised her head. “The regiment may be engaged in more than balls and sea breezes, Lydia.”

“Well, of course it will,” Lydia said, unbothered. “There will be parties and promenades, and officers to walk with—do not be such a spoilsport, Lizzy.”

Jane spoke more firmly. “You must ask Papa.”

“Oh, he will not refuse me—not when he hears Mamma speak in my favour.”

“I shall go to him this very moment,” Mrs. Bennet declared, rising with purpose. “To have a daughter invited to Brighton! Lydia, you must write at once to thank Mrs. Forster. A neat hand and no spelling errors.”

Lydia gave a dramatic sigh. “Must I do it at once?”

“Yes, child, before she changes her mind!” her mother said, bustling from the room.

Lydia resumed her giddy chatter, describing at length the new gowns she would require and whether her half-boots would suit the pebbled shore.

Fletcher’s hands were steady as ever as he adjusted the final fold of Darcy’s cravat, yet his gaze was fixed on the linen rather than his master’s face.

“There is… a matter, sir, which I think it proper you should know,” he began, his tone measured. “There has been some talk below stairs.”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “Say it.”

“The chatter below stairs—originating, I believe, with Miss Bingley’s own maid—has it that some time past you were observed in the evening in the music room with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Alone. The maid claimed the scene was… of an affectionate nature.

” Fletcher’s tone remained level. though each word seemed chosen with care.

“She insists it was no passing courtesy, but an embrace of such wanton ardour as to leave no doubt of a private arrangement between you.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And this is the tale in its present form?”

“Not entirely, sir. By the time it reached the still-room, it had acquired murmurs of low conversation, her countenance softened in… acceptance, and yourself in visible rapture. I fear the matter gains in ornament with every telling. I offer no warrant for such embroidery, but the report spreads and expands with unseemly rapidity.”

The final tuck of the cravat was made, and Fletcher stepped back, meeting Darcy’s eye at last. “I thought it best you should hear it from me, before it reached less friendly ears.”

Darcy’s gaze fixed on some point beyond the window.

“I am obliged to you, Fletcher.” His tone was measured, yet beneath it ran a taut thread of feeling.

The thought of her—of Elizabeth subject to such speculation stirred an uneasy blend of offence at the liberties taken with his name and disquiet that the tale was not without foundation.

“Fletcher,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “I would have you discourage such talk where possible. Make it known that idle gossip about guests in this house will not be tolerated.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And if you hear more—particularly if the story changes or reaches beyond the servants’ hall—”

“You shall know of it immediately, sir.” Fletcher’s expression remained professionally neutral. “I might suggest, sir, that a word from Mr. Bingley to his sister’s maid would not go amiss. The woman appears to take particular pleasure in her tales.”

“Indeed.” Darcy’s voice held an edge of steel. “I shall speak with Bingley directly.”

The scent of lightly scorched oatcake lingered in the air, a testament to the cook’s wholesome regimen imposed by Mr. Hurst’s recent sacrifices on the altar of health. Mr. Hurst, himself, freshly shaved, stood at the sideboard assembling a plate with the grim focus of a general laying battle plans.

“Nothing fried in lard,” he muttered. “Stewed apple, yes. One egg boiled hard. Toast—plain. Not a whisper of butter.”

He returned to the table with an expression fortified by discipline. “I scarcely comprehend what I once considered fit for consumption. The port alone—Heaven help me—was enough to fell an ox. Never again.”

Miss Bingley raised an eyebrow. “Never?”

“At least not until Christmas,” he said, with reverent conviction. “Possibly Twelfth Night. But only if I have earned it.”

Mrs. Hurst looked at her husband as though uncertain whether to feel pride or alarm.

“He walks the gardens twice a day,” she murmured, stirring her tea without enthusiasm. “Yesterday he asked the under cook to find a receipt for barley broth.”

Miss Bingley made a brittle smile. “A true transformation.”

Mr. Hurst inclined his head. “Facing one’s maker focuses the mind. The mushroom ragout very nearly put me in the ground. I intend to survive the season—and look better than Bingley doing it.”

