Page 8 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
She was not beautiful in the conventional sense—not like Miss Bingley, who sculpted her manner and smile as though conversation were a trap to be laid.
No, Elizabeth’s appeal was of another kind entirely: quick-witted, spirited, altogether unaffected.
The liveliness of her mind shone through every glance, and when she spoke—wry, perceptive, warm—it roused something in him far more dangerous than admiration.
Dangerous because it would not be dismissed.
Yet it was her kindness, unstudied and without design, that most unsettled him.
In its warmth he had, for one perilous instant, wished to own the source of his grief—the near-ruin of his sister.
He shifted in the chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him.
He ought not to indulge such notions. It was unsuitable—worse, it was imprudent.
She was the daughter of a country gentleman of modest means, her connexions unremarkable, her dowry non-existent.
That her manners and bearing far surpassed many of superior rank rendered her situation only more provoking.
She had no fortune, no consequence, no position. She was not for him.
His lips compressed into a grim line. He had seen what heedless attachment could cost.
His thoughts turned, as they so often did, to another young woman — one whose innocence had nearly been lost through his own neglect.
His sister, Georgiana. So nearly undone by charm, by attention, by the promise of affection from a man beneath her station who had known precisely how to flatter youthful vanity.
That same man, the son of Darcy’s father’s steward, had once been offered every advantage: a gentleman’s education, a generous allowance, and the living at Kympton should he choose holy orders.
Instead, he had squandered it all. Wickham had spurned every expectation of honour and repaid kindness with deceit.
Had Darcy not intervened, the man would have brought disgrace to the family name.
As it was, he had come close enough—by seeking to seduce an innocent girl barely out of the schoolroom.
She had been within a breath of ruin, and it had been by his neglect—his choices, his trust, his blindness.
Was his own interest in Elizabeth—however silent, however restrained—any less unwise?
He, too, stood upon the edge of a most unsuitable attachment.
That Elizabeth had no design to entrap him made her no less dangerous.
Quite the opposite. Her innocence, her wit, her grace—they threatened to make him forget every barrier that should have stood firm between them.
He leant forward, pressing a hand to his brow . He had been within a word of telling Elizabeth of Georgiana’s near-ruin, moved by a kindness that made silence feel ungenerous.
The brandy, the wine, the immoderately rich fare—all of it clung to him like a fog.
His thoughts refused to settle. Images of her pressed upon him again: her brows raised in amusement, the faint curve of her mouth when she left him at a loss for reply, the graceful line of her figure as she stood outlined in firelight, book in hand. It was intolerable.
He must master himself.
The door opened quietly, and a footman entered with the unobtrusive efficiency that marked him as one of the few servants Darcy could truly trust.
“Mr. Fletcher asked me to inform you, sir, that your chamber is prepared. All is in readiness should you wish to retire.”
Darcy gave a curt nod, rising with less grace than he would have liked. His head swam faintly. “Thank you, Thomas.”
The footman inclined his head and withdrew.
The heat no longer reached him. Darcy stood for a moment longer, gazing into the fire. He closed the book without registering the final stanza, tucked it beneath his arm, and made his way slowly towards the door.
The climb to the bedchambers was less a march than a trudge.
Each step seemed to echo with the dull weight of wine and reflection.
Fletcher prepared him to retire with quiet efficiency.
The fire had already been laid down to a gentle glow, the outer lock drawn—a detail Darcy appreciated.
He gave Fletcher leave to withdraw. Sounds from his dressing room informed him that Fletcher would sleep nearby, ready to ensure no mischief disturbed his master’s rest.
Darcy stood before the looking glass, examining the face that looked back at him—flushed, weary, not quite himself. He must get some rest. Morning would bring clarity. Distance.
Elizabeth pushed open the chamber door with care.
The single candle on the dressing-table cast a soft glow over her sister’s still form.
Jane lay with her head turned restfully upon the pillow, her breathing even, one hand curled beneath her chin.
A book rested on the coverlet, closed, its place long forgotten.
The impulse to recount her encounter in the library was strong—Jane would listen, would consider it without censure. Yet seeing her thus pale and composed in sleep, Elizabeth could not bear to disturb her.
Perhaps, she told herself, it was just as well.
What was there to say? That the great Mr. Darcy—taciturn, arrogant, so full of his own consequence—had been, for the space of a quarter-hour, transformed into a man almost companionable?
That in the quiet flicker of firelight, his conversation had been wry, reflective, even gentle?
That he had looked at her not as a country upstart, but as one whose company he might genuinely enjoy?
She pulled the bed-curtain a bit more closed and crossed to her chair, setting her book upon the table softly.
The man she had encountered in the library was not one she could easily dislike.
He had been weary, yes, and affected by the evening’s indulgences, but his manner lacked that defensive hauteur he so often assumed in company.
He had spoken plainly, without pride or pretence. His irony had mirrored her own.
Still, she must not be deceived.
In the assembly room, he would not deign to dance with her.
In the drawing room, in the full scrutiny of society, he would not condescend to speak to her without disagreement.
He would correct her views, question her opinions, remind her in word and look of their difference in station.
She was the daughter of a gentleman with no fortune.
He was the master of Pemberley, nephew to an earl.
His expectations for an eligible match were elevated well above her situation.
She must not mistake passing softness for sincere regard.
With a sigh, she opened The Vicar of Wakefield , her eyes settling upon a passage she had once marked:
“I chose my wife as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.”
How sensible she thought. How unlike the manner in which most of her acquaintance seemed to choose—led by appearances, by income, by convenience.
She herself had always intended to marry, if at all, for affection and compatibility, never for grandeur or gain.
Only love and commitment would wear well over long years of marriage.
Thinking of her own parents’ uncomfortable union, she added to the requirements: respect.
Her thoughts strayed once more to Mr. Darcy: his thoughtful eyes, the way he had quietly acknowledged the follies of the evening, the reserve that—when lowered—revealed something strikingly human beneath.
She closed the book quietly and set aside the small knife she had used to cut the pages.
No, marriage to such a man was a garment she could not claim, however well it might appear to fit in candlelight.
Resolute, she adjusted her shawl and settled into her cot, determined to put such fancies from her mind.
A short while later, restless beneath the covers, Elizabeth’s mind continued unsettled by the evening’s unpleasant party and her exchanges with Mr. Darcy.
Each thought raced insistently, weaving tangled patterns of frustration and confusion.
She turned her thoughts deliberately to a method she often used to settler herself.
She would work out a sort of acrostic, choosing a word, then conjure up a word for each letter of the word, hoping thereby to quiet the disturbance that plagued her mind.
Given the source of her disquiet, she settled on the word “Darcy.”
D, she mused, was certainly Dour.
A could only be Arrogant.
R, rightly, was Reserved.
C, she thought, suggested Coldness.
But Y presented a challenge—few words came readily to mind.
After a moment’s struggle, she settled on Yawning.
He, like Miss Bingley, gave the impression that the entire county scarcely merited his notice.
A slight easing of tension relaxed her as the absurdity of the exercise quieted her thoughts.
Gradually, the room softened around her, and at last, sleep claimed her.