Page 42 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
“Amusing?” Mrs. Hurst croaked. “Caroline, I have never been so unwell in all my life.”
“Yes, dear Louisa, but now that the worst is over, we must laugh or despair. Do you know,” she turned towards the fire, her tone idle.
“I scarcely recall anything after that ragout. One moment I was in the drawing room, and the next well, I awoke in my chamber with the vague impression I had been carried there.”
She let this settle.
Mrs. Hurst gave a faint groan. “I wish someone had carried me —I had to crawl.”
Miss Bingley smiled. “We are fortunate, I think. No lasting harm done. I may even permit that cook to remain. Far too tiresome to begin interviewing again. Let us hope she has learned from the experience.”
Bingley and Darcy sat companionably, the firelight playing upon the wainscoting as the hour wore on. Neither man had spoken for some time, yet the silence was not uneasy. Darcy’s fingers rested motionless on the open book in his lap, though his gaze remained fixed upon the flames.
At length he spoke, his tone quiet but measured. “Have you heard any mention—any talk—of the evening when we all fell ill?”
Bingley turned his head, his expression keen. “Talk? Of what nature?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Fletcher felt it his duty to inform me that Mrs. Nicholls chanced to overhear two maids in conversation. Though she has since reproved them, he thought I ought to be apprised of what was said.” He paused.
“One of them alleged that I had been discovered in the music room … in a state not consistent with propriety.”
Bingley’s brow furrowed. “But you were ill.”
“Indeed. Scarcely sensible. Yet it seems that has not prevented the matter being adorned with invention.” Darcy turned from the fire. His gaze fixed upon the dark hearth. “They say Miss Elizabeth Bennet found me. That we were alone. That she remained for some time.”
“Well,” Bingley began, with an attempt at levity, “that is absurd! Why would they entertain such a notion—”
He broke off at the look in Darcy’s eyes.
“I believe it is true,” Darcy said lowly. “That we were alone. She did remain, albeit briefly. But my recollection of the evening is … confused.” He drew a ragged breath. “Fragmented. I recall her voice. I believe she tried to rouse me, to get help. And then—” He did not finish.
Bingley sat back, his smile vanished.
“At the time, I believed it a dream,” Darcy continued, after a pause.
“Everything about it seemed so illusory. Yet I remember her voice with perfect clarity. Her nearness. I must have lost consciousness soon after. The next moment I recollect with certainty, I was in my own bed. Fletcher said I was delivered by a pair of footmen, but the whole event I recall only in fragments.”
Bingley’s exhalation was long and uneven. “What says Miss Elizabeth?”
“We have spoken,” Darcy said. “She was reluctant to acknowledge the incident at all. She declared that I had been quite out of my senses and that no weight ought to be attached to anything said or done. Yet I perceived, from what she withheld, that something had passed between us, and she allowed that there had been … a lapse. I intended to speak with her father, but she insisted—very firmly—that she would not accept a proposal made from obligation.”
Bingley crossed to the window, folding his arms behind his back. “She refused you.” The disbelief on his face was unmistakable.
“She declined due to what she supposed my motives to be,” Darcy replied evenly. “And I cannot reproach her for it. But these rumours, Bingley—these whispered insinuations—are ruinous. They would tarnish her reputation beyond repair.”
Bingley resumed his seat, his expression troubled. “But you acted with no impropriety.” Darcy gave him a look which communicated everything and nothing. “Well, not knowingly.” Bingley finished.
“The world is not concerned with intent,” Darcy said, his tone clipped.
“It will not care that I was delirious, nor that she quit the room to seek help. It will care only that a gentleman was discovered in a disordered state, and that a lady was alone with him. That is all the world requires to pronounce judgement. I cannot—will not—see her name subjected to vulgar speculation and leave it undefended.”
He steadied himself. “If the matter should gain ground, I will have no choice but to act. But I would rather win her esteem by honest means than compel her hand through scandal.”
Bingley turned abruptly. “Do you believe the servants have spread this tale?”
“Fletcher informed me so. But now—I suspect encouragement from another quarter.”
“Caroline?”
Darcy paused. “There was talk below stairs. Mrs. Nicholls attempted to suppress it, but the tale had already taken root. I cannot say who gave it breath—but Miss Bingley has made certain observations. Her lady’s maid seems to have been the origin in the servant’s hall.”
Bingley’s frown deepened. “Caroline would not—”
“Miss Bingley might not say anything outright,” Darcy replied.
