Page 67 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

The second attempt came faster, more direct. Darcy’s parry was a touch slow, and the blade tapped his sleeve with enough force to draw a grunt of surprise.

“Did I perform that correctly?” Hurst asked with genuine interest. “It came rather naturally.”

“It is improved,” Darcy allowed circling. “But let us proceed a little more systematically.”

They began a sequence of attacks and defences, and Hurst proved surprisingly quick to adapt.

He was by no means refined—his foot slipped twice, and a thrust nearly resulted in his overbalancing entirely—but his instincts were sound, and his blade had a disconcerting way of finding its mark despite technical flaws.

“Steady,” Darcy cautioned, blocking a wild swing. “You are not threshing wheat.”

“Ah,” said Hurst. “I shall remember that.”

Darcy launched a measured attack toward Hurst’s shoulder. Hurst’s parry was too low, and Darcy scored a clear touch.

“Touché,” the Colonel murmured with satisfaction.

Hurst grimaced. “That one was well-earned.”

From her chair, Mrs. Hurst made another of those small, breathless sounds.

“Perhaps,” the Colonel said, amused, “you might attempt something more challenging, Darcy.”

“Challenging?” Darcy’s pride was now in play. “Very well.”

Hurst improved quickly. His next few exchanges forced Darcy to adjust. A particularly well-timed riposte nearly caught him on the arm, and another clever disengage drew a surprised “Well done,” from the Colonel.

Mrs. Hurst leant forward, her gaze intent.

“Let us try one more,” Darcy said, now fully engaged.

He attacked again, faster and more aggressively. Hurst defended unevenly—one parry too strong, another too slow—but responded with a momentum that could not be ignored. The final bind left both men panting, their foils crossed at the midpoint.

“You have a good eye,” Darcy admitted.

“And poor timing,” Hurst replied wryly. “Still, I begin to understand the appeal. I find the activity quite agreeable. Rather like a conversation, but with steel.”

Mrs. Hurst had abandoned all pretence of casual observation. She was watching her husband with an expression that bordered on hunger. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing quickened.

“I would not let my guard down just yet,” the Colonel said, eyes twinkling. “Your form is raw, but the instinct is there.”

Darcy lowered his foil and shook his head. “You have made remarkable progress, Hurst. Though I am relieved to know you cannot yet best me. I should require a second bout to soothe my pride.”

“Oh,” said Hurst, lowering his foil with a broad smile, “I shall give you one—after a fortnight’s rest.”

The Colonel laughed. “Then let us conclude today’s lesson before either of you does lasting damage.”

Mrs. Hurst stood with a deliberateness that did not go unnoticed. “Mr. Hurst,” she said, her voice markedly warm, “I must say you have astonished me.”

“Have I indeed, my dear?” he replied, beaming.

“Entirely,” she said, slipping her arm into his. “Come—we have matters to discuss.”

Darcy watched them go, still faintly disbelieving. “What precisely have you created?”

“I believe,” the Colonel replied, “that I have simply uncovered what was already there. I must say, the results have exceeded my most optimistic expectations.”

“The man parried with the flat and very nearly disarmed me.” Darcy turned to the Colonel, utterly at a loss. “Angelo himself instructed me.”

“Yes, that was rather entertaining to observe.”

Darcy glared at him. “You knew this would happen.”

“I suspected it might prove educational,” the Colonel admitted. “Your surprise has been most gratifying.”

“For you, perhaps. My confidence may never recover.”

“I believe,” the Colonel said with a knowing smile, “that Mrs. Hurst has discovered certain qualities in her husband that had long lain dormant.”

Darcy shook his head. “Just months ago, the man could scarcely rise from a chair. Now he wields a blade like a master and has transformed into a—”

“Adonis?” the Colonel offered.

“I was going to say, ‘worthy opponent,’ but yes—your description may be equally apt.”

“It is always the ones you least suspect,” the Colonel said with a grin. “You have just met the dangerous version of Mr. Hurst.”

Darcy regarded the empty practice floor. The world had quite turned upside down.

In the cold, rickety cell, Wickham dreamt of silence. Not the kind that came in the dead of night, but the sort that followed finality—when footsteps ceased and voices fell still, and all the world turned inward to mourn a man who could no longer hear it.

In the dream, the house was draped in black: not Netherfield, nor any barracks or billet he had ever known, but Pemberley—that vast and orderly mausoleum of stone and pride. The servants bowed to him. Georgiana Darcy stood at his side in mourning black, pale and pliant. Her eyes held no reproach.

