Page 69 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
S haken but resolute, Bingley returned to Lucas Lodge. He stood in the lingering hum of conversation, the warmth of his welcome leaving no doubt as to where the community’s sympathies lay.
“Bingley,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam in a low voice, “that took considerable courage.”
“Courage?” Bingley ran a hand through his hair. “I felt rather terrified.”
The Colonel’s expression was dry. “Courage has little to do with the absence of fear. You are a man who has at last taken command. If that did not bring some terror, I should question your sense rather than your spine.”
Sir William clapped him on the shoulder with genuine warmth. “My dear fellow, you have nothing to apologise for. Your sister’s conduct reflects upon herself alone.”
“I should have foreseen it,” Bingley replied, frustration edging his voice. “I knew she was resistant to the idea, but I thought, I hoped she might see reason.”
“Some people,” the Colonel shook his head as he spoke, “are determined to see only what confirms their prejudices. But you, Bingley, saw what was actually happening and acted accordingly.”
As the surrounding group dispersed, Bingley finally made his way to Jane’s side.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I had hoped she would, well, I had hoped for better. I should have acted sooner. Should have prevented her from insulting Mrs. Clarke and the others.”
“Perhaps, but your actions were unmistakable,” Jane said firmly.
“I fear I have provided entertainment for the entire neighbourhood,” Bingley observed ruefully.
“The right sort of entertainment,” Jane replied. “They are not laughing at you, Charles. They are celebrating you.”
The use of his given name was not lost on him. “Even after such a display?”
“Most particularly after such a display.” Jane’s voice carried a warmth he had not heard before. “You demonstrated that their good opinion matters more to you than preserving agreeable relations with one who views them with such disdain.”
Bingley looked around the room, taking in the friendly faces and warm atmosphere that his sister had tried so hard to poison. “These are good people. Worth knowing, worth defending. I know they are important to you, and your wishes are my first object.”
Jane beamed, her heart full of pride for the man he was becoming. “That makes all the difference.” He had chosen Jane’s happiness over Miss Bingley’s objections—he had shown his willingness to exercise authority over his sister.
Perhaps he could be exactly the sort of man she wanted to marry.
Colonel Forster paced the courtyard of the small military gaol near Meryton, distracted by the letter he had received late the previous night detailing his immediate recall to Brighton.
His orders had been to relocate the regiment to Brighton for the encampment in two weeks.
First, he had plans for a shooting outing in the days hence.
These revised orders were insupportable.
He would have to insist that his contact at the Horse Guard contravene them for at least a sennight.
He would not be deprived of his entertainments.
“Confound it,” he muttered, frowning at the despatch. “Why must such orders come at the most inconvenient hour?”
“Sir?” queried the young guard hesitantly, intimidated by his superior’s evident frustration.
“Never mind,” the Colonel sighed impatiently. “I need you to take a message to London. I must attend to matters of great urgency.”
“Yes, Colonel,” the guard replied meekly, his youthful face betraying uncertainty. “Who shall watch the prisoner, sir.” as Forster strode hurriedly from the building.
“Never mind that. He is securely locked. You are ordered to London. Make ready at once,” Forster said as he strode away.
Wickham was listening keenly from within his cell, smiling coldly to himself.
The lock was aged and weakened, its security in the door jamb far from strong—he had had naught to do but study his cell over the long empty days before.
When the guard left on the orders of his commanding officer, Wickham knew what to do.
He pounded against the door with his shoulder, each blow separating the wood from the lock.
Within moments, he had broken free. In the deserted guard room, he found little of value, no coin to fund his escape, but a few discarded items of clothing to disguise his appearance.
In the cupboard, he had the great good fortune of finding a blade.
He was armed and slipping away unnoticed into the shadowed countryside before the town was awake.
The first pale streaks of dawn tinted the horizon as Mr. Hurst stepped onto the quiet terrace at the rear of Netherfield, his fencing blade comfortably balanced in his grasp.
He inhaled deeply, relishing the cool, invigorating air.
These solitary morning practises had become a secret pleasure, an unexpected joy replacing the languor and indifference that had once defined him.
Mr. Hurst had completed his first slow, careful thrusts when movement in the garden below caught his eye. Hurst paused, narrowing his gaze. A shadow moved furtively through the shrubbery. The outline was that of a man.
