Page 76 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
He had left for London the morning after she dismissed him. No message, no note, not even a line entrusted to her father. She had made her decision in anger, and he had honoured it.
And now? She had no means of reaching him, no excuse to write, no certainty he would welcome any such attempt. The quiet dignity with which he had withdrawn gave her no grounds to hope he would return.
She had claimed the right to refuse him. But never once had she considered how it might feel—to be denied the chance to answer differently.
The house was unusually still. Jane had gone to Netherfield to sit with Mrs. Hurst, who now treated her with a fondness bordering on deference, as they planned for the wedding, Jane’s refurbishments at Netherfield, and Mrs. Hurst’s confinement.
Elizabeth had declined to join them. She was not fit for society.
She sat in the east parlour, where the morning sun slanted through the tall windows and picked out the dust on the sill and the faded gilt of the binding of her book. The volume in her lap was one she had not read in weeks, and she did not read it now. Her mind was elsewhere.
The creak of the door roused her from her thoughts.
Mr. Bennet peered in, spectacles perched low. “Ah, there you are. Avoiding callers?”
“Successfully,” she replied, closing her book.
He came in, sighing. “I have just had a call from Mrs. Morrison. Her daughter is commanded to appear at the Lent Assize in Hertford next week. The matter of Mr. Wickham, of course. The poor girl is quite overset.”
Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Tibby? Must she give evidence?”
“So, it seems. She was questioned earlier, but the magistrate now wants formal testimony. I suspect he now employs her as a witness to draw attention from his many mistakes.”
Elizabeth’s hands clenched. “She is barely sixteen.”
Mr. Bennet shrugged. “In any case, she must go. Mrs. Morrison has no stomach for courtrooms and asked if I might suggest a steadying influence.”
Elizabeth spoke at once. “I will go.”
He blinked. “You will?”
“Tibby is a sweet girl. She should not be made to endure it alone.”
He studied her a moment longer, then gave a shrug. “Very well. I shall speak to Mrs. Hill about a suitable chaperone.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
When her father had gone, Elizabeth remained at the window, one hand resting on the sash. The garden was just beginning to stir again—the pale tips of crocuses pushing through the earth, a faint greening along the hedgerows. Nothing bold, but enough to suggest the worst had passed.
Tibby would need someone beside her. That much was certain. And Elizabeth could offer a calm presence, and a familiar face. She told herself it was reason enough.
She smoothed the curtain edge, watching the early leaflets tremble in the breeze. He might attend. She had no grounds for hope—none. Yet she would go.
Darcy travelled to Hertford not from legal necessity but from a deeper compulsion—to see this chapter of Wickham’s villainy finally closed. Even more compelling was the slim hope that Elizabeth might be present, giving him one more chance to see her, even if they could never speak again.
But as the carriage approached the shire town, Elizabeth’s final words to him haunted him.
“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?”
He had replayed their argument countless times, each recollection bringing fresh anguish.
In his arrogance, he had believed himself to be acting nobly, protecting her reputation by seeking her father’s consent before approaching her again.
Instead, he had wounded her in precisely the way she had accused him of doing before.
Treating her as inferior, as someone whose wishes were secondary to his own judgement.
The irony was not lost on him. In trying to prove he had changed, he had demonstrated that his pride remained as entrenched as ever.
The morning mist still clung to the hedgerows as the Bennet carriage turned up the narrow lane leading to the Morrison cottage.
Elizabeth smoothed her dark travelling dress and adjusted her bonnet, steeling herself for the ordeal ahead.
The wheels jolted over ruts left by recent rains, and she gripped the leather strap as they approached the modest dwelling that had housed Tibby Morrison since she departed Netherfield.
Elizabeth descended from the carriage as Tibby emerged from the cottage door, her mother hovering anxiously behind her.
The girl, who had once moved with quiet efficiency through Netherfield’s kitchens, now appeared fragile, her face pale and drawn.
She wore her best dress—a simple brown wool that had seen better days—and clutched a worn prayer book with white knuckles.
