Page 74 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Charlotte smiled, then added, “Lady Lucas has lately begun referring to Mr. Darcy as ‘that steady young man from Derbyshire.’ A marked improvement from last month’s ‘dangerous recluse.’”

Elizabeth sniffed. “She knows not that I refused him—quite rudely.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, her gaze assessing. “Yes. About that.”

Elizabeth went still.

“Might you not reconsider?” Charlotte continued with fond pragmatism, “An honourable man with ten thousand a year is not to be sneezed at.”

Elizabeth gave a rueful smile. “I could not have accepted him at the time.”

Charlotte gave her a level look. “And now?”

Elizabeth did not answer. Her fingers tightened around her teacup, but her gaze remained on the hearth.

“Should I ever alter my mind, Lady Lucas is hardly the quarter in which I should proclaim it. Nor shall I chase the gentleman to Town like a lovesick heroine from a novel in the circulating library.”

The last embers gave little heat. Outside, London’s winter fog pressed faintly against the panes. Darcy stood before the hearth, one arm resting along the mantel, his eyes fixed on the fading glow. His cousin sat nearby, brandy in hand, saying nothing.

At length, Darcy spoke. “I did her a great wrong.”

Fitzwilliam lifted his gaze but did not interrupt.

“She was angry, and justly so. I took it upon myself to go to her father, without first seeking her counsel. I thought I knew best.”

“You were advised otherwise,” his cousin said mildly.

“By you, and by Bingley. Even by Fletcher. I did not want to heed any of you.” Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I heard you, and yet I dismissed your caution. I believed myself in the right.”

There was a silence.

“I have long taken pride in acting without hesitation,” he went on, more quietly. “To weigh the matter alone, to decide, to act—such has always seemed the mark of strength. Of resolve. But I begin to wonder—”

He broke off. The fire hissed softly as a coal shifted.

“I begin to wonder,” he said again, “whether it has not always been fear. Not pride. Not strength. Rather, it is a fear of exposure, of contradiction. I have lived in dread of being found unequal to the task before me.”

Fitzwilliam set his glass aside. “It is no small thing, to admit such a fear.”

Darcy did not look at him. “It is easier to act in solitude, where no one may question your judgement, than to speak your thoughts aloud and risk being thought—what? Foolish? Vulnerable? I see now that I chose silence not for her sake, but for my own ease. And the result —.” He heaved a great sigh.

Darcy turned to the hearth, his voice tight. “She asked for nothing but plain speech. Not apology, nor pledge—only that I should meet her and face her honestly.”

Fitzwilliam said nothing.

“I claimed it was for her sake,” Darcy went on, more quietly. “That I wished to shield her from talk or shame. But I see now—I wished to shield myself. From censure. From exposure. From being refused.”

He drew in deeply, but his disquiet remained “It was not honour. It was cowardice, dressed as principle.”

The fire stirred in the grate. No reply came.

“What I mistook for strength—the habit of deciding all in solitude—was no more than the cowardice of a poltroon.”

Fitzwilliam studied him for a moment. “Then perhaps it is time you did otherwise.”

Elizabeth had not expected callers that morning, let alone a card inscribed Colonel the Hon.

Richard Fitzwilliam . The night’s sleet had left the lane to Longbourn a mire—fit for neither man nor beast. Yet there he was, stamping at the door mat with a soldier’s efficiency and smiling with easy warmth as he bowed to Mrs. Hill and requested a word with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She met him in the small parlour, still scented with rosemary from the fire. Her hands were cold, despite the heat. Her mother and sisters were in Mrs. Bennet’s sitting room rummaging through winter shawls. It had been days since the door had admitted to anything but tradesmen and ill tidings.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said, curtsying. “What a surprise.”

He looked her over, not rudely, but with that frankness particular to elder brothers and seasoned officers. “You are thinner than when I saw you last, Miss Bennet. That will not do.”

“I assure you, sir, my appetite is unimpaired.”

“Then the fault lies in your cook—or your spirits.”

She did not answer, and he did not press.

He removed his gloves with deliberate care and accepted her invitation to sit.

“I have come on something of a fool’s errand,” he added, studying her face with interest. “Perhaps not a fool’s, but a cousin’s.

Though the two may be the same.” He took the chair opposite hers and crossed one leg over the other, elegant even in travel-stained boots.

Elizabeth sat opposite, keeping her hands neatly folded. “Please go on.”

“I found Darcy in London some days past—unshaven, unshorn, and scarcely willing to be drawn into conversation. That is not his habit. When I pressed him, he would not at first speak of the cause.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Elizabeth said carefully. Her heart stirred in a slow, reluctant flutter.

