Chapter 3
PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL
Darcy watched as Miss Elizabeth took a swallow of one of Miss Bingley’s cordials. Immediately, her eyes began watering, and she fanned herself, seeming to rather desperately try to prevent herself from choking. He could not prevent his grin.
“You are not accustomed to drinking strong liqueur, I take it?” he asked smilingly.
“Perhaps not, but I tell you, Thames River water would taste better,” she muttered, shuddering.
He chuckled. “It is an acquired taste, certainly. It is claimed that they help the digestion.” He took a sip of his own, and his eyes widened.
It was probably the strongest drink he had ever tasted.
He took a sideways glance at his cup—always before at Netherfield, cordials had been presented in small cordial glasses, but not this time.
Instead, they were served in the larger rummer glasses.
Which was not precisely unusual, but this was definitely the largest cordial he had ever been served.
“You cannot say that you care for these, can you?” She spoke in almost a whisper, probably so that others would not hear—or perhaps because Miss Bingley’s concoction had destroyed her voice.
However, since he had already spoken as though the drink were nothing unusual, he felt it a matter of pride to pretend that it was not.
He took another sip, and then another. It was rather warming, he noticed, after the third sip.
Nevertheless, he did not tease Miss Elizabeth for setting hers down and not picking it up again.
It was, seriously, no small feat to drink it all.
The last few sips went down more easily, though, and he leant back against the settee, suddenly feeling more fatigued than he could ever recall.
Miss Bingley spoke rather loudly. “Perhaps we should all retire now, as it is growing quite late.”
“That is an excellent idea,” he said in reply.
Or, those were the words he tried to force his mouth to say.
They did not, quite, sound as they ought.
Miss Elizabeth stared at him strangely. The others in the room began fading in and out of focus.
How strong had been that cordial? A horrified feeling shot through him—to appear drunken in public was the epitome of poor taste.
To do so before Miss Elizabeth was not to be borne.
With every ounce of will he possessed, he managed to get himself upright and make his way to the stairs.
He did not wish anyone a goodnight, as he could not risk his mouth working incorrectly.
His entire goal was to reach his chambers unassisted; it had suddenly become a herculean task.
At last he stood inside his own room, breathing heavily.
“Havers,” he called hoarsely. “Havers.”
Through the thick fog possessing his brain, however, he finally recalled that Havers had departed for London earlier that afternoon. The bell-pull was approximately one hundred miles away.
“I need help,” he muttered. “Help.” Feeling weakness in his limbs, he slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor.
But there was no one to hear.
Whitby was trembling as she helped her mistress dress for bed—trembling with a hated mixture of indignation and doubt. After speaking with the housekeeper, she had an idea of what her mistress might have attempted. But she did not know.
Mrs Nicholls had explained in detail Miss Bingley’s sudden interest in ‘cordials that act as an aid in sleeping’, and the lengthy discussion that had ensued.
But why? Why would she care if everyone slept like the dead this night?
Had it been on behalf of one particular guest, someone complaining of insomnia?
Had she truly added laudanum—and who knew what else—to drinks served this evening?
If so, it was a foul act, dosing one’s housemates with opiates, all without their knowledge.
It was an incredible suggestion, and completely improbable.
She could just as easily have poured out that laudanum.
But had she? Unfortunately, everyone having found their beds uncommonly early, Whitby had only been able to rescue one, final unwashed cup from the evening’s service from the maid who had cleared it.
The maid verified that the evening’s cordials had been served in the rummers, which Whitby found unusual; why do so, when they had perfectly sized cordial glasses…
unless, of course, one wished one’s guests to have more generous servings?
The rescued glass had some sort of liquid left in the bottom; she sniffed it, only smelling something like port along with a citrusy scent—but then again, port would be much stronger smelling than laudanum.
Every night, Whitby served Miss Bingley a cordial prepared by Mrs Nicholls.
Tonight, however, she added only Miss Bingley’s own creation to the cordial glass.
Whatever she had served to her guests and family, Miss Bingley would now drink herself.
Whitby did not care if, after tasting it, Miss Bingley suspected what she had done—or if she were dismissed for daring to offer it.
However, as she reminded herself, most likely it was nothing except what it had seemed to be—a strong, fortified wine.
“Your cordial, Mistress,” she said evenly, offering the glass.
It seemed, to Whitby’s nerves at least, as though Miss Bingley hesitated before drinking.
Did she suspect? But at last, she held it to her lips and took a healthy sip.