“An intruder,” he muttered, a surge of alertness flooding him.
His instinct told him the man was no visitor, no casual guest walking the grounds.
This was no gardener out to tend the dormant flower beds.
There was menace in the fellow’s stealthy steps.
There was no reason for anyone to be in that place, at that time. Hurst tensed.
Hurst moved swiftly but quietly down the stone steps, positioning himself between the path of the intruder and the house. A dishevelled man emerged from behind a hedge, a blade now visibly drawn, then halted abruptly, eyes wide in surprise.
“Mr. Hurst,” Wickham drawled, quickly regaining his composure. “What an unlikely guardian you make. Have they no better watchmen at Netherfield?”
“I fear you underestimate me,” replied Hurst evenly, raising his sword. “I must insist that you drop your weapon and surrender.”
Wickham laughed, derision dripping from his voice. “You, sir? The very notion is absurd. Kindly step aside, or I will run you through and continue about my business.”
“You are welcome to try,” Hurst answered calmly, stepping into a defensive stance.
Wickham smirked, walking forward with arrogant confidence. His smugness faltered slightly as Hurst remained in position, his blade at the ready.
Wickham regained his attitude of confidence and raised his sword. He stepped forward and attacked Hurst with the certainty of victory.
To Wickham’s shock, Hurst easily parried his blow, his blade moving with practised speed and accuracy. Wickham frowned, changing tactics, lunging again with greater determination. Hurst sidestepped, deflecting the attack with a smooth twist of his wrist.
As the duel intensified, Wickham’s confidence waned, replaced by disbelief, then desperation.
He was weakened by the long days on the run and in the cell.
Hurst, however, was energised. His training now bore fruit.
Each movement came naturally, each counter instinctive and sure.
His breathing steady, his mind focussed, Hurst drove Wickham back across the terrace until the villain stumbled, his foot catching on uneven stone.
Seizing the opportunity, Hurst pressed forward, his blade flashing in a swift, decisive strike.
Wickham’s sword flew from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the paving.
He fell heavily, sprawling backward, eyes wide in shock.
Hurst thrust his blade against Wickham’s chest, holding back from running him through, but only just.
At that moment, a commotion erupted behind them as Darcy, Bingley, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and several servants emerged from the house, summoned by the clash of steel.
“What is this?” demanded Darcy, coming forward.
Hurst, breathing only a bit harder than usual, looked back calmly, his sword pressed against Wickham’s prone form. “Mr. Wickham paid us a most unwelcome visit. I believe he sought to do harm, but fortunately, he underestimated Netherfield’s defences.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, angered beyond measure by the dereliction in allowing the prisoner’s escape, saw Wickham secured.
Hurst turned as his wife emerged from the house in her wrapper.
He met her astonished gaze. Louisa Hurst’s eyes were wide with admiration, and something more tender than he had seen in years.
She stepped towards him, pride in her demeanour.
“Mr. Hurst,” she murmured softly, her voice trembling, “you have quite surpassed yourself.”
He smiled, warmth blooming within him, feeling more alive than he had in memory. “It appears I had only to find the proper inspiration.”
The tale of Wickham’s capture spread through Netherfield before the sun was high.
Servants carried it to the kitchens, then to the stable yard, and by mid-morning half the parish seemed to know of Mr. Hurst’s unexpected valour.
Visitors arrived unbidden, eager for the particulars.
Louisa bore their curiosity with a flush of pride.
Her husband endured it with a composure that only heightened his new reputation.
The news travelled swiftly to Longbourn.
Hill delivered it with the solemnity of a state paper, though her eyes betrayed a lively relish: Wickham had been discovered upon the grounds of Netherfield, armed and skulking, and to the astonishment of all, Mr. Hurst himself had taken up a sword, bested the villain, and held him pinned until assistance arrived.
Mrs. Bennet dropped her toast. “Mr. Hurst? Our Mr. Hurst? The one who does nothing but eat and sleep? Upon my word, the world must be coming to an end!”
Kitty clapped her hands. “A duel! Oh, I wish I had seen it!”
Lydia, not to be outdone, leapt up to demonstrate what she imagined to be a masterful thrust with a butter knife, narrowly missing the teapot.