Page 6 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
His brows lifted minutely. “I confess, Miss Bennet, that I did find them notable.”
The heat rose to her cheeks. Did he understand her meaning? “I suppose I only meant that such fare might be … fatiguing. Particularly when accompanied by so generous a cellar.”
He inclined his head. “The wine did flow liberally,” he agreed neutrally.
Her courage faltered. To suggest that Miss Bingley—a woman of his acquaintance, a hostess in her own home—might stoop to so unseemly a plot? Might he be insulted, or worse, amused? He might even suppose her jealous.
A silence stretched between them. Elizabeth forced a smile, then turned abruptly and stood. “I must look in on my sister,” she announced, directing her remark vaguely to the room at large. “She was rather fatigued before dinner, and I should not like her to be wanting anything.”
Neither Mrs. Hurst nor Miss Bingley seemed to mark her departure. Mr. Bingley waved his hand vaguely in acknowledgement, and Mr. Darcy, though he alone rose at her movement, did not speak.
The corridor beyond the drawing room was dim and cool. Elizabeth took a steadying breath. The noise behind her faded to a low hum, and her thoughts cleared with distance.
As she made her way past the staircase, a familiar figure approached.
Thomas, one of the under-footmen, had entered service at Netherfield that summer.
He had grown up in a tenant family at Longbourn.
A few years older than Elizabeth, he had been one of the local lads she looked up to as a child.
He halted and gave her a respectful bow.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “May I be of assistance?”
She looked about—there was no one nearby—and lowered her voice. “Thomas, I beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, but… I wonder the household served such a… generous quantity of wine during dinner. Is that now the custom?”
He hesitated. “No, miss. Not until very lately. Mr. Hegarty has received particular instructions regarding the wine service these past evenings.”
Her eyes narrowed. “From whom?”
“I could not say with certainty, miss,” he replied. “Miss Bingley wished the gentlemen to be ‘comfortably attended.’” He hesitated, then added, “Cook thought it odd.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “Thomas, may I ask for your discretion? If you see Mr. Darcy appear … impaired in any way, I should be very grateful if you ensure he comes to no harm. He ought not to be on his own or with … anyone. Perhaps you might convey a word to his man?”
His expression sobered at once. “Of course, miss. I shall see to it.”
“In confidence, if you please. I do not wish to bring embarrassment to any party—only to prevent mischief.”
“You may rely upon me, miss.”
She nodded and moved past him, her stride quickening.
She would return to the drawing room once her countenance betrayed no unease.
She could not forget Miss Bingley’s whispered triumphs, nor the unfocussed look in Mr. Darcy’s eyes as he sat in the drawing room.
If any among them were to avert a scandal this evening, it must be her.
The quiet of the upper rooms was a balm after the overheated clamour below stairs. Elizabeth moved softly through the passage, the hem of her gown whispering against the polished floorboards. She paused at the door to the sick chamber, then entered, drawing it closed behind her with care.
Jane lay against the pillows, her fair complexion still tinged with fatigue, though her eyes brightened at once upon seeing her sister.
“Lizzy,” she whispered with a smile. “I hoped you would come.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and perched lightly on the wing chair that had been placed there in her absence. “How are you feeling? You look a little better than when I left you.”
“I am tolerably well,” Jane said, though the thinness of her voice betrayed her. “Well enough to be restless, I fear. Please relieve my boredom. Tell me—how is the party? Was dinner pleasant? Did Mr. Bingley enjoy himself?”
Elizabeth hesitated, smoothing the coverlet in thoughtful silence. “Dinner was … prodigious. Mrs. Christopher surpassed herself.”
“That does not tell me much,” Jane said. “I must live through your eyes, dearest. What was served? Was there music? How did Mr. Bingley seem?”
Elizabeth could not suppress a smile. “There was a great deal of very rich food, and a vast amount of wine, and some conversation, such as it was. Mr. Bingley was in excellent spirits. He spoke of Netherfield with great enthusiasm and, as ever, was the soul of amiability.”
