Page 71 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Fletcher retrieved the gloves from the table, presenting them with care. “If I might observe, sir,” he began with studied care, “There are moments when the first word is best spoken where it will matter most.”

Darcy glanced at him, the faintest crease between his brows.

Fletcher adjusted the sleeve a fraction, his voice still even. “I have served you long enough to know your habit of duty. You would take the course that is most proper—yet not always the one most practical. Matters lose their force when passed through another’s keeping.”

He bowed his head slightly; the words offered with the humility of long service. “I beg pardon if I presume, sir. Yet, if I may—reserve may not serve you here.”

Darcy glanced at him sharply, but Fletcher’s eyes were steady, respectful.

His face betrayed nothing, but a flicker of unease unsettled him: the faint recognition that Fletcher had struck nearer to the mark than he would admit.

Habit closed round him like armour. He drew the gloves on without a word.

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his correspondence with faint surprise as Mr. Darcy was announced. The gentleman’s bearing was as grave as his expression.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said, setting down his pen. “What brings you to my book room so unexpectedly?”

Darcy bowed. “I come, sir, on a matter of urgency—and, I regret to say, of consequence. I must speak plainly.”

“I shall hear it.”

“There are rumours abroad, originating below stairs at Netherfield and heightened in the barracks. They concern a lapse in propriety between your daughter and me. I do not deny that there was a momentary lapse.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing, his face unreadable.

Darcy drew a breath. “I conducted myself in a manner unworthy of a gentleman. Whilst my possession of my faculties was impaired, having unknowingly consumed a toxic substance — the fault is still mine, and mine alone. Regardless of my condition, I failed in my duty as a gentleman to Miss Elizabeth. I placed her reputation at risk and have come to make it right.”

Mr. Bennet was silent a long moment, then exhaled sharply. “I had believed the gossips would weary of it soon enough. It endures?”

Darcy’s expression darkened. “I fear, sir, it has not only endured but worsened. The reports now carry a malice beyond mere gossip.”

“Elizabeth, you will join us immediately.” Mr. Bennet’s voice carried an unusual gravity that made her stomach clench with foreboding.

Elizabeth entered the study at her father’s summons, her pulse quickening at the sight of Mr. Darcy standing before the hearth. His posture was rigid, his gaze fixed on the grate, but something in his stillness struck her as strained—too composed.

“Papa?”

“Mr. Darcy has come to discuss certain rumours that have been circulating. He wishes to do the honourable thing.”

“I have come,” Darcy said quietly. “To make reparations, if reparation may be made.”

Elizabeth stared. Her voice, when it came, was cold. “You came to my father? Without first speaking to me?”

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Mr. Darcy, you might explain your reasoning to my daughter.”

“Papa, I shall not be spoken of as if I were absent.”

“You are quite right, my dear,” he said. “Mr. Darcy has been frank with me about the circumstances that gave rise to the gossip. He acknowledged that, whilst under the influence of those accursed mushrooms, he behaved—though not indecently—in a manner open to misinterpretation.”

Elizabeth’s memory flashed to Miss Bingley’s too-knowing looks. “You mean Miss Bingley’s tales—”

“They are not without foundation,” Darcy said. Elizabeth grimaced.

Mr. Bennet rose. “I believe I shall remove myself. You are both capable of speaking plainly. I will say, Mr. Darcy has conducted himself with honour. He came to me as is the duty of a gentleman.” He moved toward the door, adding lightly, “I shall count it a favour if my books survive your discussion intact.”

The door closed. The silence that remained seemed to press in from all sides.

“You believed it proper,” Elizabeth said at last, “to speak to my father before so much as addressing a word to me?”

“I have done only what honour demands.”

“I beg you, sir—do not.” She turned fully to him. “You seek to make reparations because a maid spoke out of turn? Because you believe me… ruined? That is not reparation. It is penance.”

His face flushed with something that was not embarrassment. “You mistake me.”

“Do I? A gentleman takes it upon himself to apologise to a lady’s father, yet does not first address the lady herself? How gallant.”

Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides. “Do not presume to know my motives.”

“Do not presume to make my choices.”

Darcy stepped forward. “I came because I wronged you. The rumours have grown, and I came to make amends—as a gentleman must. Honour demanded I speak with your father.”

