Page 48 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
P erfume and candle smoke hung in the air, chatter rose above the strains of a country reel.
Gowns swirled and boots thudded on the floorboards, all bright merriment and carefully arranged gaiety.
But there was a hum beneath the gaiety, a current Lydia could not quite name until she passed a knot of ladies whispering near the refreshments.
“…she remained alone with him, and in such a state, they say—”
“Mrs. Long told my aunt she had it from her footman, who swore he overheard—”
Lydia slowed, her fan pausing mid-wave.
“She may be clever, but her cleverness will not preserve her reputation when she was found alone at night with a gentleman, unchaperoned.”
The third woman sniffed. “There is clever, and then there is forward.”
Lydia spun about. “Are you speaking of my sister?”
The group froze. One offered a tight smile. “Miss Lydia—of course we meant no offence. We were only—”
“Repeating what you had no business repeating,” Lydia said, voice higher than intended. “You do not know what occurred. None of you were there.”
Another lady raised her brows. “Were you?”
Lydia flushed but did not flinch. “No. But I know Elizabeth. She would never—she is not—” She broke off, aware of the stares from nearby guests. “If Mr. Darcy was unwell, then she was assisting him. She would never behave improperly.”
There was an awkward silence. One of the ladies muttered something about fresh air and drifted away, drawing the others with her.
Lydia stood motionless, throat tight, until the knot of figures dispersed.
The music swelled behind her, the fiddlers launching into a new set, but she had no wish to join it.
Kitty was fanning herself and giggling over a clumsy officer’s footwork.
Lydia offered the barest smile as her sister chattered.
Lydia could not have said what troubled her most—It was bad enough that her sister was the subject of cruel gossip. But something in Mr. Wilkins’s manner, once flattering, now left a faint, uncertain chill. As though she had mis-stepped in a dance and could not say quite where.
What if she had gone to the balcony with Mr. Wilkins, as she had half a mind to? What if someone had seen them? What if he had done more than flatter and smile and touch her hand just a moment too long?
What if no one had believed her ?
Lydia moved to the rear of the room, where the shadows softened and the air felt cooler. She sank onto a bench against the far wall, the music drifting around her like smoke. She did not want to dance again. She did not want to be looked at or remarked upon.
For the first time in her life, Lydia Bennet did not wish to be noticed.
Darcy stood in the library, the letter before him held with the appearance of attention, though he had no sense of what he had written.
His thoughts returned, again and again, to that moment in the music room—what he remembered, and what others might invent.
He had been attempting stillness, but it would not take.
When the door opened and Bingley entered, Darcy looked up at once.
“How did you enjoy the assembly?”
“It was a fine evening. The Misses Bennet were well,” said Bingley, flopping into the nearest chair. “The militia about overtook the hall.” He then fell into silence.
After a silence, Bingley stirred, as though awakening from deep contemplation. “Darcy, do you consider me a man of resolution?”
The question was so unexpected that Darcy paused longer than courtesy demanded. “I, that is to say...”
“Your hesitation speaks volumes.” Bingley’s voice carried no bitterness, only a weary sort of recognition. “Miss Bennet—Jane—she spoke to me, very politely, this evening. I am to either declare myself in earnest or remove myself from her society entirely.”
“She said this?”
“In the gentlest possible way.” Bingley rose and walked to the window, though there was nothing to see in the darkness beyond. “She suggested that my attentions had been noticed in the neighbourhood, and that if they were merely friendly, it might be wiser for me to be less particular.”
Something different in Bingley’s bearing caught Darcy’s eye. “What did you tell her?”
“That I would reflect upon what she had said. Nothing more coherent than that, I fear.” Bingley turned back to face him.
“She was perfectly kind about it. No reproach, no wounded feelings. Simply a quiet observation that a lady might suffer from too much distinction if it was offered without intent.”
“She was protecting her reputation.”
“She was protecting herself from me,” Bingley said quietly. “From my inability to declare myself one way or another. The most damning part is that she thanked me for considering her position, when I should have been thanking her for her patience with my foolishness.”
