Page 77 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Elizabeth reached into her reticule and withdrew a small lavender sachet.

“My sister Mary gave me this. She said it would bring calm and clarity.” Elizabeth pressed it into Tibby’s palm.

The faint sweetness of its scent surrounded them.

“Hold on to it during your testimony and remember that you have friends who believe in you.”

The gesture steadied Tibby somewhat. She clutched the sachet and managed a tremulous smile. “Thank you, miss. I don’t know what I would have done without—”

She broke off as her gaze fixed on something over Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth turned to see what had captured the girl’s attention. She gasped. Mr. Darcy had entered the hall.

Elizabeth stood in the shadow of a great pillar; her entire attention focussed on the young woman beside her.

Darcy recognised Tibby Morrison—the kitchen maid they had tracked down in the poisoning’s aftermath.

The girl’s face was white with terror, but Elizabeth’s attention was wholly absorbed in offering comfort.

She had removed her gloves to chafe warmth into the maid’s cold fingers.

Her own face was pale, whether from the strain of supporting another’s courage or from her own fears of this place, he could not tell.

Gone was the spirited woman who had challenged him with flashing eyes and cutting words.

In her place was someone focussed on another’s distress, her face soft with compassion as she spoke quietly to the frightened girl.

The scene was intimate, removed from the grand proceedings around them.

This was Elizabeth as she truly was: not only the wit who crossed him in drawing-rooms, but the young lady who walked three miles through mud to nurse her sister—and who refused his hand rather than a marriage founded on duty, not affection.

No obligation bound her to this girl, no connection, or duty.

She saw a need and answered it, heedless of inconvenience, even whilst attending the trial of the man who had threatened them both.

Seeing her soothe a servant girl, gentle amid the gravity of the Assizes, Darcy understood at last what fixed his regard.

This quiet care for another’s comfort, compassion that asked no notice and sought no reward.

He loved her still—would love her always—and such love demanded her felicity above his own desires. What torment lay in that understanding.

The assembly began to gather in the courtroom. Elizabeth cast about with anxiety, as if seeking some refuge where she might wait in safety. Every instinct compelled Darcy forward—then prudence stayed his steps.

She had declared her sentiments with perfect clarity.

Was it not his duty to respect that distance, however his heart might urge him to her aid?

Yet could he, in good conscience, stand idle whilst she faced such circumstances unprotected?

The crowd within the Shire Hall pressed thick about them, the atmosphere heavy with expectation and the sharp scents of bodies mixed with rue and rosemary strewn against contagion.

Duty warred with inclination. Honour demanded he respect her wishes. But what manner of gentleman would abandon a lady to such circumstances? His feet carried him forward despite his hesitation. He could not reconcile himself to her suffering any distress.

It was unmistakably Mr. Darcy who had entered the hall and was approaching them with purpose.

“Miss Bennet.”

For a moment, neither moved. Then Tibby gave a small sound of distress, and Elizabeth’s attention returned immediately to her charge.

“Mr. Darcy.” She managed to keep her voice properly composed. “I did not expect—that is, I understood your presence was not required.”

He maintained a respectful distance. The curious glances were cast between them from those nearby. “I wished to see the matter concluded,” he said.

In the uncomfortable quiet between them. Tibby’s breathing had grown more laboured. She clung closer to Elizabeth’s arm.

“The room is filling rapidly,” he observed quietly. “There are benches near the back where Miss Morrison might wait more comfortably until she is called.”

Elizabeth glanced toward the crowded hall. “Yes, I had hoped to find somewhere less … conspicuous.”

“I believe the bailiff will call cases in order by name. Miss Morrison’s testimony will likely not be required immediately.” He paused. “If you require anything, my man is waiting outside.”

He began to bow, but Tibby’s voice arrested him.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she whispered, “but what if they do not believe me? Bet ain’t here, what with you finding her a place in Derby, so it is just me. What if because I am just a kitchen maid, they say my word is nothing?”

“They will believe you,” he said quietly, “because you speak the truth. Truth has its own weight.”

