Page 9 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Breast of Veal Ragout.

M iss Bingley sat before her dressing mirror, still in her evening gown, her expression one of simmering vexation.

The fire crackled in the grate, but it brought her no comfort.

She reached up to remove an earring, her movements sharp.

After a moment fumbling with the clasp, she gave a low exclamation and cast the bauble to the carpet.

“Utterly insensible—one might as well flirt with a long-case clock.”

Her maid, Sophy, stood ready, retrieving the discarded earring and plucking hairpins deftly from the intricate arrangement of curls as they worked loose. “Mr. Darcy, ma’am?”

Miss Bingley gave a mirthless laugh. “Who else? I dressed in the most elegant of fashion, my manners are of the utmost delicacy, and I contrived an atmosphere of such warmth and ease as might soften even his impenetrable reserve. I lingered, Sophy. I waited until the gentlemen had gone up. I knocked lightly, modestly.”

Sophy’s brows lifted. “And then?”

“What did I receive? The door shut in my face, courtesy of Mr. Darcy’s abominably officious valet,” she said with distaste. “A smug, stiff little man with too high an opinion of himself. He informed me—very particularly—that Mr. Darcy was indisposed and had already retired. Then he shut the door.”

“Shut it?” Sophy repeated, eyes widening.

“With finality.” Miss Bingley said, folding her arms across her chest. “It was not merely a dismissal. It was a rebuke. I daresay he had orders.” Her voice dropped into a bitter drawl. “The man has all but placed sentries at his door.”

Sophy hesitated. “Might he not truly have been indisposed?”

Miss Bingley cast her a withering look. “Oh, he was weary, no doubt—stuffed full of Mrs. Christopher’s efforts and marinated in Madeira—but that is hardly the point.

He softened. He smiled—once. He even laughed, albeit quietly.

But then he conversed with Miss Eliza Bennet as if she were my equal,” Miss Bingley said, her tone edged with disbelief.

“Not merely civil—no, that I could forgive—but engaged, attentive, even amused. He lowered himself with a readiness I found positively galling. One would think she were a countess disguised as a country girl rather than the daughter of a farmer with no connexions worth naming and a hem perpetually in need of a fresh brush.” She rose from the stool and paced, her silks whispering across the rug.

“He was near the brink, Sophy. A little more encouragement, a little more warmth—and, but for HER, he would have fallen at my feet. I know it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sophy said neutrally, well accustomed to these declarations.

Internally, she contemplated the likelihood that Miss Bingley would release her in time to catch Simon passing by Miss Bingley’s door.

The tall, handsome footman often lingered nearby awaiting Sophy’s dismissal.

Sophy hoped for another interlude with him in a sheltered alcove.

Miss Bingley began again. “We must alter the approach. I shall speak to Mrs. Nicholls first thing tomorrow, and Mrs. Christopher as well. The table was passable, but not persuasive. They must improve the offerings. The wine must flow more freely. As for the sauces—”

She snapped her fingers. “That ragout! Mr. Darcy remarked upon it—he said the sauce was ‘piquant.’”

Sophy blinked. “Is that good?”

“I am not entirely certain,” Miss Bingley admitted, resuming her seat. “But it sounded admiring. We must have more of it—whatever it was. Something bold and well-seasoned; a dish of consequence. Perhaps such a dish will overcome his restraint. There must be some way past that confounded composure.”

Sophy gathered the scattered pins into a small dish. “Shall I make inquiries of the cook, ma’am?” This would serve well for her to secure her release.

“No, I shall do it myself. Mrs. Christopher responds best to a firm hand.” She narrowed her eyes at the fire. “We shall try again tomorrow. With a liberal turn of the cellar key, and more of that sauce.”

“Very good, ma’am.” No such good fortune for her.

Miss Bingley paused mid-stride. “But the real obstacle is Hegarty.”

Sophy blinked. “Mr. Hegarty?” If Miss Bingley thought she would hold sway over the dour butler, she would find him a stone wall of will, unmoving.

“Yes, Mr. Hegarty, with his perpetual disapproval and his miserly grip on the cellar keys. The man guards every bottle as though it were his own inheritance. I have hinted. I have suggested. I have even complimented his abysmal decanting. He remains unmoved.”

“What will you do?” The butler was a terrifying curmudgeon as likely to succumb to Miss Bingley’s wiles as that lady was to notice the utter indifference of Mr. Darcy to her person.

Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed. “I shall find a way to force his hand. If the port must be poured over the roast to loosen it from the kitchen, then so be it. I want every tolerable vintage at table—and poured directly into Mr. Darcy’s glass.”

