Page 54 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

It was Jane who spoke first, but she and Elizabeth were growing concerned.

Lydia had grown quiet—not sullen, but thoughtful in a way wholly unfamiliar.

She no longer burst into rooms with laughter, nor chattered at the breakfast table.

She ate little, asked for nothing, and once declined an invitation to join Kitty in the village, claiming a headache. It was not like her at all.

Lydia was alone in the empty parlour, seated by the window with her embroidery neglected in her lap. She had not yet threaded her needle, though the silks lay neatly arranged beside her. Her gaze was turned outward, unfocussed, towards the gardens, heavy with late summer bloom, beyond the glass.

“We have been watching you for days,” Jane said without reproach. “You are not yourself, Lyddie. Will you not tell me what is amiss?”

Lydia hesitated, fingers tightening over the folded muslin in her lap. Then she straightened.

“Do you remember Mrs. Forster’s invitation?”

Jane nodded. “To Brighton, yes.”

“I have written to decline it.”

Jane’s brow lifted, but she said nothing.

“I told her that I could not be spared. That Mamma had need of me here. But that was not the reason.”

Lydia startled, as if chilled. Her expression, when she turned, was not a mask of gaiety but something more fragile.

“I suppose—I ought to have said earlier.” She glanced at both sisters, then looked down again.

Elizabeth’s brow lifted at this, but she did not interrupt.

Lydia’s fingers fidgeted with the unused linen in her lap. “Do you remember the woman I mentioned? The one I saw in town in that frightful old dress?”

Elizabeth gave a nod. “The former gentlewoman.”

“She invited me to take tea.” Lydia hesitated.

“I thought it might be amusing. But—her house—it was no house at all. Just a kind of hut, with a dirt floor and a broken bed. Her kettle was blackened near through. The tea was thin as water, and there was nothing to eat. Yet her manner of speech was as if she had once hosted callers and danced quadrilles.”

Jane drew closer, still listening.

“She told me what life is like—truly like—with a soldier. How she wakes in the dark, hauls water, cooks every meal herself with no notion what she is doing. How she patches his uniform and prays his temper holds if he drinks too much. She said in Brighton they will live in tents. That girls were ruined last year. That there is no one to protect you.” Lydia whispered. “That love is not enough.”

There was silence for a moment. Elizabeth sat forward slowly, her expression grave.

“I did not know what to say,” Lydia murmured. “I returned yesterday when she was out. I put my spare petticoat and gloves on her stool. The grey gloves—my good pair. I did not say anything, I just … left them inside.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I thought it would be grand. To be admired. To be part of something exciting. But it is not grand. It is just hard, and lonely.”

Jane took her hand in both of hers.

“You did something kind,” she said softly.

Lydia did not answer. But her lips trembled.

“I had only meant to visit someone different. But it was like looking into a mirror turned sideways. The same story—but a different ending.”

Jane patted her hand.

Elizabeth studied Lydia quietly—no teasing, no lecture—just a long, steady look that said more than either of them could voice.

“I do not want to go to Brighton,” Lydia said softly.

“I think,” Elizabeth replied at last, “Your decision is very wise.”

Elizabeth stood at the window of Longbourn’s morning room, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass.

The book she had abandoned lay open on the table, its pages stirring in the draught.

She heard his footsteps before he was announced—she would know that particular cadence anywhere now, measured and deliberate.

“Miss Bennet.”

She turned and curtsied as he bowed.

“Miss Bennet.” Darcy’s voice was formal. “Good morning.”

“Mr. Darcy.” She stood and curtsied. “My father is in his library.”

“I had hoped for a moment of your time, if I may presume so far.”

She inclined her head, gesturing to a chair. “Of course.”

He remained standing. “I come to make an apology. My absence from last week’s assembly was poorly done. I should have been in attendance.”

She glanced at him briefly. “I was not aware your presence was required.”

“You must know why it was.” His tone remained controlled, though something strained beneath it. “After recent… circumstances, I feared my presence would only have occasioned further remark.”

“The neighbourhood will form its opinions regardless of your actions, Mr. Darcy.”

“Perhaps. But I am informed the evening proved particularly trying for you.” He took a step closer, then checked himself. “I should not have allowed you to bear that alone.”

