Page 56 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
“That leaves warning the principal families,” said the Colonel. Both he and Darcy turned to Bingley.
“How shall I frame it?” Bingley asked.
“Begin with general concern respecting Wickham’s character,” Fitzwilliam advised.
“Speak of troubling reports from credible sources. Hint to the merchants that he is remiss in his accounts. As for the families, allude—vaguely—to his ruin of a maid. Say nothing that might wound her, but enough to put parents on their guard.”
“It begins to resemble a campaign,” Bingley observed.
“It is a campaign,” Darcy said bluntly. “A campaign to protect the innocent from a dangerous man, when lawful authority will not.”
“Our measures injure no one, save the man with something to conceal,” Fitzwilliam added. “If we stand idle—”
Bingley nodded gravely. “Then we become complicit in his crimes.”
“Precisely.”
They spent the next hour working through details, assigning specific tasks, and establishing methods of communication.
By the time they concluded, they had outlined a comprehensive campaign designed to neutralise Wickham through legal and social means.
They determined it would be wise to solicit the advice of gentlemen of standing in the community, to ensure the support of the town.
“I would be remiss if I failed to mention one final consideration,” Darcy said as they prepared to depart. “Complete discretion is essential. If word of our activities reaches Wickham, we cannot predict how he will act.”
“Or whether he disappears before we can act,” Colonel Fitzwilliam finished. “I understand.”
“As do I,” Bingley agreed. “I shall be relieved when this business is concluded.”
“As shall we all,” Darcy said. “But until it is, we must proceed with both caution and determination.”
Just as they were gathering their papers, the study door burst open without ceremony. Mr. Hurst appeared in the doorway. His face was flushed with uncharacteristic animation and his hair dishevelled as though he had been running.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” he exclaimed, completely oblivious to the startled expressions of the three men. “Just the man I was seeking. I have the most urgent need of your expertise.”
The conspirators froze. Their carefully organised notes were still spread across the table. Darcy made a subtle gesture towards covering the papers, whilst Bingley attempted to look as though they had been discussing nothing more significant than the weather.
“Mr. Hurst,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with admirable composure. “How may I be of service?”
“Swordplay!” Hurst announced with an enthusiasm startling from a man previously incapable of any exertion beyond lifting a fork. “I require instruction in the finer points of swordplay.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Fencing, man! The art of the blade!” Hurst gestured wildly with his arms, nearly knocking over a lamp. “I have been reading the most fascinating treatise on Italian technique, and I am consumed with the desire to master the discipline.”
Darcy and Bingley exchanged incredulous glances. This was the same man who had spent the better part of two years engaging in nothing more athletic than reaching for a second helping of pudding.
“I see,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said carefully. “What has prompted this sudden interest in martial pursuits?”
“A man must have accomplishments!” Hurst declared. “I have neglected my physical condition shamefully, but no more! I intend to transform myself entirely. Already I have begun rising at dawn, taking cold baths, and practising with a walking stick in the garden.”
“With a walking stick?” Bingley asked weakly.
“For want of a proper blade,” Hurst explained earnestly. “Which brings me to my request. Colonel, might I prevail upon you to lend me a sword? Nothing elaborate—a basic weapon suitable for learning the fundamental positions.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked as though he were trying to solve a particularly complex military campaign. “Mr. Hurst, swordplay is a discipline that requires considerable training and—”
“Forsooth, man!” Hurst waved away such concerns. “How difficult can it be? Thrust, parry, advance, retreat. I have observed it done countless times in the theatre. Surely with proper instruction and adequate practice.”
“The theatre,” Darcy repeated faintly.
“Indeed! Most instructive, I suspect the reality involves rather more perspiration than the performances suggest.” Hurst paused, suddenly noticing their papers. “I say, what are you fellows plotting? Military manoeuvres?”
“Estate management,” Bingley said quickly. “Terribly dull stuff.”
“Ah.” Hurst dismissed the subject immediately, his attention returning to his primary concern. “Now then, Colonel, about that sword?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared to be wrestling with his conscience. “Mr. Hurst, whilst I admire your dedication to physical improvement, I feel obliged to point out that swordplay can be extremely dangerous without proper instruction.”
