Page 50 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

WE ARE WEAK, BECAUSE IT NEVER ENTERS INTO OUR THOUGHTS, THAT WE MIGHT BE STRONG IF WE PLEASED.

IF we have ceafed to be as healthy and ftrong as our anceftors, the fault is wholly in ourfelves, not in nature.

Suppofing this to be the cafe, then it depends upon our efforts, to roufe our faculties from their lethargic Hate, and become again favage picls !

T he Colonel strolled in as one who had been waiting all morning for an argument. “I am certain you will wish to know what I heard,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, shutting the door behind him. Darcy looked up from the window, his brow furrowed. “What have you heard?”

“That your name is being dragged through the servants’ halls of every estate between here and Hertford.” The Colonel’s tone was grave. “But more to the point—Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s is.”

Darcy said nothing.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped closer. “Is it true?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “That I was insensible? Yes. That Miss Bennet remained with me to seek assistance? Also, true.” He paused, choosing his words with care.

“As to what passed whilst I was delirious, I would not say with certainty. But I will swear to this: nothing in her conduct then or since has been anything but proper.”

“You cannot remember?” The Colonel’s voice sharpened with concern.

“Fragments only. Voices. Shadows.” Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Whatever occurred, the fault would be mine entirely. I was not myself, and she was attempting to help.”

“But it does not matter, does it?” The Colonel’s voice lowered. “They say you were alone. That she lingered in the dark with you. Now the talk grows louder, not less.”

Darcy turned. “I had hoped it would pass.”

“It will not. Not unless someone puts an end to it.”

Darcy, arms crossed, replied without looking up. “I was hardly aware at the time.”

“Oh, splendid,” the Colonel snapped. “Ruin a girl and then plead delirium. Very chivalrous.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I did not ruin her.”

“No? You were alone, at night, your clothes in disarray, with a young lady in the dark. If this reaches Town—”

“It will not reach Town.”

The colonel stepped closer. “You are lucky it has not reached the Lord Chamberlain already. I should report you myself.”

“Enough,” Darcy said quietly. “You need not shout. The point has been made.”

“I shall stop shouting,” Fitzwilliam replied, with theatrical restraint, “when you stop behaving like an idiot.”

From the hallway, just beyond the partially closed door, came a subtle intake of breath—feminine, sharp, and not nearly as concealed as its owner believed.

The Colonel gave Darcy a bland look. “She deserves reparation, Fitz.”

“I am aware.”

“Then make it.” Fitzwilliam crossed his arms with exaggerated weariness. “You will offer for her.”

Darcy met his eye. “My honour is engaged.”

“Even if it ruins you in society’s eyes?”

Darcy’s voice was level. “If she is ruined and I stand by, I am ruined also—but not in society’s eyes. In my own.”

The Colonel nodded slowly. “Then you had best do it soon. Before the gossip grows teeth.”

There was silence for a beat.

Then Fitzwilliam added, with just enough dryness to carry beyond the door, “She may not be your equal in fortune or consequence, but she is worth ten of anyone else in this house.”

Darcy said nothing—but his expression answered.

From the other side of the door, the faintest whisper of retreat—heavier than a servant’s step. The sort of movement that always meant Miss Bingley.

They waited.

After a beat, Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. “Do you think she took the bait?”

“I believe she swallowed the hook, the line, and most of the rod.”

It was by accident that Lydia overheard it.

She and Kitty had gone into the shop for ribbons—nothing extravagant, just something to freshen a bonnet.

Truly, their interest was rather more in the red-coated officers milling around the village.

Kitty had lingered near the lace counter, but Lydia, restless, wandered towards the open doorway.

The breeze brought the scent of horses and sun-warmed dust—and voices.

Two men stood just outside the awning. One was a red-coated officer with a pipe, the other unmistakably Mr. Wilkins, coat unbuttoned and smile at the ready. She could see only part of his profile, but she knew that slant of brow, the confident ease of his stance.

Their words drifted in, caught on the air. The breeze shifted, and for a moment, Lydia could hear clearly.

“You are determined, then?” the officer asked.

Wilkins gave a low chuckle. “Determined? My dear fellow, I never pursue unless I am certain of success. She is quite willing, if a little green.”

“Too young?” the officer asked with a scoff.

Wilkins’s answer came smoothly. “The law has no quarrel—and her mother would likely tie the chit’s bonnet herself. She’s lively, untouched, and convinced she is the first to turn my head.”

The other man gave a short laugh. “Miss Lydia is a nice armful.”

Wilkins did not deny it. He gave a satisfied hum. “A few more walks, a few more smiles. She will follow me to Brighton tomorrow happily.”