“Miss Bennet,” Tibby curtsied deeply, her voice barely audible. “I am ever so grateful for—”
“None of that,” Elizabeth said firmly, taking the girl’s trembling hands in her own. “Tibby, we are seeing justice served.” She looked past the girl to her mother, whose eyes were red with weeping. “Mrs. Morrison, your daughter will be safe. Mrs. Hill and I give you our word.”
The older woman bobbed a grateful curtsy. “Bless you, miss. Bless you for standing by our Tibby when that wicked man—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her apron to her face.
Elizabeth helped Tibby into the carriage. The girl’s hands shook as she arranged her skirts. As they pulled away from the cottage, Tibby stared out the window at the familiar countryside, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
“Poor Bet,” she said suddenly, her voice thick with shame and sorrow.
“She thought he meant to marry her when he got his money sorted. He promised work in London. Said she was too good for kitchen work, a girl with her looks could do better. She was such a fool, Miss Bennet. She listened to his lies about putting something in their dinner to make them just a little sick, he said, nothing serious—” Tibby’s voice cracked.
“She should have known better, but Bet was so excited. Now, she is back in the country, and I heard she has a babe on the way. If I had known about those mushrooms..”
“You are not to blame for Wickham’s villainy,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Nor is poor Bet. He is a practised deceiver who preys upon vulnerable young women. You are loyal to a friend who was herself deceived—that speaks to your good heart, not your foolishness.”
They travelled the remaining miles in companionable silence, Elizabeth pointing out landmarks to distract Tibby from her anxiety.
The journey to Hertford passed swiftly—barely an hour—but as they approached the market town, the roads grew crowded with other carriages and riders converging for the Assizes.
The Shire Hall rose before them in the centre of Hertford, its Georgian facade imposing and formal.
As their carriage joined the queue of vehicles depositing passengers, Elizabeth had an unexpected pang of memory.
The building’s elegant proportions and classical columns reminded her of another assembly room, another time when she had entered a grand space filled with local society.
“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
The words echoed in her mind as clearly as if Mr. Darcy had just spoken them. How long ago that seemed now—that first meeting when his pride and her prejudice had set them on such a tumultuous course.
“Miss Bennet?” Tibby’s voice recalled her to the present. “Are you quite well? You are pale.”
“Perfectly well,” Elizabeth managed, though her heart had raced. “Merely gathering my thoughts before we enter.”
They alighted from the carriage and joined the stream of people flowing toward the Shire Hall’s entrance.
The morning air buzzed with conversation as local gentry, attorneys, witnesses, and curious townspeople gathered for the spectacle of justice.
Elizabeth kept a protective arm around Tibby’s shoulders as they navigated the crowd.
Inside, the hall was even more reminiscent of that fateful assembly room.
The same soaring ceilings, the same sense of judgement and scrutiny from every corner.
Elizabeth could almost see the ghost of her younger self, standing with Charlotte Lucas, watching a proud gentleman survey the room with disdain.
But there was no time for such reflections. A great stir arose as the sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the Assize judges. Through the tall windows, Elizabeth could see the grand procession that marked the opening of each Assize session.
“Oh, miss,” Tibby breathed, pressing closer to Elizabeth’s side. “I’ve seen nothing so grand.”
The procession was indeed magnificent. Led by the High Sheriff of Hertfordshire in his ceremonial robes, the parade included local magistrates, the mayor, and corporation of Hertford, clergy in their finest vestments, and other dignitaries, all moving with solemn pomp toward the hall.
But the judges commanded the most attention—the grave men in their scarlet robes and white wigs, bore the authority of the Crown itself.
Tibby’s eyes had gone wide, and her face was etched with terror as the judges entered the hall, their presence transforming the space into something altogether more intimidating.
The casual chatter died away, replaced by an expectant hush broken only by the rustle of silk and the shuffling of feet on stone floors.
“I can’t,” Tibby whispered, her face now ashen. “Miss Bennet, I can’t face them all. What if they don’t believe me?”
Elizabeth drew the girl into an alcove beside one of the great pillars, shielding her from the curious stares of passersby. “Tibby, let your courage rise. You are here today because you chose to do what is right. That took extraordinary courage.”