A legal paper, folded crisply, bore her name and his, entwined in formal script. A dowry untouched. A legacy waiting. The seal unbroken.

“You shall be mistress now,” someone whispered.

“And I,” Wickham said, his own voice foreign and dignified, “am master.”

There was no trace of Darcy. Not his shadow, not his voice. Only a vague impression of a still figure in a shroud.

The dream devolved. He sat at the long table in Pemberley’s dining hall, the length of it shining with polished plate and glass. Every place was laid. Every guest watched him . And he—he presided.

But then something cold touched his collar.

He looked down.

Water had soaked through the papers. The ink ran. The names blurred. The table stretched too long, the candles guttered.

Georgiana was gone. The house was silent again—not reverent, but hollow.

Footsteps rang out. Not his. Never his.

Wickham woke with a start, breath tight in his throat, the sweat already drying on his skin. His neckcloth had twisted, and his heart beat too fast. The cold autumn rain dripped through the ill-maintained roof of the gaol.

“Fool,” he muttered into the dark. “He is not dead. Yet.”

But the dream had been so clear. For one brief moment, it had all aligned: Darcy buried, Georgiana his, the path to Pemberley open and unresisted.

To Jane’s eye, Sir William’s drawing room, filled as it was with the familiar society of Hertfordshire’s respectable families, had never looked more welcoming. The celebration was in full swing, with the local gentry feasting, children playing games in the corner, and a general air of conviviality.

When Mr. Bingley arrived with Miss Bingley in tow, the contrast between the siblings was immediately apparent. Whilst Bingley’s face showed genuine pleasure at the warm welcome he received, Miss Bingley’s expression suggested some disagreeable ailment afflicted her.

“Miss Bingley,” Sir William greeted her, “how delighted we are to have you join us. You are most welcome to our humble gathering.”

“I am excessively delighted to find myself in such distinguished company,” Miss Bingley replied with a smile that fooled no one.

Mr. Bingley moved through the room, genuinely engaging with everyone, including the children. A glow of satisfaction warmed Jane at his pleasure in their company.

Miss Bingley, meanwhile, had positioned herself near the window as though planning her escape route. When approached by Lady Lucas, who was prepared to be gracious despite past slights, Miss Bingley’s response was yet another slap of condescension disguised as courtesy.

“Lady Lucas, how quaint your gathering is. I had not expected to find quite so many participants in such a… drawing room.”

Lady Lucas’s smile held, though her eyes flickered. “One does one’s best with what space one has, Miss Bingley. Happily, good company supplies what the room cannot.”

“How vastly obliging of you,” Miss Bingley returned, her tone suggesting she found the company anything but obliging. “It must be a consolation to those accustomed to… modest accommodations.”

Lady Lucas inclined her head, her voice smooth. “We are fortunate indeed. The quality of our friends more than compensates for the want of marble floors or gilded ceilings.”

Jane’s heart sank. This was no apology, but Miss Bingley’s attempt to dress an affront as wit; the pretence of compliance made it the more offensive. Worst of all, she plainly fancied herself clever and believed her brother would be appeased by so empty a show.

When Mrs. Lawrence approached with her daughter to make conversation, Miss Bingley’s behaviour grew even more egregious.

“Miss Lawrence, I believe? How pleasant that you can attend such gatherings. I suppose working families find these social occasions a welcome relief from their daily labours.”

Miss Lawrence, a perfectly respectable young lady whose only crime was having a father in trade, coloured deeply. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley, but I am not entirely certain what you mean.”

“Oh, I simply mean that it must be gratifying to enjoy the society of those more elevated in their circumstances. Enlightening, I am sure.”

Jane glanced across the room to where Bingley was engaged in animated conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bennet. He had not yet observed his sister’s performance, but several others had, and their expressions ranged from discomfort to outright disapproval.

Mrs. Clarke had been preparing to offer a gracious welcome despite Miss Bingley’s previous rudeness about the “inferior accommodations” at her local inn.

“Mrs. Clarke,” Miss Bingley said with false brightness, “how good of you to attend. I do hope you have not found it too difficult to leave your establishment in the hands of others for the evening.”

“Not at all, Miss Bingley,” Mrs. Clarke replied with dignity. “My family has been serving this community for three generations. We take pride in our work.”

“How admirable,” Miss Bingley said, though her tone suggested it was far from so. “I suppose someone must cater to the needs of—well, everyone cannot expect the same standard of accommodation, can they?”