Jane’s expression softened with pleasure. “I am glad of that. I do so wish I had been well enough to join you. I daresay I have missed a delightful evening.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “Delightful may be too generous a term. Curious, rather.”
“Curious?” Jane’s brows lifted faintly. “In what way?”
Elizabeth exhaled. “The food was rich to the point of extravagance, and the wine—or I should say wines—far too freely poured. I suspect the excess was not accidental.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “Do you mean—by design? Someone wished the party to be plied with spirits?”
“I cannot speak to motive, but the ladies were uncommonly merry, and the gentlemen—well, Mr. Hurst could barely rise from his chair, and even Mr. Darcy, whose composure is rarely shaken, seemed a little altered.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Oh, Lizzy. What do you suppose..?”
“I do not like it. The entire evening has had the air of something staged—of artifice. I do not mean to alarm you, but I was unwilling to remain below without removing myself for a moment to reflect and see to you.”
Jane reached for her sister’s hand. “What do you think is intended? Does it involve Mr. Bingley?”
Elizabeth gave a helpless shrug. “I cannot fathom what designs Miss Bingley may have entertained, but I believe Mr. Darcy is her target. Still, there is a considered intention to it that unsettles me.”
“You must go back,” Jane said at once, her voice suddenly urgent. “I am well enough. There is nothing you can do for me here but worry. If there is danger of any misunderstanding—or worse—you may be the only one with her wits about her to prevent it.”
Elizabeth looked down at her sister, reluctant. “Are you certain you will be well?”
“I am perfectly comfortable,” Jane insisted. “Only do not delay. If anything should arise, I trust you to see it set right.”
Elizabeth stood, smoothing her skirts. “Very well. I shall return for a little while. I expect I will come up again before the hour turns, as long as the gentlemen have retired.”
Jane nodded, squeezing her hand. “Take care in how you proceed, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a brief smile. “Always.”
With that, she slipped once more into the darkened corridor.
When Elizabeth re-entered the drawing room, the warmth struck her at once, thick with perfumed air and the unmistakable odour of spirits.
The fire had been replenished, the lamps burnt low and golden, and the atmosphere had taken on the languor of a drawing room too long occupied by those no longer quite capable of propriety.
Miss Bingley’s eyes drifted up at Elizabeth’s reappearance, and something like vexation flickered across her face before she smoothed it away.
“Ah, Miss Eliza,” she called brightly, “you have returned just in time. I have prevailed upon Louisa to play a selection of romances to set the proper tone. It is such a soothing end to the evening, do you not agree?”
Without waiting for agreement, she turned towards her sister. “Come, Louisa, play that charming piece you played last week—the one Mr. Darcy so admired.”
Mrs. Hurst rose unsteadily, the liquid in her glass sloshing before she set it down with exaggerated care. She crossed to the instrument with all the grace of one determined to pass for temperate and failed in proportion to her efforts.
Her fingers, though well-trained, now struck the keys with unevenly—chords wavered in their timing, and trills stumbled.
The melody, which may once have been tender, now carried with it an edge of discord, jarring against the hush that fell over the room.
Miss Bingley affected rapturous delight, but Bingley winced faintly at a sour note.
Mr. Hurst, who had dozed with his chin sunk to his chest, roused at the sudden swell of sound. “Cards?” he offered to the ceiling, blinking as though startled to find himself indoors. “Shall we … some whist?”
No one replied. Within seconds, he had resettled himself with a groan and descended once more into slumber.
Elizabeth, having resumed a place somewhat removed from the central scene, folded her hands in her lap.
Miss Bingley, under the thin pretext of observing her sister’s playing, slowly changed her position—first to a settee, then subtly along its length—until she sat just within reach of Mr. Darcy’s chair.
Mr. Darcy paid her no mind.
His posture remained upright, his gaze fixed on no particular object.
His face was noticeably flushed, and he, who nearly always read or wrote or had some occupation, was idle.