Miss Bingley turned her face towards the window, so that the rising smirk might be mistaken for a smile. “Yes, the ragout. One can scarcely account for it.”

Mrs. Hurst offered no reply. She was examining her hand with the vague concern of a woman wondering whether she had recovered her full circulation. Miss Bingley poured out tea for them both and added the faintest splash of milk.

“I cannot imagine how such a dish came to be served,” she said with genteel detachment. “I suppose someone must have persuaded the cook. One ought to be cautious, when ladies from the country maintain connections with the kitchen staff.”

Mrs. Hurst blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Miss Bingley quickly.

“Only that Miss Eliza Bennet—more than once—made inquiries below stairs. She claimed knowledge of some scullery or other. Perhaps a former servant dissatisfied with the conditions at Longbourn. No doubt her interest was purely culinary. I cannot think why a guest should feel the need to speak directly to the cooking staff.”

Her tone remained mild, but there was a glint in her eye as she selected a thin slice of pear and pressed it daintily between her teeth.

Mrs. Hurst leant forward. “Do you suppose she was engaged in some scheme?”

“Do you not?” Miss Bingley traced the rim of her teacup with one finger. “She is very clever, is she not? But clever girls so often have such difficulty avoiding complications.” A pause.

“Dear Mr. Darcy fared poorly. There were murmurs among the footmen that they were called to retrieve him from the music room. I daresay he was in no condition to find his way unaided.” Miss Bingley slanted her glance towards the empty chair across from them.

Her sister blinked. “Mr. Darcy?”

“Oh yes. Miss Eliza Bennet discovered him.” A pause, just long enough.

“How fortunate that she was so attentive. Of course, it must have been awkward—quite alone with him in such a state. So late at night. With no chaperone at all.” She cast her eyes downward with modest delicacy. “I hope she was not too distressed.”

“Did she tarry long?” Mrs. Hurst asked, more alert now.

Miss Bingley offered a slight shrug. “Who can say? The servants are trained to be blind and deaf, of course—yet they seem remarkably observant when it suits them.” She sipped her tea. “It is unfortunate that such whispers have a way of becoming quite shockingly embellished.”

Mrs. Hurst narrowed her eyes. “You do not mean—”

“Oh, I mean nothing at all.” She gave a soft, pitying sigh.

“Only that country girls of rustic upbringing… sometimes lack the refined understanding of what is proper in genteel society. I daresay Miss Eliza knew no better than to impose herself so… warmly.. As for Mr. Darcy—well, he was hardly himself. A man weakened by illness can scarcely be held accountable for whatever advantage was taken.”

She set down her teacup with gentle finality.

“I only marvel she did not take a chill, lingering so long in that music room. But how fortunate that Miss Eliza happened upon Mr. Darcy. One can hardly account for it. I daresay she was the only one still capable of walking in a straight line.” Another pause. “Such resourcefulness.”

Mrs. Hurst looked troubled. Mr. Hurst looked baffled. Miss Bingley only looked pleased.

“Miss Elizabeth found him?” Mr. Hurst asked.

“So I understand. Quite alone with him, I believe. Closeted together in the music room. In utter darkness. Some whisper she was discovered in a most compromising attitude, in a state of considerable disarray and practically astride his person—but servants will exaggerate such shocking scenes. Of course, Mr. Darcy, being insensible with fever, could hardly repel such bold advances.” Miss Bingley’s voice remained light, untroubled.

“But I am certain all was perfectly proper. Miss Eliza merely enjoys uninhibited manners.”

There was a moment’s silence in which only the sound of Mr. Hurst chewing could be heard.

“I trust,” said Miss Bingley at last, “that no one will make too much of it. The world can be so unkind to young ladies—particularly those whose manners invite speculation.”

Mrs. Hurst poured herself a weak cup of tea, her hand unsteady.

“The whole event would all be quite amusing if one did not have to endure it.” Miss Bingley said airily.