Page 72 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“As you wish, Miss Elizabeth. I see I have been gravely mistaken in my understanding. I believed—foolishly, it seems—that the circumstances demanded immediate action. I did not consider that my … offer… might still be unwelcome.”

“Sir—”

“No, Miss Bennet. I perfectly comprehend your feelings,” He moved toward the door, then paused. “I will not trouble you again with my addresses. But know this—I do not consider your connexions beneath me, nor your family wanting in respectability. The fault lies entirely in my presumption.”

His hand was on the door handle when he turned back one final time.

“I hope—indeed, I trust—that these rumours will die a natural death. Should they persist and should your opinion of my character ever… improve… you will find me unchanged in my sentiments. But I shall not press you further.”

The door closed softly behind him. Elizabeth stared at the space where he had stood, her thoughts in complete disarray.

Mrs. Bennet fanned herself vigorously as she recounted to her sister, for the third time, the contents of a note passed through Cook’s cousin’s nephew—who had it from a footman at Netherfield.

“The whole town is speaking of it,” she insisted, cheeks flushed and whisper carrying into the hall. “He will make her an offer, after such goings-on. He must. No two ways about it. There can be no talk of refusal—not now.”

Elizabeth stiffened as she entered. She turned to look out at the sunlit garden beyond, but it offered little comfort.

“What carriages she shall have! What pin money!” Mrs. Philips gushed.

Mrs. Bennet beamed. “So fortunate that he is rich and in such circles. Just think, Lizzy—Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley!”

Elizabeth could tolerate no more. “I think,” she snapped, “that you ought not to repeat such things until you have heard them from my lips.”

“Oh pish. What need have we of formalities, when the gentleman himself was seen—?”

She was interrupted by Lydia, who burst in breathless from the front steps, her bonnet askew and cheeks ruddy.

“Lizzy! Imagine what I heard in the village. They say Mr. Bingley’s valet went to the apothecary asking for hartshorn!

” Elizabeth was glad for the change of subject, even though the matter was just more scandalous gossip.

“Hartshorn jelly? Hartshorn salt? Why is this matter for gossip? Someone has a stomach ailment, or fever? Is this out of the ordinary?” “Because Mr. Bingley’s valet was asking!

” Lydia exclaimed. “ His valet! Not some kitchen maid or coachman. And it was smelling salts, not jelly. Why would Mr. Bingley need reviving, unless something shocking had happened? Do not be so dull, Lizzy!” Lydia crowed.

“Anyone might have need of it and why would not Mr. Bingley send his valet if the need was great. What is this supposed to mean, Lydia?”

“When Miss Bingley was carried to her carriage, she fainted! It is too diverting!” Lydia’s enthusiasm had not flagged.

“Why would Miss Bingley be carried to the carriage?” she asked, more to continue any topic other than Mr. Darcy than from any desire to know.

“Because she swooned clean away! Right in the hall, they say. Some say it was from the shock, others say she had taken nothing but barley water for two days running. But I think it was jealousy.” Lydia’s eyes glittered with mirth.

There was nothing Elizabeth could say that would salvage this conversation.

“I must say, Lizzy,” began Mrs. Bennet with a brisk flutter of her napkin, “you might have the decency to accept him—if only to spare us the embarrassment. After all, he did compromise you.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Compromise me? Do you credit rumours and not my word?”

“You know Miss Bingley started it—” Lydia began, eyes dancing.

“She said you were alone with him in the music room. Miss Bingley wanted to ruin your reputation. Of course, she did not think that he must marry you now—they say he sat you on his lap, though I daresay that is only what Miss Bingley claimed —but still! And she is so jealous she swooned, and Mr. Bingley had to send his valet into Meryton for tinctures! And now she is to London.”

Mrs. Bennet raised her brows in triumph. “Seated in his lap, no less. It may not be a London scandal, but in Meryton that is quite enough.”

“There was no impropriety,” Elizabeth said weakly, setting her cup down with deliberate care.

“Was there not?” Lydia asked. “I know you would never do anything improper, but Miss Bingley would never spread such news if it meant her losing her chance with Mr. Darcy!”

“Lydia, hold your tongue,” Elizabeth said curtly. Her hands clenched in her lap.

Mrs. Bennet gave a theatrical sigh. “Well, no one ever compromised me, more’s the pity. I daresay I should have shown a bit more initiative. But there is no need to act the martyr, Lizzy. A gentleman’s offer—even if made under … such circumstances—ought not to be dismissed so lightly.”

Mrs. Philips, perched beside her sister with a plate of seed cake balanced on one knee, leant in with relish.

“Lizzy, you must know it is no longer a private matter. Everyone knows of it, and it could be, well, reputations are like lace—so fragile, so easily torn. One whisper becomes a certainty before a girl can so much as protest. In this case, I daresay there has been a great deal more than whispering.” Her eyes gleamed. She waved her seed cake as she spoke.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Bennet agreed, too pleased to be reproached. “You must marry him, Lizzy. We shall all be saved! Ten thousand a year and likely more!”

Elizabeth made to rise, colour high in her cheeks, but was interrupted by the dry snap of newsprint in Mr. Bennet’s hands.

“Well,” he said, eyes still on the page, “you have outdone yourself, Lizzy. A scandal and you have forgone even the benefit of an engagement—remarkable.”

She froze.

