Page 66 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

M iss Bingley was arranging flowers in the morning room when Charles entered with the determined stride she had come to associate with his recent and regrettable development of a will of his own.

Gone was the malleable brother who sought her approval for every decision.

In his place stood a man who seemed to have developed the most inconvenient habit of independent thought.

“Caroline, we must speak about your conduct at social gatherings.”

She continued with her arrangements, not bothering to look up. “My conduct has been wholly unexceptionable, Charles. If certain people choose to take offence at honest observations about their circumstances, that reflects more upon their pretensions than my manners.”

“Your ‘honest observations’ have insulted most of the neighbourhood.” His voice carried an edge she found distinctly unbecoming. “They have all felt the sharp edge of your tongue. The Bennets, The Longs, the Lucases, are all families whose good opinion ought not to be lightly dismissed.”

“Ought it not?” Miss Bingley’s tone dripped disdain. “Since when do we court the approval of provincial nobodies?”

“Since I have decided to make this neighbourhood my home.” Charles moved to stand directly in her line of sight, forcing her to acknowledge him. “I will not have my sister’s rudeness compromise my standing in the community.”

Miss Bingley finally looked up, her expression one of pained tolerance. How tedious he had become. Still, she could manage him if she played her cards correctly.

“Charles, darling, I fear you mistake my intentions. I have always endeavoured to uphold standards befitting our station, indeed, to enhance our consequence amongst those who cannot pretend to equal it.”

“Proper standards do not include condescending remarks about other people’s circumstances. Insults do nothing to enhance our consequence.”

“Of course,” she agreed smoothly, whilst inwardly rolling her eyes. “If you wish I shall be more mindful of how my words might be interpreted.”

Charles studied her with suspicious eyes.

“The impression you have made in this neighbourhood needs correction. If you wish to remain in my household, you will behave with unimpeachable civility. We will attend Sir William’s Yuletide gathering this week.

I must see you engaging pleasantly with all present, regardless of their station.

You will make amends for any previous slights. ”

“But of course.” Miss Bingley arranged her features into an expression of angelic compliance. “I should be delighted to attend and demonstrate refined social grace.”

Privately, however, her mind raced along an entirely different path. Charles’s determination to embed himself in this rustic society was inconvenient, but not insurmountable. Indeed, it might serve her purposes admirably if properly managed.

After all, dear Georgiana would temper his mood when they wed.

The girl was young, impressionable, and undoubtedly flattered by Charles’s attentions.

Georgiana would bring thirty thousand pounds and the Darcy name to the union - compensation enough for Charles’s current infatuation with this dreadful estate.

Thank goodness she would also put an end to his unseemly flirtation with Jane Bennet.

“I trust you understand the importance of this, Caroline.” Charles’s voice interrupted her pleasant calculations. “My reputation in this community matters to me.”

“Undoubtably it does,” she replied with perfect sincerity. “Your status is my primary concern, as it has always been.”

She had no cause for concern. Once Charles secured the match, Miss Bingley’s own position would be unassailable.

As sister to Georgiana, and thus considered part of the Darcy family, she would naturally move in the highest circles.

Darcy himself would be obliged to treat her with the consideration due to family.

Proximity and gratitude would quickly open his eyes to her many superior qualities.

He could not help but immediately see her suitability to take her rightful place as Mistress of Pemberley.

Then, whatever occurred in this horrible town would be of no consequence.

“I shall expect exemplary behaviour,” Charles continued. “No condescending remarks, no ostentatious displays of ennui, no disagreeable remarks about the house or the company.”

“You have my word,” Miss Bingley said warmly. “I shall be the picture of gracious civility.”

She would allow him to believe she complied with his demands.

A few carefully worded pleasantries, and the matter would be at an end.

Perhaps she might even be gracious to the Bennet creatures.

Once Charles was safely attached to Georgiana, his current insistence on remaining in this provincial setting would be a temporary aberration. She could afford to be magnanimous.

“I shall hold you to that promise,” Charles said sternly.

“I should expect nothing less from such a devoted brother.” Miss Bingley’s smile was radiant with false affection.

She could, without doubt, influence her brother’s intended to favour the pleasures of Town.