His words appeared to steady the girl. He focussed only on the frightened child before him, speaking to her with kindness.

As they headed to the benches, a disturbance near the main doors drew her gaze. A roughly dressed man was arguing loudly with the bailiffs, his voice carrying across the hall.

“—have the right to see my daughter! She is but a child, and you keep her like some common criminal!”

Elizabeth’s stomach sank. “Dear God. That is Mr. Morrison—Tibby’s father.” The man’s face was flushed with drink and anger, his fists clenched as he struggled against the bailiffs’ restraining hands. “Where is she? Where is my Tibby?”

“Papa, no!” Tibby cried, starting toward him before Elizabeth caught her arm.

The scene was rapidly attracting unwelcome attention. The girl’s face had drained of colour. Elizabeth felt helpless to aid her. Mr. Darcy moved past them both, approaching the intoxicated man with calm authority.

“Mr. Morrison.” His voice cut cleanly through the shouting. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. Your daughter is quite safe and under my protection.”

Morrison turned bleary eyes upon him, swaying mightily. “You’re … you’re what now? What’s some nob want with my girl?”

“To see her treated with proper respect.” His tone remained steady despite the man’s belligerent manner. “She has come forward to speak against a dangerous man.”

“Speak against … bah!” Morrison spat, stumbling unevenly. “She’s brought shame on my family, getting mixed up with that mess. Should have kept her mouth shut.”

Elizabeth tensed, but Mr. Darcy’s response was measured. “Your daughter will see a dangerous man brought to justice. That is no shame.”

Morrison’s face reddened further. “Don’t you … don’t tell me ‘bout my own girl! I know what you fancy sorts are after…”

“Mr. Morrison.” The alteration in Mr. Darcy’s voice was subtle but unmistakable. There was command beneath his words, the manner of one accustomed to being obeyed. “You will moderate your voice and conduct yourself with dignity, or you will be removed from these proceedings.”

Morrison seemed to sense something that made his bluster fade. “She’s … she’s still my girl,” he mumbled.

“Indeed, she is. I suggest you conduct yourself in a manner worthy of her courage.”

Without waiting for a response, Darcy turned to one of the bailiffs. “This gentleman requires somewhere quiet to await his daughter’s testimony. Perhaps the side chamber?”

A few quiet words and a coin passed between them. Morrison was led away, still grumbling but no longer shouting.

Mr. Darcy returned to them. Elizabeth had anticipated many reactions from him—pride, perhaps distaste for Morrison’s crude behaviour, certainly some discomfort at the public disturbance. She had not expected this quiet competence, this instinctive protection of Tibby’s dignity.

“Sir,” Tibby whispered, “how did you know to—that is, Papa becomes so when he drinks, and I feared he would make everything worse…”

“He is frightened.” Mr. Darcy said simply. “As any father would be. The drink helps him forget his fears, but it serves you both ill today.”

A bell began to toll, calling the court to session. Elizabeth returned to Tibby, who rose on unsteady legs.

“Time to be brave,” Elizabeth murmured, taking the girl’s arm.

The crowd pressed forward to witness the spectacle. Tibby trembled as what lay ahead became manifest.

They sat through the proceedings for most of the morning.

A panoply of disasters—beatings, robberies, thefts—a catalogue of human misery.

The courtroom grew warm despite the March chill, packed as it was with spectators drawn by the promise of drama.

Elizabeth sat beside Tibby on a hard wooden bench, conscious of Mr. Darcy’s presence in the row behind them.

At length, Wickham’s case was called. Shaking visibly, Tibby stood to give her testimony, speaking in a nearly inaudible voice, but standing straight.

She pointed firmly at Wickham when asked to identify who had directed them to gather the poisonous mushrooms. When she returned to sit by Elizabeth, her body quaked.

“The court calls Mr. Robert Hurst,” announced the clerk.

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as Hurst rose. Gone was the indolent gentleman Elizabeth remembered from their early acquaintance—this man moved with purpose, his bearing upright, and confident. The months since his near-fatal poisoning had wrought a remarkable transformation.

