Page 7 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
T he door creaked audibly as Thomas pushed it open for her. The library was dimly lit, a single lamp burnt low near the hearth, casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. The scent of old paper, polish, and faint smoke greeted her. She stepped quietly inside, the door an inch ajar behind her.
She scanned the shelves. Many of the volumes had the stiff bindings and flaking gilt of ancestral sermons or treatises on land drainage—books not so much read as inherited. She moved along the wall, pausing here and there to tilt her head at a promising title.
“ Observations on the Corn Laws .” She wrinkled her nose and passed it by.
“ Letters on the Doctrines of the Church of England .” Better suited to a sleepless curate.
“ A Discourse on the Cultivation of Turnips in Light Soil .” She suppressed a sigh.
Crossing to a side table, she leafed through a small stack left beside an untouched decanter of port.
One volume bore a more inviting familiar title— The Vicar of Wakefield.
She opened it. The spine cracked, but the pages within appeared clean, the print legible.
It was her reward, however modest. An evening with the Primroses would suffice.
With the book in hand, she turned towards the fire, noting how the flicker of flame danced across the glass of a nearby cabinet.
The quiet of the room was a comfort. No one nearby would remark on her muddy hem or disparage her lack of dowry.
The shadows shifted again, and for the first time that evening, Elizabeth allowed herself to breathe freely.
In a household disturbed by vanity and wine, here at least was a room unbothered by either. Yet as her eyes adjusted further to the dimness, she halted.
She was not alone.
Mr. Darcy occupied the chair nearest the fire, his long frame angled casually towards the blaze, one hand slack around a slim book of verse.
His cravat had been loosened just enough to suggest discomfort rather than carelessness, and his coat hung open.
His head leant against the wing of the chair, eyes half-lidded, though not entirely shut, a crease between his brows, as though sleep had not fully claimed him.
, and his complexion—usually pale and composed — with an unnatural flush.
He did not sit in the upright posture she knew of him, but slouched low in the chair, his long legs stretched for what looked like three yards across the room.
The flickering firelight caught the strong lines of his face, casting a shadow beneath his jaw, softening his expression into something almost boyish.
There was nothing improper in her presence—not yet.
The room was a public one, the hour not unreasonable, the door ajar thanks to the attentive footman.
Mr. Darcy had not seen her. She moved with greater quiet as she stepped back into the shadows, wondering whether she could withdraw unseen.
As she began to move, her slipper scuffed softly against the carpet’s edge.
Darcy stirred. His gaze lifted—slowly, unfocussed at first—then sharpened when it settled upon her.
Their eyes met across the subdued light.
Elizabeth’s blood rose to her cheeks. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, recovering her voice with an effort, “I beg your pardon. I had thought the room unoccupied.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, and rough. “Forgive me—I did not mean to presume upon the space.” He moved his legs as if to rise.
“Do not disturb yourself,” she replied, composing herself. “There is nothing to forgive. You appear uncommonly easy. I came in search of something to amuse my sister. She grows weary of sermons and agricultural tracts.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Not a rare affliction here. The library offers little cure.”
“Indeed,” she said, encouraged despite the awkwardness of it all. “It seems designed less for enjoyment than for show.”
He nodded. “An accurate observation. Bingley means to improve the collection—though, I fear, not by removing the ‘Discourse on Turnips.’”
Elizabeth smiled. “I had just passed it by.”
There was a pause. Elizabeth, still standing, was keenly aware of the flicker of firelight, the hush of the room, the shared sense of refuge.
He had set aside formality, and the man before her seemed more real than the one who had sat so reserved at dinner.
He gave a faint, weary smile and straightened in the chair, though not without effort.
“You will find little else here to engage the spirit. Bingley’s library suffers from the same ambition as his cellar—it is at best indiscriminately stocked. ”
He looked at the volume in her hand. “I found a little Wordsworth, though I suspect he would pale beside Goldsmith’s charming clergyman.”
