Page 5 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Miss Bingley’s smile was razor-sharp. “Then we shall simply have to ensure the right company is present to see it, shall we not? Oh, Louisa,” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, “it is a rare thing, is it not, to see an estate so perfectly ordered as Pemberley ? One would have to envy the lady to preside there.”
Mrs. Hurst tapped her sister’s arm and darted her eyes towards Elizabeth. “Perhaps we should reserve this discussion for a later time.”
“Of course,” Miss Bingley responded with exaggerated sincerity, her eyes dancing mischievously, “but you must admit, sister, that the prize is worth any effort. How splendidly grand it would be!” She leant in again, the whisper almost theatrical.
“Do you think he noticed the wine? Oh, I daresay he did… and quite as I intended. One can rely upon the persuasive qualities of a fine vintage—why, it is the simplest thing in the world.”
Elizabeth averted her eyes, feigning interest in a book from a nearby table.
Miss Bingley’s designs upon Mr. Darcy could not be missed.
She offered a complete study in forwardness, vulgarity, and presumption in pursuing a gentleman.
Had she even given a thought to what a man like Mr. Darcy required in a match?
Miss Bingley’s touted dowry would be as a trifle- surely not enough to tempt a man of his means, who was so difficult to tempt.
His connexions to nobility—had Miss Bingley not made repeated reference to his ‘Uncle the Earl?’ -made laughable the aspirations of the daughter of a tradesman.
Elizabeth reined in the indignation that threatened to rise unchecked.
If Miss Bingley saw fit to cast herself to his notice, it was no concern of Elizabeth’s.
Mr Darcy would surely have no difficulty in defending himself.
Perhaps he would deploy some variation of that infamous line about temptation.
In Miss Bingley’s case, ‘connexions too inferior’ might suffice.
Still, despite her opinion of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth could not approve of such artifice as dosing the entire party with spirits to defeat Mr. Darcy’s defences.
How far might one such as Miss Bingley go in pursuit?
Elizabeth longed to escape—not merely the artifice unfolding before her, but the entire oppressive atmosphere of the house.
She would have walked the three miles to Longbourn with pleasure, had not her sister required her continued care.
Just as she thought to rise and excuse herself, the door opened, and the three gentlemen entered the drawing room.
The brandy, though of excellent vintage, lay heavy atop the succession of wines already pressed upon him.
Darcy swirled the amber liquid in his glass without enthusiasm, the fragrance rising with a potency that seemed almost cloying.
The dining room, now over-warm, pressed in upon him with the mingled odours of sauce, meat, and something exceedingly sweet that had accompanied the syllabub.
A faint dampness gathered at his temples, and he resisted the urge to loosen his cravat.
Hurst, meanwhile, had fallen into his usual sprawl of careless indulgence, his face florid, his speech increasingly animated albeit muzzy. “Never have I encountered a ragout so deliciously rendered!” he declared for the third time. “Caroline has truly surpassed herself!”
Darcy cast him a sidelong glance. Rarely was Hurst’s enthusiasm roused, and more rarely still did it linger past the last course. Yet now his voice was nearly jovial, his gestures uncommonly unrestrained. His eyes shone with more than an appreciation of fine fare.
Across the table, Bingley spoke without pause, his subject as ever the delights of Netherfield’s aspect, the improvements he meant to effect, and—most tellingly—on the many perfections of Miss Jane Bennet.
He had just concluded a soliloquy on her manner of speaking, which he declared “gentle yet spirited, the very image of English womanhood,” when Darcy’s patience began to fray.
“Bingley,” Darcy interjected mildly, “have you quite abandoned the intention of taking up residence in your townhouse this season?”
“Townhouse?” Bingley echoed, his brow furrowing. “Oh—yes. I suppose. But really, Darcy, with such serenity as I find in Hertfordshire, why should I hasten back to London? I see no need to hurry from so agreeable a situation.”
Darcy raised his brows but said nothing.
His glass was refilled again, unbidden, further deepening his unease.
The succession of wines, the richness of each dish, the odd exhilaration he perceived in his companions—it was too much, too deliberate.
The thought intruded that Miss Bingley might have orchestrated the evening’s excess with intention, but he dismissed it.
No lady of sense would behave so vulgarly, and however forward Miss Bingley might be in her attentions, she could hardly—surely would not—go so far.