A little well-timed counsel readily swayed a girl of her age.

A few careful observations about the local society’s limitations, some gentle steering towards more suitable diversions, and Georgiana would surely gravitate towards her rightful place in the ton, opening the doors of Almack’s to Miss Bingley at last.

Charles nodded, apparently satisfied with her assurances. “Very well. I shall trust you to conduct yourself accordingly.”

Miss Bingley returned to her flowers with renewed enthusiasm.

Men were such simple creatures, really. Charles thought he had secured her cooperation for his rustic entertainments.

In reality, he had unwittingly offered her the very means of orchestrating her rise.

By Lady Day, she would be wife to Mr. Darcy, with all the consequence that connexion entailed.

Darcy had reluctantly agreed to join his cousin and Hurst in the ballroom for a fencing session. The vast room was barely heated, with a small fire at one end, and the gentlemen shivered as they removed their coats.

Since the previous session, Mr. Hurst had acquired two masks in the style of Texier de La Boessière.

The Colonel grinned at Hurst’s ambition.

He had all the accoutrements of a fencer, but very little experience.

Across the room, Hurst engaged in some jumping and leaping, looking for all the world as though he comprehended the footwork required.

The Colonel stretched his arms and shoulders and prepared for a brief match.

“I do not understand your insistence that I attend this exhibition,” Darcy said as he and Colonel Fitzwilliam approached. “Surely watching Hurst stumble through elementary positions holds limited appeal.”

“You may find today’s session more illuminating than you expect,” the Colonel replied with mysterious satisfaction.

They found Mrs. Hurst already present, seated on a garden chair she had apparently commanded some footman to carry inside. She was fanning herself languidly, though the morning air was quite cool.

“Louisa was determined to observe,” Hurst explained cheerfully, removing his coat. “She remains sceptical about my athletic pursuits.”

“I merely wished to see for myself what has claimed my husband’s attention so completely,” Mrs. Hurst replied, her tone suggesting indifference, though her eyes did not wander.

Darcy settled beside her, prepared for what he anticipated would be a tedious display of incompetence.

Hurst continued his preparations with businesslike efficiency. When he removed his waistcoat to expose his lawn shirt, Mrs. Hurst’s fan stopped moving entirely.

The physique which emerged bore little resemblance to the soft, indolent figure they had all known.

Months of dawn exercises, cold baths, and physical exertion had wrought a startling transformation.

Where once had been softness, there was now lean muscle.

His shoulders were broader, his waist narrower, His movements, whilst not yet graceful, carried a focus and intention that were frankly shocking.

Mrs. Hurst’s fan slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

“Good heavens,” she whispered, her voice carrying a breathless quality that made both gentlemen glance in her direction.

Darcy’s brows rose. “I say, Hurst. You appear to have—That is to say—”

“The cold baths and exercise have been most beneficial,” Hurst replied, matter of fact as ever, apparently oblivious to his wife’s stunned expression. “No more spirits, and I find I sleep like an infant. I feel considerably more energetic than I have in years.”

Mrs. Hurst made a small sound that might have been agreement—or possibly something else entirely.

“Shall we begin?” Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested, enjoying the general astonishment.

“Actually,” Darcy said, “might I try a pass or two with Hurst? I would be pleased to see his progress.”

The Colonel’s grin widened. “By all means. I shall observe.”

Darcy removed his own coat and waistcoat and accepted a practice foil with the confidence of a man trained by London’s finest masters. He would humour Hurst with a few light exchanges and offer some guidance, ensuring the poor fellow did not injure himself.

“En G?rde,” he said with indulgent formality, taking his position.

Hurst mirrored the stance, though his footwork wandered out of line. His balance, however, was sound, and he held his weapon with surprising comfort. A flicker of surprise made Darcy reconsider. The man’s form was unorthodox but somehow impressive.

“Very good,” Darcy said patronisingly. “Now, attempt a simple attack, and I shall demonstrate a basic parry.”

Hurst nodded agreeably and moved. His first lunge lacked precision and landed well wide of the mark, drawing an arched brow from Darcy and a half-smile from the Colonel.

“Not quite,” Darcy murmured. “Again.”