Elizabeth straightened, glaring at Darcy defiantly. “You presumed to arrange my future without a word to me—as though I were a child, or an object?”

“Miss Elizabeth, you asked me once to refrain from acting as honour demanded, and I was willing to abide by it—whilst the matter remained private.. But now,” Darcy’s jaw tightened.

“Our names are now linked by revolting, disreputable gossip, which must be answered. My honour demands that I preserve what remains of your reputation—that I offer for you.”

She laughed bitterly. “Your honour, Mr. Darcy? My reputation? What of the damage to your own reputation should you lower yourself to offer so far beneath your station? You would offer yourself upon the altar of duty and expect me to accept the gesture—without so much as a by-your-leave?”

“You are being unreasonable—”

“I am being unreasonable?” Her voice cracked with fury. “You seek to arrange my entire future, my life, without my consent, and I am unreasonable?”

“What would you have me do? Stand by whilst your name is dragged through every drawing room? Watch you become a social pariah because of my failure to protect you?”

“I would have you treat me as a rational being capable of making my own decisions!”

He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. “I stood down when you first refused me. I accepted your insistence on a love match. But we no longer have that luxury. Not if you and your sisters are to remain respectable in the eyes of society.”

“My situation remains unchanged. I have no fortune, Mr. Darcy. My connexions are beneath your notice—my mother’s family is in trade; my younger sisters are a disgrace to polite society.

I bring nothing to a union but this scandal and diminished consequence to your family name. I cannot require it of you.”

“Elizabeth—”

“No, Mr. Darcy. I am Mis s Elizabeth—daughter to a minor country gentleman, an excellent walker, and possessed of precious few accomplishments. My reputation, and that of my sisters, shall weather Miss Bingley’s displeasure and whatever the gossips peddle.

But I cannot be the means by which you forget your duty to your name, to your family, and act in defiance of your own expectations. ”

Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I am a gentleman of age and independence, Miss Elizabeth. I will marry where I choose.”

“Surely you do not choose me. The rumours will die. No one will blame you if you hie off to London and let matters settle as they might.”

“No,” he said, the fight going out of him entirely.

“No, Elizabeth. I took liberties with you whilst I was not in my right mind. Because regardless of the cause, regardless of my altered state, I damaged your reputation. I am entirely at fault.” His voice was raw with self-recrimination.

“You trusted me to conduct myself as a gentleman, and I failed you.”

“You were not yourself—”

“I was entirely myself. And I was not a gentleman.” The words exploded from him. “Those cursed mushrooms stripped away every pretence, every carefully constructed barrier. I deeply regret that now you must pay the price for my failure.”

Elizabeth folded her arms. “You are not, I think, the sole axis upon which this matter turns, sir.. You have made your opinion clear, Mr. Darcy. I must do the same. I cannot accept your offer. I do not require your honour.”

“My regard is not born of mere honour, Miss Elizabeth—it is the consequence of feelings that will not be repressed.”

“Feelings sharpened, no doubt, by conscience and remorse.”

He did not flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. She pressed on.

“If you were to make such a foolish choice, I could never expect to be noticed by your family or friends. We would endure censure, and slights. Everyone connected with you would despise me. To tie yourself to someone so far beneath your sphere be a scandal, a disgrace your name.”

Darcy shook his head. “I am a gentleman. You are a gentleman’s daughter. So far we are equal.”

“What of my mother? My uncles and aunts? I cannot wed the grandson of an earl and expect him to rejoice in the inferiority of my connexions.”

Darcy straightened. “Whatever my connexions may be, if I do not object to yours, they are no obstacle. I am only resolved to act in that manner which, in my own opinion, will best secure my happiness—without regard to expectations I have never claimed to share, nor to the objections of family and friends who cannot know what I feel.”

Elizabeth faltered—but she recovered. “I fear, sir, that you are not in the habit of brooking disappointment. I have refused. The match can never take place. Do not presume to arrange my life without consulting me. You speak of honour, sir, but there is no honour to me in treating me as a problem to be solved rather than a woman capable of making her own decisions.”

Darcy stood, unflinching and taut with restraint, the colour draining from his face. He regarded her steadily, his face impassive but for a slight tremor in his lip.

Abruptly he bowed. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.