Darcy was at a loss for words. He had always viewed Jane Bennet as the epitome of gentle compliance, yet this decisive action spoke to a strength of character he had not suspected.
“The truly mortifying part,” Bingley continued, resuming his seat, “is that I cannot fault her reasoning. I have been — what is the word? Dithering. Making calls, paying attentions, yet never actually committing to anything. Living in this comfortable uncertainty where I might have her regard without risking anything of myself.”
“You were being cautious—”
“I was being cowardly.” The words were spoken without self-pity, simply as fact.
“Do you know what struck me most? She did not ask me to declare myself. Even though I, by rights, raised expectations, she was not demanding. She simply pointed out the position I had placed her in and trusted me to draw my own conclusions.”
Darcy leant back in his chair, studying his friend. There was something in Bingley’s manner, a kind of stark honesty, that stripped away his eager-to-please demeanour.
“What do you intend to do?”
“That is the question, is it not?” Bingley poured a glass of brandy, though he did not drink. “For the first time in my life, I am compelled to examine who I am and what I actually want.”
“What have you concluded?”
“I believe I want Jane Bennet. I know Caroline has deemed her unsuitable and thinks her family connexions inadequate. I do not believe I care whether society might view the match as beneath me or above me. I want her because she is everything I never knew I was looking for.”
The quiet conviction in his voice caught Darcy’s attention. These were not Bingley’s customary enthusiastic declarations, which tended to shift with his mood. This carried the weight of genuine decision.
“Your sister will be…” Darcy began carefully.
“Caroline will accept my choice or find herself seeking new lodgings.” Bingley’s tone was perfectly calm, which somehow made the statement more shocking than any display of temper might have been.
“I am four-and-twenty years old, Darcy. I am master of my own household and my own destiny. When exactly did I begin acting as though I required my younger sister’s permission for every decision? ”
Darcy observed his friend as though he had never seen him before. Bingley was malleable, so complying, that nothing was ever resolved on. Who was this man?
“You seem surprised,” Bingley observed, and there was actually a trace of amusement in his voice now.
“Indeed I am. This is not the response I would have anticipated.”
“No doubt you expected me to come to you for advice. To seek reassurance or guidance or perhaps to be talked out of some impulsive course.” Bingley set down his glass and fixed Darcy with a direct look.
“But you see, that would be quite the sort of behaviour that led to Miss Bennet’s ultimatum in the first place. ”
Darcy waited. He could think of a great many things to say but hesitated. When he spoke with an equal, a gentleman who knew his own mind, it was not his place to advise. Not unless Bingley requested advice.
“What do you plan to do, then? You are not seeking my counsel?” Darcy asked tentatively.
Bingley laughed. “No. I am not. I have begun to see that I have been asking everyone except myself what I ought to do with my own life.” Bingley rose again, but this time his movement carried purpose rather than agitation.
“Miss Jane Bennet has given me the gift of clarity. I know what I want. The question now is whether I possess sufficient sense to act upon it.”
“Have you considered whether her gentle warning was intended to end your attachment rather than merely protect her reputation?”
After a moment, Bingley smiled—and it was nothing like his regular amiable expression. This smile carried steel beneath it.
“I do not believe that was her intention, however if that is the case, then I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing I acted according to my own convictions rather than others’ expectations.
If I prove to her that I am capable of being the man she deserves, there is hope.
She may not be demonstrative, or flirtatious like my poor deluded sister, but I recognise true regard in her countenance. .”
This newfound resolution suggested depths Darcy had never suspected.
“What will you do first?”
“Tomorrow I intend to call upon Mr. Bennet. Not to seek his permission—that is between Jane and myself—but to inform him of my intentions and assure him of my seriousness. Then, when the time is right, I shall call upon Jane and make her an offer that leaves no room for doubt about my resolve.”
“What of your sister?”
Bingley’s expression hardened markedly. “Caroline has had ample opportunity to support my happiness. She has chosen instead to pursue her own schemes. I shall be civil, but I will no longer allow her interference in matters that concern only myself.”
Darcy had expected to find his friend after the assembly in need of comfort or counsel and instead discovered a man who had apparently found his own way to resolution. It was, he realised, rather humbling.