Then, she set the glass down—still half-full, without comment.
There was nothing for it, except to hope that she finished it after going to bed, as she usually did.
Whitby watched her carefully, but other than a yawn or two, all was as usual.
It was relieving, and finally she laughed at herself—again. I truly must stop reading those novels!
Be that as it may, if Miss Bingley had forced her household to sleep deeply, at least she would share their fate.
Elizabeth fell into her bed, relieved that Jane would not need her this night.
Never had she felt so fatigued; if a cordial had so much strength after a mere sip, she vowed she would never taste one again.
It had seemed, to her bleary eyes, that nearly everyone in the company was feeling the effects of them; Mr Bingley had been stumbling as he climbed the stairs, Mr Hurst chuckling at nothing, while Mrs Hurst clung to her husband’s arm for support.
Only Miss Bingley and Jane had seemed as usual—but of course Jane, her belly still delicate, had refused to try the noxious brew.
Miss Bingley had appeared unaffected. She could swear, however, that even Mr Darcy had been having trouble speaking, muttering words that had sounded strangely garbled.
Well, it did not matter. Elizabeth would never try so much as a sip for the rest of her life, and soon she and Jane would be returned to Longbourn, and nothing about this evening, or Mr Darcy, would ever concern her again.
It was with a deep sense of relief that Miss Bingley discovered Mr Darcy snoring, still dressed, leaning against his bedroom door.
She had entered through the connecting chamber of his missing valet—indeed, it was Havers’ unexpected departure that had convinced her that this was the ideal evening to initiate her plan.
She could ensure no footman was stationed in the corridor, but had his man been present, he would never have allowed Mr Darcy to be spirited from his room; probably, did he suspect him of drunkenness, he would have already administered some type of restorative.
It tickled her that the awful Bennet sisters, one of whom held Mr Darcy’s attention, would soon be her witnesses, helping spread the word.
Still, this was the most dangerous, difficult part of the plan; what if he awoke fully? Well, if he did, she would convince him that she had noted his inebriation and was simply trying to help him to bed. Which she was. Just not to his own.
Carefully, she opened his door, causing him to fall halfway into the corridor.
“Up you go, Mr Darcy,” she said, drawing one of his arms over her shoulder, and trying to hoist him.
It did no good. He did not budge, and his dead-weight was heavier than a sack of wet sand. Finally, she gave up gentleness.
“Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy!” she whisper-shouted, shaking him. “You must get up!”
At last, he seemed to waken a little. “Wha-what?”
“Come Mr Darcy, let us get you to bed. Let me help you up. Come now, stand up.”
In this way, with him mumbling and addressing her as ‘Havers’, she at last had him standing.
He leant heavily against her, but she managed to lead him to her own bedroom, a mere three doors from his; she was panting with the effort by the time she had him clumsily seated on her bed.
Kneeling, she took off his slippers and stockings.
Then, she worked off his coat, with little help from him; however, she no sooner got it off of him, than he fell back onto her bed.
She managed to remove his neckcloth but was unable to remove the rest of his clothing, and no matter how she tried, she could not budge him again.
It was all she could do to lift the substantial weight of his limbs onto her mattresses.
He lay on top of her coverlet, and she could not work it down beneath his bulk to get him underneath it.
She returned his coat, cravat, slippers and stockings to his room for the look of the thing, to be sure it appeared that he had partially undressed before seeking her out, and peered at her handiwork in the candlelight.
Well, it would have to do; she was beyond exhausted.
It had been a stressful day; she hated concocting recipes, and it had been such a bother forcing scullery maids to try her potations for strength and flavour before the laudanum was added.
Then she had to hope that its addition did not upset the taste.
Finally, she was forced to test its efficacy on a few of the hounds, and not until she had seen how quickly they were snoring could she be certain it would work, fearing at any time to be discovered by the kennelman.
But all her planning had been successful; she had arranged that the maids would be lighting fires extra early in the morning, and she knew how to scream and cause a scene.
So fatigued was she, that upon returning to her room, she clumsily tripped over a small wooden stool, sending it crashing across the floor. Stifling her startled shriek, she turned, terrified, to the bed; all would be lost if he wakened now.
But thankfully, no; he lay still, at last emitting a small snore.
Carefully she slipped into the bed beside him, rubbing her aching toes. Never mind it, she told herself. I will soon be married, or he will be ruined in the eyes of society for any decent young woman! Such was her envy and fury at him for refusing to love her, that she hardly cared which.