He answered his friend’s languid remarks about the prospects for pheasant later that month with short, indifferent phrases.
“I thought you meant to walk the southern boundary this week,” said Bingley, his face still flushed but his spirits more subdued. “They say the keepers have seen signs near the old orchard.”
“I shall consider it,” Darcy replied. “Though I doubt much sport is to be had before the season properly opens.”
“Ah, yes—the glorious twelfth,” Bingley said. “Still near a month off, but the talk has already begun. The dogs are restless, and so are the men.”
“Then perhaps they should trade places,” said Darcy dryly.
“I do hope you mean to stay through August,” Miss Bingley said, affecting carelessness. “Everyone says the weather is to be unusually fine, and I daresay the countryside is never more agreeable than in late summer..”
“My plans are not yet fixed,” said Darcy, his tone giving little away. There was a pause, just long enough to make Miss Bingley press on with forced lightness.
“Darcy does not shoot for sport so much as for solitude,” Miss Bingley observed, with what she must have thought was a flirtatious smile. “Though surely the company of friends must add something to the exercise?”
“If it is quiet company,” he said, still not looking at her.
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smile.
Mrs. Hurst played on, unaware of her increasing errors, the notes cascading like marbles dropped unevenly down a staircase.
Miss Bingley, unthwarted, leant closer to Mr. Darcy, her fan tapping softly against her knee in what she meant to be a rhythmic accompaniment to her pursuit of a moment she fancied romantic.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked towards the footman—Thomas, still in his place. He caught her eye briefly, and with the faintest tilt of his chin, reassured her. Mr. Darcy, at least, would not be unguarded.
Still, the sense of unease had not lifted. She had returned only to confirm that nothing improper had yet occurred—but the night was not yet over, and Miss Bingley’s ambition showed no signs of yielding to fatigue.
Elizabeth exhaled softly, folded her hands, and prepared to witness whatever further nonsense might yet unfold.
At last, Mr. Darcy rose.
“I find myself rather fatigued,” he said, his tone composed but quieter than normal. He inclined his head towards the ladies. “If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire.”
Bingley was not far behind. “Yes—yes, I am uncommonly tired as well. It must have been the wine … or the fire… or the” he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely before giving a sheepish smile.
He attempted to follow Darcy, but his steps were uneven.
He secured his balance by holding on to various pieces of furniture along his path.
“Good night, Caroline, Louisa, Miss Elizabeth. Pray give my warm regards to Miss Bennet.”
Miss Bingley rose in clear if wobbly protest. “Must you go so soon? I had thought—”
“Good night,” Mr. Darcy said again, with a faint bow, as he reached the doorway. His steps were uncommonly slow, but his gait seemed firm.
At the far end of the room, Mr. Hurst emitted a snore so prodigious that it startled even himself.
He blinked blearily at the room, attempted to rise, and failed.
Two footmen, summoned silently by the butler’s discreet motion, moved forward to assist him.
One took each arm, and together they heaved the gentleman upright and began the slow process of conveying him towards the stairs.
Mrs. Hurst followed her husband, muttering sotto voce imprecations— about his “inability to moderate” and “beastly disgrace” — clutching the banister and her skirts as she ascended shakily behind him.
After a silence, Elizabeth stood and made her curtsy. “Good night, Miss Bingley.”
Miss Bingley, eyes narrowed, gave a smile that showed more teeth than warmth. “You are not staying to enjoy a little more music? I might play.”
“I must settle my sister for the night,” Elizabeth replied sweetly. “Perhaps I will read before sleep overtakes me.”
“You are welcome to peruse the library….” Miss Bingley waved her hand in the general direction of that room. Elizabeth thanked her and quit the room. The air cooled pleasantly as she moved away from the suffocating glow of the drawing room. The hush that followed was uneasy rather than calm.
Her feet turned towards the library—should Jane’s illness leave her wakeful, Elizabeth would need distraction. Netherfield’s collection had proved sparse, thus far, but she allowed herself the faint hope that some volume might have escaped her notice.