“Like Bet followed you to the still-room?” the man said, half under his breath.

Wilkins’s tone turned amused. “Ah, Bet. Foolish girl. Now I reckon she lost her position and is halfway to the country, with a belly and no name to give the babe. She thought my attention was affection. That was her mistake. She was old enough to know better.”

“She thought you would marry her.”

Wilkins scoffed. “She should have thought harder.”

The officer laughed without humour. “You always did prefer the ones who have not learned to be wary.”

Wilkins’s voice turned smooth. “They are the easiest to convince it is love.”

The other man laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound.

“When you tire of her?”

Wilkins’s shrug was nearly audible. “I would share. There are always other men in Brighton.”

The wind shifted again, stealing the rest. Lydia stood very still, her fingers frozen on the edge of a display of bonnet pins.

She did not move until the men had walked on.

When Kitty called to her, Lydia turned at once, her smile quick and bright as always. “This one will do,” Kitty said, holding up a pale blue ribbon. “It suits me, does it not?”

Lydia nodded distractedly. But she did not glance towards the door again.

Later, when she returned home, she did not mention Mr. Wilkins at all.

Miss Bingley entered the Hurst’s sitting room with a sense of noble urgency, lips pressed in solemn thought, and sat, hands folded as if she mourned the decline of gentility itself.

Mrs. Hurst glanced up from her embroidery. “You look like a governess about to correct a child.”

“I have been reflecting,” Miss Bingley announced, taking the chair nearest the fire and stroking the silk of her skirts, “that our recent unpleasantness has given rise to much uncharitable talk. It is time we take steps to restore harmony.”

Mrs. Hurst blinked. “We? Uncharitable? What talk?”

“Idle nonsense, Louisa,” she said airily. “But it would not do for others to misconstrue Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s conduct—nor Mr. Darcy’s motives. The very idea is grotesque. I shall speak in her favour.”

“Speak of what?” Mrs. Hurst asked slowly.

“I shall remark—lightly, of course—that she is entirely respectable. Unfashionable, perhaps, but earnest . People like earnestness. It disarms malice.”

Mrs. Hurst set down her embroidery. “But you have said quite the opposite for weeks.”

Miss Bingley drew herself up. “Then it shall be hoped that no one listened to me when I spoke.”

Before Mrs. Hurst could reply, Mr. Hurst entered the room, breathing rather heavily and carrying what appeared to be a large German volume bound in calfskin.

“I require a space of ten feet by fifteen,” he declared, “free of all chairs and footstools.”

Miss Bingley turned. “For what purpose?”

“Conditioning,” he said, with the same gravity he once reserved for port. “The German method, you see. Guts Muths. Magnificent fellow. Advocates bounding, swinging, and elevated jumps. Also, something called Rückenbeugen , rearward extensions of the trunk to cultivate fortitude and balance.”

Mrs. Hurst looked alarmed. “Reginald, have you taken a chill?”

“Quite the opposite. I have added stewed carrots and bran to my regimen, and I intend to perform a series of light vaults before dinner. Possibly over the billiards table.”

Miss Bingley blinked. “You will do no such thing in this house.”

But Mr. Hurst had already opened the book to an engraving of a youth dangling from a beam by his knees. He displayed it to the ladies.

“Have we a beam somewhere that would suit?”

“Perhaps in the stables.” Mrs. Hurst said helpfully.

“Whatever for, Hurst?” Miss Bingley said with disdain.

“Agility, Caroline. It is the foundation of all disciplined movement.” He tapped the page before him with great solemnity. “Guts Muths prescribes a regimen of vaulting, leaping, and spinal articulation. Quite German, very invigorating.”

Mrs. Hurst, reclining with a shawl about her shoulders, glanced over her embroidery hoop. “Spinal articulation?”

“Back flexions. Bounding strides. Also elevated jumps and trunk reversions.”

“Reversing your trunk sounds inadvisable,” Miss Bingley muttered.

But Mrs. Hurst lowered her sewing. “Is it truly meant to be done without support?”

“With a chair or rope to guide the motion,” he said. “Or against a wall if needed. I expect to progress rapidly.”

There was a pause.

Mrs. Hurst studied him with fresh interest. “Have you already begun?”

“This morning. Twenty curvatures and a series of knee bends. I mean to attempt light vaults this afternoon.”

“Well,” she said, setting aside her work, “you do look remarkably flushed.”

Miss Bingley made a most inelegant sound of derision.

Hurst ignored her. “I require a clear space here. The footstool must be placed away from the chair.”

“To vault over?” Miss Bingley asked dryly.