And yet, she appeared determined to prove him wrong.
The gentlemen’s conversation dwindled, and soon the time apart from the ladies had elapsed.
Hurst rose unsteadily, his expression content but unfocussed.
Bingley, cheeks flushed, and cravat loosened, seemed ready to discourse further on the charm of country living but allowed Darcy to guide them towards the drawing room.
Upon entering, Darcy’s steps slowed of their own accord.
Miss Bingley reclined with the carefree satisfaction of a Bacchante at a festival, and her sister, scarcely more composed, tittered behind a fan.
The scene was one of indulgence, laughter too loud for the hour, postures more suited to a boudoir than a drawing room.
Then—Miss Elizabeth.
She sat upright, her figure calm amidst the disarray, her countenance composed, her eyes clear, attentive.
She held a book, her posture bespeaking both discomfort and resolve, and when her gaze met his—direct, intelligent, wholly untouched by the evening’s excesses—a curious tightening started in his chest. It was not attraction alone.
It was awareness. Whilst the others had yielded to wine and artifice, she alone preserved both sense and composure.
For one disorienting moment, he saw the room through her eyes and straightened.
Bingley was already addressing the ladies, his words flowing too freely, his compliments just a touch too elaborate.
Hurst, markedly worse for wear, wove across the room only to drop onto the most commodious settee near the pianoforte and close his eyes.
Within seconds his snoring provided a sonorous background accompaniment to the crackling fire.
Miss Bingley, noting Darcy’s gaze, adjusted herself on the sofa with languid affectation and patted the cushion beside her in invitation.
He glanced away. He saw it now, as Miss Elizabeth must: a farce. And he, who prided himself on self-command, had nearly allowed himself to be counted among them.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, making his way decidedly past the hostess and towards the chair opposite Miss Elizabeth, “have you found a volume worthy of attention?”
Her lips quirked. “Not entirely, sir. I fear the conversation in the room offers greater diversion than any printed page.”
He inclined his head, suppressing a smile.
For the first time that evening, the company’s noise faded to a tolerable hum, and Darcy sat silently beside Miss Elizabeth. He was content to be still in the company of someone whose judgement had not been clouded by artifice or drink.
Elizabeth’s fingers remained lightly resting on a page of her open book, though her eyes had not moved across its page in some minutes.
The air in the drawing room had grown close, heavy not with warmth but with a mingling of overripe laughter, knowing glances, and the unmistakable reek of wine, thick upon every breath.
Miss Bingley laughed too freely—too shrilly—at a witticism none but herself found clever.
Mrs. Hurst reclined with an expression of lazy triumph, her fan moving in languid half-circles.
The gentlemen had barely been in the room five minutes, yet already Mr. Hurst had sunk into the depths of sleep, and Mr. Bingley’s attempts at gaiety grew increasingly incoherent.
Mr. Darcy, though composed, showed the faintest signs of strain—his gaze a touch unfocussed.
His posture lacked its usual austere perfection.
Suspicion had taken root during the latter courses of dinner.
The lavish application of wines and liqueurs, the nearly indecent warmth with which Miss Bingley spoke of her ‘gracious hospitality’, the studied languor of her posture—it all bespoke an effort of a kind most improper.
Elizabeth’s discomfort deepened into unease with Miss Bingley’s unguarded comments.
Was the purpose of the evening not mere display, but entrapment?
Her eyes drifted to Mr. Darcy. He sat with his brandy untasted, his gaze—too direct, too frequent—fixed once more upon her.
Surely not from admiration. Perhaps she displeased him more thoroughly than the others.
That, at least, would not trouble her. She liked him too little to care about his approbation.
Yet of all the party, he alone maintained decorum.
Miss Bingley called out to him, begging his attention in a manner most unseemly.
Elizabeth looked away at once. The impropriety of it all unsettled her.
Miss Bingley’s scheme was obvious to her, but Mr Darcy, whilst composed, seemed unnaturally subdued. Did he suspect his peril?
She must say something. It was her duty—was it not? —to offer some warning. Surely Mr. Darcy, for all his hauteur, did not deserve to be made the object of such feminine cunning. But how was she to broach such a topic?
She cleared her throat lightly. “Mr. Darcy,” she began, her voice more formal than intended. “I have not dined at Netherfield before to-night. Did you find the courses unusually rich this evening?”