“That is not her way. But a raised brow, a pointed remark, a sigh at the proper moment—these are her weapons. She would never consciously force my hand in that direction. Yet I daresay she would not be displeased in the least if others were encouraged to view Miss Elizabeth with suspicion.”
Bingley let out a low exclamation and sank into his chair. “Good God.”
Sophy Blanchard arranged her mistress’s brushes with practised care, her expression attentive. “Yes, Miss Bingley?”
“My brother has just informed me of certain… stories circulating below stairs. Stories that originated, he claims, from you.”
Sophy’s eyes widened with well-feigned innocence. “I may have mentioned what I observed, ma’am. You suggested I might speak of the music room—”
“Yes, yes.” Miss Bingley began to pace, her fingers worrying at her bracelet.
“The music room. It seems these tales have grown quite beyond their original scope.” She paused at the mirror, her reflection showing genuine alarm.
“Charles suggests that if such rumours reach certain ears, Mr. Darcy might feel obligated to make an offer to that country nobody.”
“Surely not, ma’am! Mr. Darcy would never—”
“Men and their ridiculous honour,” Miss Bingley snapped. “If society believes he compromised her, he might feel duty-bound to propose. You have miscalculated badly, Sophy.”
The maid moved closer, her voice dropping. “Perhaps the story might be… adjusted, ma’am?”
“Precisely my thought.” Miss Bingley turned from the window. “The tale must be altered. Not denied entirely—that would seem suspicious—but reshaped.”
“If I might suggest, ma’am… what if the story made much of Miss Eliza’s forwardness? That she quite threw herself at the gentleman whilst he was indisposed?”
Miss Bingley’s eyes glinted. “Excellent—she mistook his fevered rambling for a romantic overture. The poor man, insensible with illness, mumbling incoherently, and she chose to interpret it as declaration? She encouraged it by throwing herself at him.”
“Oh, that’s very clever, ma’am. And perhaps… perhaps Mr. Darcy was calling for someone else entirely? His sister, perhaps, or even yourself, ma’am, given your long acquaintance?”
“Brilliant, Sophy.” Miss Bingley’s smile grew calculating. “Yes, he was quite delirious, calling for me, and Miss Eliza simply positioned herself to take advantage. When discovered, she claimed he had summoned her particularly.”
“I could mention how the gentleman couldn’t even recall her being there at all,” Sophy added eagerly. “That when he recovered, he had no memory of the evening whatsoever.”
“Perfect. Servants heard him calling out in his delirium—not for her, but for assistance. She merely happened to be the one who… responded.” Miss Bingley’s lip curled. “The calculating creature, attempting to trap him whilst he was defenceless.”
Sophy nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll make certain the other servants understand they were mistaken in their first impressions. That upon reflection, it was clear Miss Eliza was the pursuer, never the pursued.”
“And Sophy—ensure it’s known that Mr. Darcy was quite shocked when told of her presence in his room. That he expressed disgust at her forwardness.”
“Leave it to me, ma’am. By tomorrow, the entire household will pity Mr. Darcy for being imposed upon whilst helpless.” Sophy curtsied. “Though I must say, ma’am, it’s fortunate we’re correcting course. These country girls can be quite grasping when they scent an opportunity.”
“Indeed.” Miss Bingley returned to her dressing-table. “See that it’s done skilfully, Sophy. The story must seem to evolve naturally, not appear suddenly changed.”
“Of course, ma’am. A detail here, a clarification there. Within two days, everyone will remember it quite differently.”
As Sophy departed on her mission, Miss Bingley studied her reflection with satisfaction. If worse came to worse and she could not have Darcy herself, she would certainly ensure that Eliza Bennet would not trap him.
The following morning, Darcy had retired to the study to review his correspondence after breakfast when Mr. Bingley entered the room with uncharacteristic animation.
“Darcy—you might have warned us,” he said, all cheer. “He has just arrived—ridden straight from Town, by the look of him.”
Darcy rose. “He?”
The sound of booted footfalls announced Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival before the butler could announce him.
He strode into the room with the bearing of a man accustomed to command, his scarlet regimentals pristine despite the hard ride from London.
His keen grey eyes swept the scene, taking in the scattered papers and his cousin’s dishevelled state.
“Good morning, Bingley. You are looking shamefully well-fed. Darcy.”
Darcy crossed the room to grasp his hand. “You made better time than I expected.”
“I set out the moment your letter reached me. I took the liberty of diverting here en route to my regiment. I hope the cook can be prevailed upon for coffee.”