Page 51 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“To stretch beside,” he said, already unbuttoning his cuffs. “I shall begin with elevated arm rotations and controlled spinal extensions. Guts Muths recommends four repetitions with gradual breath.”

He raised both arms overhead with a deliberate sweep, interlacing his fingers and rotating his shoulders backward in a slow, circular motion.

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Hurst, her gaze following the line of his shoulder with surprising attentiveness. “Perhaps I shall observe, for curiosity’s sake.”

Miss Bingley blinked. “Louisa!”

But Mrs. Hurst did not answer. She had risen from her chair and was watching her husband with the speculative gaze of a woman who had very nearly forgotten the man had shoulders.

Colonel Forster had the air of a man interrupted from more pressing concerns—namely, the contents of a brandy bottle and, prominently on the table, a hand of cards laid out for solitaire.

Though the morning was well advanced, he seemed to have neglected to complete his toilette, his uniform bearing the wrinkled appearance of hasty assembly.

“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said with perfunctory politeness, gesturing towards chairs that had seen better days. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a brief glance with Darcy before beginning. “We have come regarding one of your officers. A Mr. George Wickham. He is known to you as George Wilkins.”

“Wilkins?” Forster’s expression showed mild interest, as though trying to recall which of many subordinates bore that name. “Ah yes, agreeable fellow. Popular with the ladies, I am told. What of him?”

“The man currently serving under that name in your regiment,” Darcy said carefully, “is not who he claims to be. His true name is George Wickham, and he has a considerable history of questionable conduct.”

Forster reached for his brandy glass with cool unconcern. “Indeed? Well, many men seek a fresh start in His Majesty’s service. Rather, the point of military life, would you not say?”

“No, I would not. And this goes rather beyond seeking a fresh start,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone gained a harder edge. “The man is a known gambler, a seducer of young women, and has run up considerable bad debts. He has been accused of theft on multiple occasions.”

“Accused,” Forster repeated, taking a leisurely sip. “That is not the same as proven, is it?”

Darcy leant forward. “Colonel Forster, we have reason to believe this man may have been involved in the recent illness that befell several guests at Netherfield. An illness that was intentionally inflicted and coincided with his presence in the vicinity.”

This accusation should have prompted immediate attention from any responsible commanding officer. Instead, Forster merely shrugged.

“Illness, you say. Well, these things happen. Bad fish, perhaps, or something disagreeing with tender constitutions. Hardly a matter for military investigation.”

“Sir,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his patience visibly straining, “we are suggesting the possibility of deliberate poisoning.”

“Are you?” Forster’s tone carried mild amusement. “That is quite an accusation to make without proof. Even if true, what would you have me do? Court-martial a man for having an unfortunate effect on dinner parties?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “We would have you investigate the matter. Question the man about his true identity, examine his background, inquire about his debts and determine whether he poses a danger to the community you are sworn to protect.”

“My dear Mr. Darcy,” Forster said with patronising calm, “I appreciate your civic concern, truly I do. But my responsibilities lie with maintaining order among my men and ensuring they are fit for duty. Wilkins—or whatever his name may be—performs his duties adequately and causes me no trouble. Beyond that, I see little reason for interference.”

“Little reason?” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice had taken on the clipped articulation that preceded military action. “Sir, this man is a danger to every respectable family in the neighbourhood. His pattern of behaviour suggests—”

“Suggests what?” Forster interrupted with growing irritation. “That he enjoys feminine company? That he plays cards? Good Lord, Colonel, if I dismissed every officer who engaged in such pursuits, I would have no regiment left.”

“We are speaking of seduction, fraud, and possible poisoning,” Darcy said coldly. “Not mere social indiscretions.”

Forster’s expression hardened decidedly. “I am speaking of wild accusations made by gentlemen who seem remarkably eager to blacken a man’s character without offering so much as a shred of concrete evidence.”

The silence that followed this statement was charged with tension. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face had gone very still in the way that experienced soldiers recognised as dangerous.

