Page 58 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

C aroline Bingley stood at the drawing room window of Netherfield, watching with growing alarm as Mr. Darcy rode purposefully towards the lane that led to Meryton.

This was the third time in as many days that he had set out in that direction, and each return had found him more resolved, more determined, and—most distressing of all—more apparently honour-bound to defend Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Her carefully laid plans were not merely failing. They were producing quite the opposite effect she had intended. Instead of driving Darcy away from the Bennet family, the gossip she had so artfully encouraged seemed to have awakened every chivalrous instinct he possessed.

“Louisa,” she said sharply to her sister, who was absorbed in a fashion magazine, “we must call upon Mrs. Goulding this morning.”

“Must we?” Louisa replied without looking up. “I had rather hoped to remain with Reginald today. He will be demonstrating his mastery of the leaping pole today.”

Miss Bingley sighed. “I cannot comprehend your fascination with Mr. Hurst’s athletic demonstrations.”

“I am sure you cannot, sister,” Mrs. Hurst replied with a sly grin. “Were you a married woman, you might understand.”

Miss Bingley looked heavenward, then pressed on.

“Will you not join me in paying a call? It is essential that I make haste to speak with the local ladies,” Miss Bingley said, her voice tight with barely controlled panic. “There are misunderstandings that require clarification.”

“What sort of misunderstandings?”

“The sort that could have unfortunate consequences if left unchecked.”

“Consequences to whom?” Mrs. Hurst asked.

Miss Bingley stumbled, unable to confess that her mission to capture Mr. Darcy was now on a course to failure due to her miscalculations.

“Never mind. Enjoy the spectacle of Mr. Hurst’s endeavours. I will go on my own.”

An hour later, Miss Bingley was seated in Mrs. Goulding’s cramped drawing room, surrounded by the very ladies with whom she had been carefully cultivating an understanding regarding the Miss Eliza Bennet’s shortcomings and her own clear superiority in all matters of taste, elegance and right behaviour.

Mrs. Goulding, Mrs. Long, and Miss Robinson had assembled for their regular morning gossip session, and Miss Bingley had positioned herself to appear as though she were reluctantly sharing information rather than eagerly spreading it.

“I have been reflecting on our recent conversations,” Miss Bingley began carefully, “and I fear there may have been wrong impressions about certain incidents involving Miss Eliza Bennet.”

The ladies exchanged glances. Mrs. Goulding, who had been regarding Miss Bingley with barely concealed suspicion since her arrival, leant forward with interest.

“What sort of wrong impression, Miss Bingley?”

“Well, you must understand, I was not myself present during the evening in question. I was thoroughly indisposed as were my sister and brother. We were all sick unto death from the poison that kitchen maid put in our dinner,” Miss Bingley said, attempting to sound reasonable and measured.

“Upon further consideration, I believe the later circumstances may have been entirely innocent.”

“Innocent?” Mrs. Long’s eyebrows rose pointedly. “But you yourself suggested that her behaviour was most improper. You specifically said that Miss Elizabeth was discovered in a state of undress, alone with Mr. Darcy—”

“Oh no, I fear you may have misunderstood,” Miss Bingley interrupted, voice tight. “I merely meant to express concern for any misinterpretation that might arise from what was undoubtedly a simple act of Christian charity.”

“Miss Bingley,” Mrs. Long said coldly, “I distinctly recall you spoke of grave concerns for her reputation.”

“I was simply—that is—I wished to prevent harm from idle speculation.”

“Idle speculation?” Mrs. Long snapped. “You accuse us of that?”

“Of course not! Only that perhaps we were overly concerned about what may have been innocent.”

“How remarkably charitable of you,” Miss Robinson drawled. “Curious that forgiveness should overtake you so suddenly.”

Mrs. Goulding’s smile was razor-sharp. “Fascinating. For I recall you declaring the Bennets unfit for association with ‘persons of consequence.’ Did you not?”

Miss Bingley flushed. “I may have spoken unwisely—”

“As I recall,” Miss Robinson pressed, “you said young ladies of inferior breeding ought not to gain consequence through the attention of their betters. I believe I recall your using the word ‘entrapment.’”

Miss Bingley looked around in horror.

“Tell me,” Mrs. Goulding leant back, “what brings about this remarkable transformation in your opinion of Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“I simply, upon reflection, realise that hasty judgements—”

“Hasty judgements?” Mrs. Long cut in. “From a lady who spent months cataloguing her families’ shortcomings?”