The Judge, a thin man with sharp features, regarded Hurst with interest. “Mr. Hurst, you were present at Netherfield Park on the night of December the thirtieth when the prisoner attempted to gain unlawful entry?”

“I was, my lord.”

“Pray tell the court what occurred.”

Hurst’s voice carried clearly across the hushed courtroom. “I had retired early, my lord, but was wakened for my morning exercise.. I heard a rustling sound in the shrubbery to the rear of Netherfield Park, and thinking it to be at our own door, I approached and took up my sword.”

“Your sword, sir?” The Judge’s eyebrows lifted.

“Yes, my lord. Since my illness, I have taken up fencing. I engage in drills each morning. It has proved … beneficial to my constitution.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the spectators. Elizabeth smiled despite the gravity of the proceedings.

“Continue, if you please.”

“I descended to the grounds and observed a figure attempting to approach the window in Mr. Bingley’s study. I stepped onto the terrace through the garden door and challenged him.”

“Did you recognise this individual?”

“I did, my lord. It was George Wickham, as I knew him before he took to calling himself Wilkins.” Here Hurst pointed to the man slouched in the prisoners’ dock. Wickham slumped lower but said nothing. His drawn face had grown pale beneath the court’s scrutiny.

“What was the prisoner’s response to your challenge?”

“He laughed, my lord. Quite heartily, in fact. Said he was surprised I had managed to rise from my chair, much less take up arms.” Hurst’s voice carried dry amusement. “I believe he was recalling my former … disposition.”

A knowing chuckle ran through the courtroom from those familiar with Hurst’s previous habits.

“And then?”

“When he saw I was in earnest, my lord, his manner changed considerably. He cursed me and lifted his blade—a long blade of some sort. Wickham came out of the shrubbery with his naked sword in his hand and challenged me. He said, ‘Do you think you can stop me? I have come to call Darcy out of his bed to murder him.’ Then, when I had got about three yards further, he raised his blade at me.”

The courtroom stirred with excitement. Tibby’s hand tightened on her arm.

“And then?”

Hurst’s voice grew more animated. “Then, my lord, we engaged. Upon the terrace, with naught but moonlight to see by. He was desperate and vicious, but I had the advantage of reach. We fought the length of the terrace—he struck at me with fury, but after a time I managed to disarm him with a cut to his wrist. He dropped his weapon, and I held my point to his chest.”

The spectators erupted in applause, and the Judge was obliged to call for order. Elizabeth observed that even the bailiffs were grinning.

“Most commendable, Mr. Hurst. What became of the prisoner then?”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Bingley arrived, having been roused by the commotion. We secured Wickham until the constable could be summoned.”

“And the prisoner’s condition?”

“A flesh wound only, my lord. Though I was sorely tempted to run him through after he near murdered us all with his poisoned mushrooms.”

“Quite understandable,” the Judge said dryly. “Had the prisoner spoken of his motives?”

“Aye, my lord. Cursed us all for a pack of interfering fools and swore he’d see his revenge on Mr. Darcy if it was the last thing he did. Said he had come back to finish what he started.”

Elizabeth glanced back at Mr. Darcy, whose expression remained carefully composed despite being the object of such venomous threats.

“I believe that concludes your testimony, Mr. Hurst. The court thanks you for your vigorous defence of your brother’s property.”

As Hurst stepped down, the courtroom buzzed with animated conversation. Elizabeth heard a gentleman behind her remark to his companion, “Never thought I would see the day when Hurst would best an armed man with a sword. Always seemed more inclined to his dinner than his duty.”

“Aye,” came the reply, “but they say a man can surprise you when his life depends on it. Fair play to him, I say.”

The proceedings continued with testimony from Mr. Harding and the reading of depositions, but Elizabeth found her attention wandering.

The dramatic account of the attempted break-in had painted Wickham’s malice in stark colours—this was no mere crime of opportunity but a deliberate attempt at revenge that might have ended in murder.