“I am not so fragile as you seem to suppose.” She moved to the window again, unable to sustain his careful gaze. “I have weathered worse than local gossip.”

“I do not doubt your fortitude, Miss Bennet. But there are considerations—when a gentleman, even unknowingly, compromises a lady’s situation—”

“You were insensible.” She turned sharply. “How can a man be held accountable for what passes in delirium?”

“The consequences remain, regardless of sensibility.” His voice carried an edge of frustration.

A silence fell. Darcy shifted his weight, then spoke carefully.

“There are matters of propriety to consider. When a gentleman’s conduct, however inadvertent, places a lady in an uncomfortable position, certain obligations arise. ”

“I want nothing of obligation sir.” The words came out more forcefully than intended. “I make no claims upon you, demand no recompense. You are perfectly free of any obligation.”

“Society may view the matter differently.”

“Society may view it however it chooses.” She moved to stand behind a chair, her hands resting on its back. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I require nothing from you. No acknowledgement, no reparation, nothing.”

A flash of what might have been hurt appeared in his face before his features composed themselves. “I see. You are quite decided.”

“Entirely.”

“Then I have been labouring under a misapprehension.” He moved toward the door with rigid precision. “I had thought—but it matters not. You have made your sentiments abundantly clear.”

“Mr. Darcy—”

He paused without turning fully. “Miss Bennet?”

The rain drummed harder against the windows. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand clenched at his side. The reply she sought would not form.

“I… that is…” She faltered, trapped by propriety and her own cowardice.

“Pray, do not distress yourself.” His voice had gone carefully neutral. “I understand perfectly. You wish nothing from me save distance.”

“That is not—” But how could she say what it was not without confessing what it was?

He bowed again, perfectly correct. “I shall trouble you no further with unwanted apologies.”

At the door, he hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was so low she barely caught the words. “Whatever you may think of me, Miss Bennet, know that you have my deepest… that I hold you in the highest regard.”

“Regard,” she repeated softly.

“Forgive me. I lack the words.” For a moment, his composure cracked, and she glimpsed something raw beneath. “There are not words enough for—” He stopped himself and turned. “I shall respect your wishes. Good morning.”

She remained at the window long after he had gone, watching his figure disappear into the rain. Her reflection stared back from the glass—pale, composed, giving nothing away. Just as propriety demanded.

“Regard,” she whispered to the empty room, sinking into the chair. Her book lay forgotten as she stared at the place where he had stood.

The sun slanted through the windows of the small parlour Mrs. Forster had claimed during the regiment’s stay in Meryton, casting long lines across the Turkish rug and gilded fringe of her gown.

Lydia Bennet sat with uncharacteristic composure, her gloves folded, and her expression carefully arranged.

“My dear Miss Lydia,” said Mrs. Forster, turning from the window. “You cannot mean it. After all your eagerness, your talk of promenades and music by the sea—and that charming little bonnet you said you would reserve for seaside wear—how am I to believe it? You are not coming to Brighton?”

Lydia summoned a light laugh. “Oh! I am as disappointed as you, I assure you. But I am not permitted to come. Papa has decided against it. Something about timing, and the household, and impropriety—honestly, I did not attend very closely.” She feigned a mournful sigh. “I could not argue the point.”

Mrs. Forster sounded affronted. “It is not as though Brighton is Babylon. You would be with me , after all.”

“I explained that,” Lydia said lightly. “But he would not hear of it.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I believe he has taken a particular dislike to my happiness.”

Mrs. Forster gave an inelegant sniff. “Well, it is insupportable. I had looked forward to a lively summer, and now I must make do with the wives of captains and lieutenants—every one of them as tedious as tepid tea. One cannot so much as mention a card table without being preached at about frugality and virtue.”

“I am so very sorry to disappoint you.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Forster fidgeted with the fringe on the upholstery of the chair. “There is nothing to be done for it, I suppose. You, at least, would have kept me in spirits. We should have danced every night. Now I am to be quite alone, like a governess sent to oversee the morals of the camp.”

“You will not be without entertainment,” Lydia offered, the smile returning—slight, but sincere. “I have made a new acquaintance. A most interesting one.”

“Oh?”