“I never intended—”

“Oh, but I think you did intend,” Miss Robinson said with a deadly stare. “You meant to establish yourself as our authority on propriety.”

“You cannot think I sought to give offence!” Miss Bingley cried, rising abruptly. “Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave.”

“Perhaps it would,” Mrs. Goulding agreed with sweet venom. “Tell me, Miss Bingley—does this sudden desire to defend Miss Elizabeth’s reputation have anything to do with a certain gentleman defending her character?”

The shot hit home. Miss Bingley went white, then red, then white again.

“I cannot take your meaning,” she managed.

“Of course you cannot,” Miss Robinson said smoothly. “Just as your interest in keeping Miss Elizabeth’s reputation compromised lasted only long enough to discourage any serious attentions.”

“I think,” Mrs. Long added with exquisite politeness, “you will find our neighbourhood less welcoming in the future. Word travels, you know.”

Miss Bingley fled. She burst through the front door and into her carriage, her face burning, her position in local society in ruins. As it rolled away, laughter followed her—not polite amusement, but the delighted revenge of women she had underestimated.

“Sir William,” Darcy said as they were shown into the drawing room at Lucas Lodge, “we find ourselves in need of your counsel on a matter of some delicacy.”

Sir William Lucas beamed with the satisfaction of a man whose expertise was being recognised by his social superiors. “Gentlemen, I am entirely at your service. Pray, how may I assist you?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leant forward. “We have, as you know, been reviewing the work of Mr. Harding, the magistrate. There are certain questions which must be addressed. We are seeking your advice, as a leader in the community, to understand how best to approach him with information of a sensitive nature.”

“Ah,” Sir William’s expression grew thoughtful. “Mr. Harding. Yes, I believe I can be of considerable assistance there. You wish to present him with evidence that might challenge his conclusions, I presume?”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied. “But we have reason to believe the matter must be handled with particular care. As one who has long known him, perhaps you might advise us the best course.”

Sir William nodded sagely. “Mr. Harding is an excellent magistrate, though he has his particular areas of interest. Might I inquire as to the nature of the information in question?”

“It is apparent that Mr. Wilkins—one of the militia officers currently stationed in Meryton—has enlisted under a false name and may be involved in various criminal activities.”

“Including,” Colonel Fitzwilliam added grimly, “fraud and possible involvement in the poisoning.”

Sir William’s eyebrows rose. “Most serious allegations indeed. However, if I may offer some guidance based on my long acquaintance with Mr. Harding.” He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“The good magistrate is, shall we say, more readily stirred to action by certain sorts of crime than others.”

“What do you mean?” Darcy asked.

“Mr. Harding is descended from a family of merchants,” Sir William explained tactfully.

“His grandfather made a considerable fortune in trade, and the magistrate has always maintained a particular sensitivity to matters involving financial fraud or theft of property. He is ever disposed to prefer the plainest course—particularly when it spares him the inconvenience of questioning those of consequence. A servant girl offers a most convenient culprit.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned. “Are you suggesting he would be less concerned about attempted murder than about theft?”

“Not less concerned, precisely,” Sir William said diplomatically.

“Rather, I would suggest that matters of poison and violence may strike him as somewhat theoretical. Whereas fraud against local merchants would represent an immediate and tangible threat to the wellbeing of the community at large, and the merchants in particular.”

Darcy stared at him. “You are saying we should emphasise Wickham’s financial crimes over his involvement in nearly killing Hurst?”

“I am saying,” Sir William replied with a knowing smile, “that Mr. Harding’s zeal for justice burns brightest when property rights are threatened. Lead with what will motivate him most strongly, and the other matters will follow naturally.”

An hour later, the three men sat in Mr. Harding’s study, a room that bore clear evidence of its owner’s merchant origins. Ledgers lined the shelves, and the furniture was solid and practical rather than fashionable.

Mr. Harding greeted Sir William warmly but regarded Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam with the careful attention of one assessing potential threats.

“Sir William tells me you gentlemen have information about criminal activity in our district,” he said. “What can you tell me?”

Following Sir William’s advice, Darcy began with the financial accusations. “We have discovered that one of the militia officers has been defrauding local merchants.”

Mr. Harding’s attention focussed immediately. “How?”