“Colonel Forster,” he said with deadly quiet, “are you suggesting that Mr. Darcy and I are lying?”

“I am suggesting,” Forster replied with the confidence of a man secure in his position, “that you may be mistaken in your suspicions. These country neighbourhoods do breed gossip, after all. Perhaps you have been listening to the wrong sort of talk.”

Darcy rose abruptly, his control finally fraying. “This interview is pointless. We have provided you with information about a potentially dangerous individual under your command, and you choose to ignore it entirely.”

“I choose to avoid acting on unsubstantiated rumours,” Forster corrected with smug satisfaction. “That is the conduct required of responsible leadership.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam also stood, his bearing radiating the sort of controlled fury that made lesser men step back. “Responsible leadership, sir, involves protecting those under your authority. It involves investigating credible threats rather than dismissing them out of convenience.”

“I will thank you not to lecture me about my duties,” Forster snapped, his veneer of politeness finally slipping. “I have been a colonel longer than you, sir, and I do not require instruction from officers whose primary experience lies in drawing-rooms rather than battlefields.”

The insult hung in the air like a gauntlet. For a moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked as though he might respond in a manner that would require satisfaction at dawn. Instead, he executed a military bow that somehow managed to convey utter contempt.

“Your servant, Colonel,” he said with arctic formality. “Come, Darcy. We have exhausted the possibilities of rational discourse in this quarter.”

As they reached the door, Forster called after them with alcoholic joviality. “Do try not to trouble yourselves overmuch about young Wilkins. I am sure he is quite harmless. Even if he were not, these things have a way of sorting themselves out without unnecessary interference.”

The door closed behind them with deliberate quiet, but both men could feel the dismissive laughter that followed their departure.

They walked in tense silence until they had put considerable distance between themselves and the regimental quarters. Finally, Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke, his voice tight with suppressed anger.

“That,” he said, “was one of the most disgraceful exhibitions of negligence I have ever witnessed from a British officer.”

Darcy’s own anger was colder but no less intense. “He has no intention of investigating anything that might require actual effort or create inconvenience for himself.”

“Did you see the state of his quarters? The brandy at ten in the morning? The cards?” Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head in disgust. “The man is a disgrace to his uniform.”

“A disgrace with sufficient connexions to maintain his position regardless of competence,” Darcy observed bitterly. “His wife’s family has influence in the Horse Guards, I believe.”

“Ah yes, the child bride.” The Colonel’s tone dripped disdain. “Sixteen years old when he married her, with a dowry of fifteen thousand pounds. One can hardly imagine what qualities recommended him to her parents beyond his rank and her fortune.”

They walked on. Each was lost in his own dark thoughts about the implications of what they had just witnessed.

“What troubles me most,” Darcy said finally, “is not merely Forster’s refusal to act, but his complete indifference to the welfare of those he is supposed to protect.

Wickham could seduce half the young women in Hertfordshire, steal from every household that receives him, or poison a dozen dinner parties, and Forster would not lift a finger so long as it required no effort on his part. ”

“It is worse than indifference,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied grimly. “It is active negligence.”

“What does that say about the community’s protection when those charged with maintaining order refuse to do so?”

The Colonel stopped walking, his expression troubled. “It says that honest people are left to fend for themselves whilst rogues operate with impunity. When those in authority abdicate their responsibilities, justice becomes a private matter rather than a public trust.”

“Private justice breeds vigilantism, vendetta, and chaos.” Darcy’s voice carried the weight of genuine concern.

“How many young women will Wickham deceive whilst Forster concerns himself with cards and brandy? How many families will suffer because an officer cannot be troubled to investigate credible threats?”

“The worst part,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with bitter accuracy, “is that men like Forster never suffer the consequences of their negligence. They are insulated by rank, connexions, and privilege. It is always others who pay the price for their failures.”

They resumed walking, but their pace was slower now, weighted by the implications of their failed interview.