Page 47 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Wilkins released Lydia’s arm with apparent reluctance, bowing smoothly. “Miss Mary, you are quite right, of course. I meant no impropriety. Might I have the honour of this dance instead?”

“I do not dance, Mr. Wilkins,” Mary replied coldly, taking Lydia’s arm firmly. “And I believe you were just leaving this particular area. Come, Lydia.”

As Mary steered her protesting sister away, Wilkins’s expression darkened momentarily before resuming its pleasant mask. The evening was young yet, and Lydia Bennet had already shown herself perfectly willing to follow him anywhere for the promise of a secret.

Across the room, Elizabeth stood beside Jane, her attention drawn to the lively pair near the opposite end of the dance floor.

“Lydia again,” she murmured. Jane followed her gaze.

“With Mr. Wilkins,” she said softly. Elizabeth said nothing.

She was uncertain whether she ought to reveal all she knew- That Mr. Wilkins was not his true name and that he was a rake and a scoundrel.

He leant in to speak—not close enough to raise alarm, yet enough to draw Lydia’s full attention.

Lydia’s eyes were bright, her posture more self-conscious than usual, her laugh unguarded.

“He knows exactly what he is doing,” Elizabeth said.

Jane’s brow furrowed faintly. “You think it deliberate?” “I think he has studied the art of pleasing,” Elizabeth replied.

“Lydia—poor girl—has made a study of nothing at all.” Jane followed her gaze in silence.

Wilkins leant in, speaking just low enough that Lydia flushed and laughed with delight.

His hand hovered at her back longer and lower than the step required.

. Elizabeth’s lips pressed into a line. “He is too artful by half.” “I do not trust him,” Jane said quietly.

Elizabeth turned to her, surprised. Jane kept her gaze on the dancers.

“There is too much about him that shifts—his account of himself, his intentions. After what happened at Netherfield—Mr. Darcy’s doubts, the servant girl—” She shook her head.

“He is too familiar where a gentleman ought to show some restraint,” Jane added quietly.

“Lydia will not see it.” “She does not want to,” Jane said.

“Not yet. She merely wishes to be admired.” As the set ended, Wilkins escorted Lydia back to her seat, bowing over her hand in a manner just shy of theatrical.

Lydia beamed, wholly entranced. “She will go wherever he leads,” Elizabeth said.

“For now,” Jane agreed. “But we must be ready if she stumbles.” Elizabeth’s expression darkened.

“I am afraid she will fall—and never know how near she stood to the edge until it lies far behind her.”

Although the Colonel dutifully stood up with several other young ladies, his attention continually returned to Jane Bennet.

The Colonel did not seek a second set with Jane, but was attentive to her, ensuring she was well supplied with punch and good company.

The colonel had employed a remarkably intimidating glare to discourage the attentions of some more boisterous of the militia, whose constant stares discomforted Jane.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy had learned his glower from his cousin.

Elizabeth was engaged in conversation with Charlotte Lucas when the Colonel’s expression underwent a sudden and dramatic transformation.

Gone was the amiable gentleman she had danced with, replaced by someone whose bearing suddenly embodied all the authority of his military rank.

His face had hardened into lines of unmistakable displeasure, and his entire attention was fixed upon some point across the room.

Following his gaze, Elizabeth spotted Mr. Wickham near the far wall, apparently attempting to make an unobtrusive exit from the assembly. Even from her position, she could observe the haste of his movements and the furtive manner in which he glanced about the room.

Elizabeth and Charlotte positioned themselves where they might better observe what promised to be an interesting encounter.

The Colonel intercepted Wickham near the door, and though their voices were kept deliberately low, Elizabeth was close enough to catch portions of their exchange.

“Wickham,” the Colonel was saying, his tone carrying a chill that made Elizabeth grateful not to be the object of his displeasure. “How extraordinary to encounter you here. I doubted you possessed sufficient foolishness to show your face in respectable company.”

Wickham’s customary charm seemed to desert him entirely. His reply, though she could not catch the words, carried none of his smooth confidence, and she observed the defensive set of his shoulders with considerable interest.

The Colonel’s response was delivered in tones so low that Elizabeth could discern only fragments, but the words “impressionable young ladies” carried clearly enough to make her stiffen with sudden understanding.

Her shoulders eased. She must find a way to express her gratitude towards the Colonel for whatever protection he might be offering.

Wickham’s feeble protests about his commission and rights as an officer were met with what Elizabeth could only describe as withering disdain from the Colonel. The mention of “unconventional means” and “serving girl” painted a picture she could well imagine.

The exchange concluded with Wickham’s hasty departure. The Colonel possessed both the knowledge and the authority to make Wickham decidedly uncomfortable.