“Which is why I am asking for instruction,” Hurst said reasonably. “I am not such a fool as to attempt it entirely without guidance.”
“The learning process typically takes months, if not years—”
“Then we had best begin immediately!” Hurst declared. “Every moment we delay is a moment wasted. Come now, Colonel, surely you have some basic weapon I might borrow? I promise to be most careful with it.”
The Colonel looked helplessly at his companions, who were enjoying his predicament far too much to offer assistance.
“Very well,” he said finally. “I believe I have a practice foil that might serve. You may ask my batman to provide it to you. But you must promise me you will attempt nothing beyond the most basic positions until you have received proper instruction.”
“Naturally!” Hurst beamed. “I knew I could count upon your military expertise. When might we begin?”
“I suppose we could commence with some elementary positions later this afternoon?”
“Excellent! Capital!” Hurst rubbed his hands together with glee. “I shall meet you in the garden after luncheon. This is just what I needed to complete my transformation.”
With that, he bounded from the room with an energy that left the three men staring after him in amazement.
“Did Hurst just bound?” Bingley asked incredulously.
“I believe he did,” Darcy confirmed. “Did he say something about cold baths and rising at dawn?”
“He did indeed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said slowly. “I daresay I find it difficult to credit.”
“What do you suppose has brought about this remarkable change?” Bingley asked.
“Perhaps he has finally realised that there are pleasures in life beyond those of the table. I believe Mr. Louden spoke with him regarding his health.” Darcy suggested.
“Or perhaps,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a twinkle, “Mrs. Hurst has been paying rather more attention to gentlemen who possess athletic accomplishments.”
They contemplated this possibility in horrified silence for a moment.
The officers’ mess at the Crown was unusually subdued, the usual laughter and cards replaced by a brittle silence and the occasional clink of glass.
Wickham sat with one boot hooked over the leg of his chair, affecting ease, though the set of his jaw betrayed the effort.
A half-drained brandy stood before him, untouched for some time.
Colonel Forster entered with his usual briskness, but his manner to-night was short of temper. He approached Wickham directly.
“Wilkins—if that is the name you prefer to use,” he said low, his voice clipped, “you will explain yourself to me directly. I am pressed with enquiries of the most unwelcome sort. It appears there is reason to doubt both your name and your commission.”
Wickham stood slowly, schooling his expression. “My dear Colonel, I cannot be held responsible for the suspicions of a man who—”
“You can and will answer for the confusion,” Forster snapped. “This is no petty gossip. They have asked for your particulars in writing and requested a copy of your attestation. Which, curiously, cannot be found?”
A pause. Wickham’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Bureaucracy is seldom tidy,” he said.
“You best be sure yours becomes so. And quickly. If it does not, you will not be wearing that coat much longer.”
With that, Forster turned and stalked away, leaving a faint tremor in the silence he left behind. Wickham reached again for the brandy, but before the glass touched his lips, another figure blocked his view.
Lieutenant Denny. His expression was sober.
“You owe me thirty pounds,” he said quietly.
“So, I do,” Wickham replied, summoning a faintly indulgent tone. “The tables have not been kind of late.”
“This is not about cards,” Denny said coolly. “It is about a debt of honour . You gave your word—payment by quarter day. That is a week past. And now all Meryton is whispering that the magistrate may soon come calling. If you mean to disappear, you will not do it owing me.”
Wickham’s hand clenched slowly around the glass, then relaxed.
“You misjudge me,” he said. “I have no intention of vanishing. I simply have… matters to resolve. You will have your money.”
Denny gave him a look of mingled disgust and pity. “See that I do.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Wickham alone once more. The brandy burnt on the way down. Wickham stared into the fireless grate opposite him, where nothing stirred but ash.
Had he only secured the chit’s dowry none of this would have been necessary. He had been so close. So very near. Little Georgiana would have followed him anywhere. Would have given anything. But Darcy had ruined that, ruined it , swooping in just enough authority to pull her back from the edge.
And then that girl at Netherfield—the kitchen maid. The plan had not been flawless, but it had not needed to be. Only convincing. Only convenient. Simply render one man silent. The rest would have fallen into place.
But Hurst had been the one nearly felled. Darcy had barely been sickened. The girl had talked. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had interfered.