Page 57 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
“No more accidents,” he muttered. “No more games. If it is to be done—”
He did not finish the thought, but his eyes remained fixed on the grate, as if something waited there to answer him.
As Darcy, Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam concluded their business and prepared to leave, the sound of vigorous activity in the garden drew them to the window. There, in full view of anyone who cared to observe, Mr. Hurst was engaged in what could only generously be described as swordplay.
Wearing what appeared to be an improvised costume consisting of his shirt sleeves, riding breeches, and boots, he was wielding Colonel Fitzwilliam’s practice foil with tremendous enthusiasm and absolutely no discernible technique.
His movements bore no resemblance to any recognisable form of swordsmanship, resembling instead a man attempting to beat carpet whilst simultaneously fighting off a swarm of particularly aggressive wasps.
“Good God,” Bingley breathed. “Is he supposed to be doing that?”
“Emphatically not,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, looking horrified. “I specifically told him to wait for instruction.”
“Perhaps we should intervene?” Darcy suggested.
“Perhaps we should simply enjoy the spectacle,” Bingley countered. “When shall we next have the opportunity to witness such creative interpretation of martial arts?”
Hurst executed what might have been intended as a lunge but resulted instead in a wild stumble that carried him halfway across the lawn.
Undeterred, he recovered his footing and immediately launched into a series of cuts and thrusts that would have been devastating to any opponent composed entirely of air and wishful thinking.
“You see before you a thorough explanation,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with resigned amusement, “of why military training typically begins with basic drill rather than advanced swordplay.”
“Look there,” Darcy pointed. “it appears he is attempting to recreate the duel scene from Hamlet.”
Indeed, Hurst’s movements had taken on a decidedly theatrical quality, complete with dramatic poses and what sounded like dialogue with an imaginary opponent.
“To be, or not to be,” Bingley quoted softly, “that is the question.”
“Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” Darcy continued, “or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them.”
“Or,” Colonel Fitzwilliam concluded with perfect timing as Hurst executed a particularly spectacular stumble, “to take up arms without any earthly idea how to use them and provide entertainment for one’s friends.”
Hurst continued his energetic assault upon the unoffending air. Darcy was privately grateful for this moment of levity after their serious deliberations.
“I suppose,” Darcy said finally, “that we all require our diversions.”
“Indeed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed. “I do hope his enthusiasm for physical improvement proves durable -for both his health and the diverting exhibition.”
The last of the daylight lingered in the sky as two girls from the butcher’s lingered by the pump near the square, a tin bucket between them and no particular hurry to finish the errand.
They had been sent for water, or so they claimed, but neither seemed especially burdened by duty.
Gossip, after all, was a form of currency—and Meryton had been rich in speculation of late.
“Dismissed from Netherfield with a full belly, and now they say she was sent to the country.”
“The one who thought herself so high? Why, she had a sweetheart.”
“She did, or so she claimed. Some fine gentleman with money and a red coat. Only now—” Her voice dropped. “She was talking. About what he did. About the mushrooms. Miss Elizabeth Bennet has been asking questions. And they say she asked by name— Wilkins .”
The bucket jolted and rang against the gravel as they caught sight of Wickham rounding the corner. The last flare of sunset threw his shadow long before him. One girl flushed scarlet; the other dipped a curtsy. Her eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
“Ladies,” Wickham greeted, his smile bright and false. “You honour the evening with your charms.”
Neither replied. The iron handle of the pump groaned as one bent hastily to fill the bucket, her hands unsteady.
“What was it you whispered just now? Surely no secret from me.”
“Only of the maid who left Netherfield, sir.” the bolder one stammered.
“Ah.” His tone was pleasant, though his eyes had gone cold. “And Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Her name was mentioned, was it not?”
The second girl’s cheeks flamed. “Some say she asks too many questions,” she muttered.
“And what more?” Wickham pressed, still smiling, his voice still smooth but heavy. “That she is much in Mr. Darcy’s company, perhaps?”
Both girls shrank back, their curtsies jerking and awkward. “It is only servants’ talk, sir. We must be home.” They dragged the bucket between them as they hurried away, water slopping, their footsteps sharp against the stones, their whispers faster and more urgent than before.
“Of course.” He stepped aside with a bow.
Wickham watched them vanish into the gloom.
His smile fell away like a mask in the dust. He tugged off his gloves finger by finger, the genteel trappings of courtesy cast aside, and the square seemed to grow colder.
The only sound was the slow drip of the pump into the trough.
Invitations had dwindled; creditors pressed; young ladies had turned cautious.
He could feel society contracting about him, the circle narrowing.
And at the centre of it all, Elizabeth Bennet—
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said aloud, the name a quiet incantation.
Too clever by half. Her name was already linked with Darcy’s in drawing-rooms, her virtue questioned.
If she were dear to him, then to ruin her would strike him deepest. And if she were instead as easy as rumour suggested—she might yet be bent to serve his ends.
He drew a long breath, eyes narrowing as the last light drained from the square. Society might be shutting its doors, but he would not fall alone.