She resumed pacing, her slippered feet tapping briskly upon the carpet.

“He shall not escape me a second evening. If he will not fall from admiration, he shall stagger from claret. One way or another, Pemberley will be mine.”

Sophy wisely said nothing, but her glance towards her pacing mistress suggested she had her doubts.

The following morning, Miss Bingley descended to the servants’ wing with the air of a general inspecting troops.

Her gown was immaculately fitted, her shawl draped to suggest careless elegance and authority.

Her jewels glittered in the morning light, and her expression—intended to appear benevolent—carried an unmistakable edge.

She waylaid Mr. Hegarty in the passage outside the wine cellar. The butler was a man of granite countenance and inflexible habits. In his long years in service, he remained wholly unimpressed by the finer shades of female condescension.

“My dear Mr. Hegarty,” Miss Bingley began, in what she fancied to be a tone of gracious familiarity, “I hope the gentlemen’s wine last evening met your high standards. Mr. Darcy seemed most relaxed.”

Mr. Hegarty bowed. “The gentlemen partook of the ‘96 claret, ma’am. A modest bottle. I opened two.”

“Only two?” she said, her brows arching.

“It sufficed, ma’am.”

Miss Bingley gave a tinkling little laugh. “Well. This evening, I expect a rather more festive table. Mr. Darcy is fond of the French vintages, is not he?”

“I could not say, ma’am. Mr. Darcy drinks according to his inclination, not mine.”

She blinked at the unexpected firmness of the reply. “Yes, quite. Still, I imagine he would not object to something a trifle more generous. The ‘89 port, perhaps?”

“That particular vintage is reserved,” Mr. Hegarty said evenly.

“For whom?”

“For circumstances that merit it.”

Miss Bingley smiled tightly. “Then perhaps this evening might prove such a circumstance.”

Mr. Hegarty bowed again—exactly the same depth as before—and said nothing further.

Discomfited but unwilling to own it, Miss Bingley turned smartly on her heel and swept into the kitchen.

Mrs. Christopher was already at her post, sleeves rolled, and spectacles balanced at the tip of her nose. The air was redolent with onions, herbs, and faint tension.

“Mrs. Christopher,” Miss Bingley announced, “last evening’s ragout was much remarked upon—particularly the sauce. Mr. Darcy himself called it ‘piquant.’”

Mrs. Christopher inclined her head. “We were glad it pleased, ma’am.”

“I require it again this evening.”

“The mushroom catsup. M’am?”

“The ragout- the sauce, whatever it may be.”

The cook hesitated. “That may prove difficult. We exhausted our supply of mushroom catsup.”

“Use something else, then.” “Mushroom catsup is required for that particular- “Then procure more,” Miss Bingley said briskly. “It is essential for the success of the evening.”

“But, Miss, we made it from what mushrooms were gathered earlier in the week. The supply in the fields is about done.” Mrs. Christopher explained. “Then, to do it correct, it requires steeping, seasoning, a full week at least—”

“I am not interested in cookery, Mrs. Christopher. I am interested in serving the expected quality of cuisine. Send the girls out to find more of the stuff. They are country chits. They surely can pick a few mushrooms. There, that little one in the dairy, she is idle enough—what is her name? Not Daisy, the other.”

“Do you mean Tibby, ma’am?”

“Yes. She will do. Send her to scour the pastures and hedgerows for mushrooms. There must be dozens. I am quite certain she has nothing more pressing to do.”

Mrs. Christopher’s expression tightened, but she curtsied. “As you wish, ma’am.”

Miss Bingley’s smile returned, radiant with victory. “Splendid. I shall leave you to your preparations.”

She departed with a swish of muslin and self-satisfaction, already envisioning a dinner so rich in wine and sauce that even Mr. Darcy’s self-command would fail him.

Behind her, the kitchen fell into a fretful hush.

Mrs. Christopher turned to the undercook.

“She plays at being mistress but has not half the sense for it. A child in pearls, thinking sauce solves everything. We have not time enough for another ragout, let alone a batch of that catsup. If that girl eats one bad mushroom, it will be us what answers to the magistrate.”

One maid muttered, “Might we just serve her some sauce on toast and let her retire early?”

“Enough,” Mrs. Christopher snapped. “She is the mistress for now, and we must keep her reasonably happy, or I reckon she will dismiss the lot of you.”

Mrs. Christopher cast a glance around her kitchen, calculating her stores and the dishes in process. She sighed and then said, “Get Tibby, fetch a basket.”

“Tibby?” Bet said with a gasp. “She cannot tell a field mushroom from a toadstool. Let me show her—”