The Colonel turned back towards the assembly, his expression gradually resuming its earlier amiability.

Their eyes met across the intervening space.

Elizabeth made no attempt to disguise the fact that she had been observing the encounter.

His slight nod made an acknowledgement that explanations might be forthcoming.

When the evening finally concluded and they were preparing to depart, Elizabeth caught the Colonel’s eye once more. There was something in his expression that suggested their next meeting might prove most illuminating indeed.

Bingley again approached Jane, his manner warm but not presumptuous. When he requested her hand, Jane hesitated—just for a moment. Not because she wished to refuse, but because she knew the attention, it would draw. His asking twice would be noted. Spoken of as raising expectations.

She met his gaze. He looked hopeful—and so unaware. She considered her response.

“Very well,” she said, looking away. “Thank you.”

If he noticed the pause, he gave no sign. He only offered his arm with quiet satisfaction, and she took it, conscious of the eyes that followed them to the floor.

He glanced at her, perhaps searching for some trace of her former warmth. “I am very glad you accepted.”

She inclined her head, her countenance composed. “It is a pleasure to dance.”

They had danced almost half the set speaking only the customary pleasantries.

Mr. Bingley’s conversation, as ever, was cheerful and obliging, praising the music, admiring the decorations, offering good-humoured commentary on the other dancers.

He inquired after Longbourn and offered a light jest about his own clumsy steps.

At last, Jane turned her head towards him. “Mr. Bingley,” she said, her tone gentle, “will you remain in Hertfordshire for long?”

His step faltered—barely. “I hope so,” he said. “That is—I mean to, if I am welcome.”

“I mean only that if you remain, your attentions—though kindly meant—may not be read as mere civility.”

His expression sobered. “I would never wish to give offence.”

“You have not,” she said at once. “But I must be plain.”

Jane, composed and steady, allowed a slight pause to settle between them before going on.

“Mr. Bingley,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, “I wonder whether you are aware that your attentions to me have not gone unnoticed in the neighbourhood.”

He blinked. “Unnoticed?”

“I do not say it by way of complaint. Only that a lady may suffer from too much distinction, if it is offered without intent.”

He looked suddenly stricken. “Miss Bennet—Jane—I had no wish to, Good heavens, I would never wish to expose you to censure or…”

She offered a small smile. “Then I am sure you will forgive my candour. I cannot know your wishes. But if your attentions are no more than friendly—perhaps it would be wiser to be less particular.”

Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it again. His colour rose.

“I thank you for your honesty,” he said at last, quieter than before. “I had not realised—I did not think—I shall reflect on what you have said.”

Jane inclined her head with calm politeness. “That is all I ask. I am grateful for your consideration.”

They completed the set with grace, their steps as poised as ever. But there was a thoughtful furrow to Mr. Bingley’s brow, and his buoyancy had given way.

Elizabeth had been watching from across the room—discreetly, of course, but with no small degree of interest. She marked the second set with Mr. Bingley, the way Jane smiled but never blushed, the little pause for conversation before the music began again.

When the dance ended, Jane returned to her, her expression pleasant but reserved.

“Well?” Elizabeth murmured, falling into step beside her as they made their way towards the refreshment table. “Was he given the truth without trimming?”

Jane gave her a sidelong glance. “If by ‘truth’ you mean speaking plainly, then yes. I did.”

“And?”

“I told him that his attentions were noted. That they might be misconstrued. That if he did not mean anything by them, it would be best to desist.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “You told him to go away?”

“I told him,” Jane said with a slight smile, “to either come to the point or cease circling it.”

Elizabeth’s laughter was subdued but delighted. “Oh, Jane. I could not love you more if I tried.”

Jane allowed a small exhale, almost a sigh. “It was not easy.”

“No, I imagine it was not.” Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. Bingley stood now by the hearth, one hand behind his back, the other pressed to his brow. “But it was needed.”

“I thought so. He has been attentive too long without declaring himself. People speak. Mamma, especially. I—” Jane broke off, then added more softly, “I could not bear to be made a subject of amusement.”

Elizabeth’s eyes softened. “No one could. But I think you have startled him into seriousness, dearest. That is not a bad thing.”

Jane nodded, but her gaze drifted towards the window. “He looked as though he wished to speak. But I would not do it for him.”

“Nor should you,” said Elizabeth firmly. “Let him come to it in his own time—if he truly means to.”

“If he does not?”

“Then you have preserved your dignity, and he his illusion of gallantry. What more can society ask?”

Jane gave a small laugh. “You are dreadful.”

“I am merely observant,” said Elizabeth. “And very fond of you.”