Page 65 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“Perhaps,” Bingley said quietly. “At the very least, you will have afforded her the respect she is due.”

Darcy looked toward the window, where the light was beginning to fade behind the distant trees. “I shall take it under consideration.”

Bingley offered a faint smile. “You will do as you see fit, as ever. But I would urge you, as a friend—your silence may wound her more keenly than any rumour ever could.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam surveyed the improvised salle in the ballroom with the weariness of one about to submit to an ill-considered obligation. Mr. Hurst stood before him, brimming with anticipation, having donned his makeshift fencing costume.

“Now then, Mr. Hurst,” the Colonel began with admirable patience, “we shall start with the most basic position. This is called ‘on guard.’” He demonstrated the stance—feet positioned, knees slightly bent, sword arm extended, left arm raised for balance.

Hurst immediately attempted to copy the position and promptly nearly toppled backward.

“Perhaps we might begin with simply holding the sword correctly,” the Colonel suggested diplomatically.

“Of course, of course!” Hurst seized the practice foil with both hands like a cricket bat.

“With one hand only, if you please. The sword is not a club.”

“Ah, quite right.” Hurst adjusted his grip, holding the weapon now as though it were a particularly delicate teacup.

Colonel Fitzwilliam demonstrated the proper grip, thumb, and forefinger controlling the blade, remaining fingers providing support. “The sword should feel like an extension of your arm, not a foreign object you are attempting to manage.”

Hurst nodded sagely and immediately dropped the foil.

“Perhaps,” said the Colonel with the long-suffering manner of a man accustomed to instructing the hopeless, “we might simply practise holding it steady before attempting any actual movements.”

“You must stand straight on your legs,” the Colonel began, moving to adjust Hurst’s stance with a light tap to the shoulder. “Keep your body sideways—yes, like that—and your head up.”

He circled to check the line of Hurst’s feet. “Now, look your adversary in the face. Let your right arm hang down along your thigh, and your left arm bend towards your left hip.”

Hurst complied with comic seriousness; his limbs slow to obey.

“Your left heel,” the Colonel continued, “should be near the point of your right foot. That foot, in turn, should point toward your opponent, in a line with your knee.”

“This begins to feel less like swordplay and more like geometry,” Hurst muttered.

“Quite so,” the Colonel replied dryly. “Now, direct your right foot toward your adversary. You must present as narrow a profile as possible—make yourself a smaller target.”

He stood back and gave a nod of mild approval. “Better. Still stiff as a poker, but better.”

For the next ten minutes, Hurst fumbled through the basic positions with all the grace of a marionette with tangled strings. His feet tangled, his arm wavered, and he appeared to be fighting the sword as much as wielding it.

“I say, Colonel, this is rather more challenging than it appears in the theatre,” Hurst observed, breathing heavily from his exertions.

“Indeed. What you have observed in the theatre is designed to give the impression of swordplay. It is not based on fencing principles. Shall we attempt a simple advance? Step forward with your right foot, keeping your guard position.”

Hurst stepped forward enthusiastically and immediately stumbled over his feet.

“Less enthusiasm, more control,” the Colonel advised. “Fencing is about precise control, not merely vigour.”

“Control, yes, quite so.” Hurst seemed to take this advice to heart, pausing for a moment as though absorbing some sudden revelation.

When he raised his sword again, something had transformed. His stance, whilst not perfect, had gained a curious stability. The weapon no longer seemed to fight his grip.

“Better,” the Colonel said, surprised. “Now, attempt a simple thrust. Extend your arm, step forward, and—”

Hurst moved. The motion was not elegant, nor was it textbook form, but there was something undeniably effective about it. The thrust was direct, controlled, and would have found its mark had the Colonel not reflexively parried.

“Interesting,” the Colonel murmured. “Try that again. Raise your hand in a line with your left shoulder,” the Colonel instructed, stepping back to observe. “Now make a half circle —yes, with some force—over your head and present the point directly toward your adversary.”

Hurst complied, though with a furrowed brow, as if unsure whether he was performing a martial exercise or an elaborate court bow.

“Yes, like that,” said the Colonel, then added with a wince, “but no higher than my face, nor lower than the left rib. We are fencing, not signalling semaphore.”