“I had rather hoped,” he continued, “that the source of his despondency might be something dull—accounts, or a disagreement over drainage at Pemberley. But no. I have seen him moody, I have seen him irritable, but this—this is something else entirely.”

“When pressed, he spoke of Hertfordshire. Of mistakes made. Of honour ill-kept.” The Colonel’s gaze fixed on her. “You will forgive me if I draw the obvious conclusion.”

Elizabeth looked at her hands. The Colonel’s voice was easy, his manner kind, but he was still a Fitzwilliam, and she did not know how much to say . “Forgive me,” she said. “It is not my story to tell.”

“No,” he agreed. “But he will not tell it either. That leaves me in the awkward position of hearing little from two ordinarily articulate people.”

She smiled faintly at that. “Perhaps we are no longer articulate.”

“Or perhaps your words are heavier now than you are used to carrying.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, with more composure than she felt, “if your cousin has no explanation, I cannot pretend to offer one.”

“He has given me some explanation, and I believe I can surmise the rest. Darcy does not err lightly. And when he does, he suffers from it. Whatever you might think of him; he is merciless with himself. He has ever held himself to standards most men would find intolerable.”

“I imagine so,” Elizabeth said, averting her eyes.

The Colonel waited for her to say more. Then he said, “I have never been one for riddles. I do not mean to pry. But I have some pieces of the story, Miss Bennet. I know something of what passed between you and my cousin that has since made him the gloomiest creature in Mayfair.”

He tilted his head. “If I ask plainly—how did he offend you?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then sighed. “He addressed my father. Without first speaking to me.”

“He believed he had no right,” the Colonel said, blunt as steel. “He did not intend it as an offence, Miss Bennet. It was despair. He believed you lost to him already. He chose to bear censure rather than leave your name unguarded.”

“But he is not at fault, truly, for the gossip.” Elizabeth wanted to defend him, despite her ire. “Mr. Darcy was unwell and disoriented. It has since been embroidered beyond recognition. He need not be made to marry out of duty.”

“That was not my understanding. By all he would admit, he acted not from duty but inclination.”

“I—” She pressed her lips together. “I was angry. Not only for his presumption, but for my own confusion. I felt myself treated more as an object to be managed than a person to be consulted. I said things I now regret.”

The Colonel was silent a long moment. When he spoke, it was softer than before.

“My cousin is not an easy man. But he is an excellent one. He staunchly believes a gentleman must not merely act with honour but exceed the requirements of it. He believed his was the proper course, and in that belief he erred.”

Her breath shuddered, half with anger, half with something nearer sorrow.

“I fear,” he said more softly, “the consequences of his mistake have been grievous.” After a moment, she said, “To act so without the smallest word to me—” She broke off, pressing her hand against the arm of the chair as if to steady herself.

“I know,” Fitzwilliam replied. “He knows it now too, better than you suppose. He knows he owed you the respect to be addressed first. That knowledge keeps him silent.. He cannot mend the past, and so he punishes himself by dwelling upon it.”

Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed upon the carpet. “I had thought him so sure of his own judgement that he might disregard mine.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam rose without comment and took up the poker. He crouched and stirred the ashes, coaxing a reluctant flame from the embers. The scrape of iron against brick was the only sound for several moments.

“I find a blaze clarifies most things,” he said mildly, resuming his seat. “Or at least makes them easier to bear.”

Elizabeth watched the flames flicker and curl, her hands twisting in her lap. “I did not understand him,” she murmured. “But I did not intend to wound him.”

“It is not irreparable.” The Colonel rose and adjusted his coat. “He is not so easily broken. But he is shaken

,” the Colonel said gravely. “He has borne hardships before, but never of this kind. His heart was not easily given, Miss Bennet. The loss strikes deep.”

She pressed her lips together. Anger ebbed, leaving a hollow ache. “I understand,” she whispered.

The olonel smiled kindly. “I shall not press you on the matter. I would only see you both happier than you now appear. You will forgive me for speaking so plainly—it was only that I could not bear to see you mistaken in him.”

He paused. “He would not thank me for saying any of this.”

“No,” Elizabeth said slowly, rising as well. “He would not.”

They stood in the quiet that followed, broken only by the gentle settling of the fire. At last, the Colonel reached for his gloves and offered a brief bow. “You are a woman of discernment, Miss Bennet. I expect you will do act with due thought.”

Elizabeth managed a small inclination of the head. “Your reproofs shall be attended to.”

When he had gone, the room seemed stiller than before, the hush pressing against her like a weight. Elizabeth returned to the window. The sleet had begun again, trailing thin ribbons across the glass. The tracks his boots had left dissolved into the softened lane.