She tilted her head. “Wordsworth? Is he not rather modern for your tastes?”
He glanced at the volume in his hand and read in a low, sonorous tone:.
“ Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest.
“He suits my mood this evening. His quiet lines are preferable to society. My valet suggested I read a little before bed—to settle the mind. He meant it as a kindness, I think. I suspect, however, he merely wished me out of the way whilst he secured the chamber against intrusion.”
Elizabeth arched a brow, intrigued despite herself. “Intrusion?”
He exhaled through his nose, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “He is a loyal fellow, Fletcher. A bit too knowing, perhaps. He said something about needing time to ensure my comfort. I now suspect he meant to see to the fortification of my chamber.”
“I cannot imagine against what.”
He gave her a sidelong look, lids half-lowered. “Can you not?”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, but no reply formed. Her mind supplied several images—Miss Bingley, languid on a chaise. The overabundant wine, the strained notes of Mrs. Hurst’s “romantic interlude.” She coughed lightly and glanced at the bookshelves instead.
Darcy glanced at her for a moment longer, then looked back into the fire. “No matter. I was not fit for company in any case. I had not expected the wine to be so … assertive. Or the ragout to sit so ill. The meal, the wine — it left me unsettled.”
“I found it was rather too rich,” Elizabeth said carefully, “in every sense.”
His mouth turned up with amusement. “Were you overwhelmed by such assertive hospitality?”
She hesitated. “I find a clear head preferable to claret. Or to Mrs. Hurst’s musical diversions.”
He gave a quiet huff of breath—almost a laugh. “Was that what it was? I thought the pianoforte possessed.”
“I believe the Madeira was to blame.”
He rested his head back against the chair, looking towards the fire. “I am in the company of the fortunate few. Despite the excess of claret, I did not suffer the syllabub.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, “that honour fell to me.”
Darcy’s eyes closed for a moment, his expression faintly pained. “My condolences.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a smile—small, wry, and genuine.
The fire crackled softly between them. She stood, the book forgotten in her hands, acutely aware of the quiet intimacy of the room, the lateness of the hour, and the man before her—less guarded than she had ever seen him, and yet no less himself.
His posture had eased, but there was a fragility to his composure, a looseness at the edges.
His speech, though still measured, lacked its usual crisp diction.
His gravity had softened, as though the long evening—or the spirits—had made inroads upon even his formidable reserve.
It seemed that sorrow, long schooled, had worn a quiet channel through him.
Elizabeth’s voice was gentle. “I did not mean to disturb your rest. I shall leave you in peace.”
“ You have not disturbed me,” he said, eyes still half on the fire. “I am glad that you are here.”
The words spoken so quietly and without calculation startled her. She doubted he had meant to give them voice—and yet he had said them. Earnestly, almost tenderly.
“Nonetheless, my sister requires me. I shall not detain you from your Wordsworth,” she said, her voice light but her heart oddly unsettled. “I hope your valet will secure your way safely to your chamber unmolested.”
Darcy nodded slowly. “He always does.”
She turned to go. At the door, she paused, glancing back.
He had not moved. The fire gilded one side of his face, the shadows the other.
His book now rested on his knee, untouched.
His eyes were half closed again—not quite asleep, not fully awake.
A curious sensation stole over her. He was uncommonly handsome and possessed of a certain unexpected charm—when he was not glaring at her like an insect on a pin.
There was a well-hidden warmth in the man she had thought so proud.
Elizabeth slipped out without a sound.
Darcy did not stir. The volume of Wordsworth rested open across his lap, his gaze unfixed upon the page. The fire, low, and murmuring now, cast long shadows that danced across the hearthrug and flitted up the walls. But the warmth of the room no longer offered solace.
Elizabeth Bennet.
Her departure, outwardly unremarkable, had left a stillness curiously lacking in ease. He exhaled slowly, attempting to steady the disordered current of his thoughts, yet they circled relentlessly around her—her voice, her candour, her steady gaze, which had met his own without artifice or coyness.