He stepped forward again, adjusting Hurst’s elbow with the tip of his own foil. “Hold your arm straight—no, not rigid. You must avoid stiffness in the elbow or the wrist.”

Hurst nodded solemnly, attempting a posture that was both taut and pliant.

“Now,” continued the Colonel, “raise your left arm in a semi-circle to the height of your ear. Good. Angle your left shoulder forward—more—so your whole body may appear in profile.”

This time, when Hurst attacked, there was a noticeable improvement in his form. His foot placement was more secure, his extension cleaner, and when the Colonel parried, Hurst somehow managed an instinctive recovery that avoided the expected counterattack.

“Mr. Hurst,” the Colonel said slowly, “have you perhaps had instruction before?”

“Not a bit of it!” Hurst replied cheerfully. “Unless you count what I observed at Drury Lane, which as you say does not qualify as proper training.”

“Indeed, not.” The Colonel studied him with growing puzzlement. “Let us try something more complex. I shall attack, and you attempt to parry.”

The Colonel launched a careful, controlled thrust towards Hurst’s right shoulder. By any reasonable expectation, Hurst should have missed the parry entirely.

Instead, Hurst’s blade swept up in a motion that, whilst lacking perfect classical form, effectively deflected the attack and somehow ended with his point threatening the Colonel’s chest.

“Good God,” the Colonel muttered.

“Was that correct?” Hurst asked eagerly. “It felt rather oddly natural.”

“Natural,” the Colonel repeated faintly. “Yes, one might say that.”

They continued for another quarter-hour, during which Hurst’s improvement was not merely noticeable but frankly disturbing.

What ought to have required weeks of practice appeared to come to him as if by instinct.

His attacks gained purpose and direction, whilst his defences, though unorthodox, proved surprisingly effective.

“This is most irregular,” the Colonel observed, mopping his brow after a particularly energetic exchange. “Mr. Hurst, are you quite certain you have never held a sword before?”

“Absolutely certain. I must say, it does seem to suit me.” Hurst examined his weapon with satisfaction. “Much like a country-dance, is it not? All timing and balance.”

“Dancing,” the Colonel said weakly. “Yes, I suppose there are similarities.”

“Perhaps we might try something more challenging?” Hurst asked with the eager delight of a man who has at last discovered his true metier. “I feel as though I am understanding the principles involved.”

Against his better judgement, the Colonel agreed. “Very well. We shall attempt a more complex sequence. Attack me with a thrust to the body, and when I parry, attempt an immediate recovery and attack a different target.”

This was an advanced technique, something that typically required months of practice to execute effectively. Hurst nodded thoughtfully, positioned himself, and proceeded to perform the sequence with a competence that left the Colonel staring.

“Mr. Hurst,” the Colonel said carefully, “I believe you may possess what is called a native gift.”

“Do I indeed? How gratifying!” Hurst beamed with pleasure. “I had not suspected I had any particular talents in that direction.”

“Nor had anyone else,” the Colonel muttered, then caught himself. “Indeed, such ability is quite rare and should be nurtured.”

“You mean I might actually become proficient at this?”

“Mr. Hurst,” the Colonel said, conscious he was making a startling admission, “with proper instruction, you might become more than proficient. You might become quite formidable.”

Hurst’s face lit up with such joy that the Colonel smiled despite his bewilderment.

“I must tell Louisa!” Hurst exclaimed. “She has been most sceptical about my dedication to physical improvement.”

“I suspect,” the Colonel said dryly, “that Mrs. Hurst may find herself obliged to revise her opinion after today.”

As they concluded their session, “Same time tomorrow?” Hurst asked hopefully.

“Certainly,” the Colonel replied. “I suspect I may need to reconsider our curriculum.”

“How so?”

“Well,” the Colonel said thoughtfully, “I had planned to spend several weeks on basic positions and simple movements. It appears we may need to advance our course considerably.”

As Hurst departed, scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm, the Colonel remained behind, staring at the practice area and shaking his head in wonder.

He had taught swordplay to innumerable young officers, most of whom possessed decent natural coordination and military bearing. None had displayed the instinctive understanding that Hurst had demonstrated in a single afternoon.

What would Mrs. Hurst make of her husband’s transformation from indolent bon vivant to potential master swordsman? That, he suspected, would rival the amusement of the lesson itself.