“I suppose we must be grateful,” he went on, turning a page. “It is not every day a young lady derails her prospects and those of her sisters with such efficiency. You might give lessons. It is a rare talent.”

Elizabeth sat motionless, her fingers curled tightly around the handle of her cup. Mortification she could endure—but her father’s mockery, so public, so deliberate, pierced deeper than any gossip. She had no defence that would not sound petulant.

Lydia gave a short, inelegant laugh. Mrs. Bennet sniffed. Elizabeth rose abruptly and left the room.

The door to the still-room stood ajar, the scent of dried lavender and lemon balm wafting through the narrow corridor.

Elizabeth passed by in haste, her slippered feet soundless on the stone floor.

She wore no pelisse, no gloves—only a light shawl knotted hastily about her shoulders, as though she had sought to outrun her thoughts.

“Lizzy?”

She halted. Jane’s voice was low, concerned. Elizabeth turned her head, blinking against the dim light of the room.

Jane stood at the long table, her sleeves pushed back, decanting rosewater into glass bottles. “Do you mean to go out?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice faltering. “I cannot endure another moment in this house.”

“Without a cloak?” Jane set down the stopper and came nearer. “Lizzy, you are trembling.”

“I shall be well. I only—need air.” She looked away, blinking furiously. “I need to be away from all of them.”

“Then come sit, just for a moment.” Jane took her hand and led her to the bench beside the sunny window. The sharp autumn light poured through the panes, casting bright reflections on glass and pewter. They sat in silence for a breath or two. Then Jane said, “You are distressed about Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth gave a short, helpless laugh. “Of course I am distressed! I am embarrassed. The gossips have made me—us—objects of ridicule. Then, without a word to me, he appealed to my father. As though I were some parcel to be passed from one master to the next!”

“He believed it was the right thing,” Jane said softly. “His manner may have been mistaken, but not his intent.”

Elizabeth stared at her hands, twisting the fringe of her shawl. “He merely meant to do his duty. He is concerned for his precious honour.”

Jane hesitated, then said, “Charles told me Mr. Darcy intends to quit Netherfield at once. He will return to London. He said he sees no reason to remain, now that matters are—settled.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped up.

Jane held her gaze. “Does that sound like a man acting from duty alone? If obligation were his only motive, he would have remained—insisted, perhaps. But he is leaving because you refused him. He asked for nothing more. He will not impose upon you, though it costs him dearly. That is not the conduct of a man untouched. Elizabeth—he is heartbroken.”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “He went to my father, Jane. Knowing I wished to make my own decisions.”

“He did,” Jane agreed. “Because your reputation is in danger—he sought to protect it in the only way he knew. He is a gentleman, and he took the path that would respect you and our family. His were not the actions of a man seeking his own consequence.”

Elizabeth looked away.

“Mr. Darcy is proud, certainly, with grand connexions. But he has never been insincere. He spoke to you once before—unwisely, perhaps, but from the heart. Now matters have changed. The rumours about the two of you are spreading rapidly, growing more damaging with every telling. Would you have him let you suffer the consequences alone?”

“He ought to have asked me,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “Perhaps he should have. Has he not, from the first, acted as he believed would best respect you? Even when it robbed him of his ease—or reputation? He went to Papa because he would not have our father think he did not respect us.”

A long silence.

Jane’s voice softened. “Lizzy, why would a man—such a man—remain here, and speak to your father if he did not truly esteem you? Rumours here in Hertfordshire would not harm him. He could have simply returned to London and left you to the slander that would tear our names to shreds.”

Elizabeth turned, her jaw tight.

“But is that not the very thing?” Jane continued.

“A man who has once been refused—most would never risk it again. There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings as a second proposal to the same woman. Yet he returned. Not merely out of obligation, not for pride. He offered again, knowing you might still refuse him. That does not sound like duty. That sounds like devotion.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes.

“Ought you not to consider whether he is in earnest?” Jane added.

Elizabeth could not answer.

Outside, the wind stirred the herbs hanging in the open window, and somewhere in the meadow, a thrush called.

Elizabeth lay staring at the ceiling, the stillness of the house settled heavily around her. Sleep would not come. Her mind circled endlessly—Mr. Darcy’s voice, his expression, the look in his eyes when she had refused him. Not with triumph, but with pain. The memory would not release her.

She turned onto her side, then back again, one arm drawn wearily across her brow. This would not do.

In desperation, she returned to the old childhood trick—the acrostic poem, foolish and familiar. It had soothed her often before. Her lips moved soundlessly.

“D,” she whispered. “Determined.” Not dour. There was resolve in him, not severity.

“A.” She hesitated. Arrogant still came to mind, but it no longer settled comfortably. “Attentive,” she tried. Or perhaps “admirable.” It made her wince, but she did not take it back.

“R.” Reserved, certainly. Still true. But also … reliable? She turned the word over slowly.

“C.” She frowned. Not callous. “Constant,” she whispered into the dark. There was a steadiness in him she had failed to see. Even when it hurt him.

Finally, “Y.” Still a troublesome letter. But not yawning. No longer. “Yielding” did not fit either, not quite—but Yearning. The word would not leave her. Something in his look, in his manner, suggested it.

Her throat tightened. She rolled to face the window, the moonlight casting faint patterns on the floorboards.

The absurdity of the activity lingered, but the ache in her chest would not ease.

Still, her mind slowed. Her breath deepened.

She closed her eyes, and at length, sleep crept in—albeit not restful.