“Oh, Darcy, be reasonable. I am sure Miss Elizabeth could not hurt a fly! She is a perfectly lovely girl.”
Darcy craned his neck, his drunken features suffused with an earnest light. “She is, iz-she not?” he whispered. His head dropped back. “And no, *hick* I know she could most def-definitely hurrrt a fl-fly.” He closed his eyes with a ridiculous half-smile. “She c-can pack quite a wal-wallop when you try to kissss hurrr. Don’t do that,” he admonished, wagging a finger seriously at Bingley.
“You… you did not! Darcy! I never would have imagined you, of all men….”
Darcy’s arm dropped over his face. His muffled voice came from under his elbow. “Don’n wurrry Ch’rlesss, her s—*hick* ssisssturr is surrrre to be much eas-ssiurrr tempered. She lets you dance with hurrr. Sm—*hick*s-smiles too much. Wait, wherrre is my horrrssse? I d’not think she likes dan-dans-sing.”
Bingley shook his head. Darcy’s erratic speech had him entirely lost. He needed to get the man to bed and away from the bottle. He made a grab for Darcy’s arm to help him up, but his intoxicated friend writhed away. “Merciful heavens… Darcy, for your own sake I hope that first bottle was not full when you began! Was it the one we were drinking two nights ago?”
“Mmmmffff… not… No,” his expression turned mournful once again. “It is Fis-william Darcy she doesn’n like. She ssays he-sss...” his eyes fixed on an imaginary Elizabeth Bennet across the room and he waved his arm, extending an accusatory finger in emulation of the non-existent young lady. He stiffened, quoting the image’s words verbatim. “Arrr’gant and self-fisssh and cons-seeted, and…” his face clouded. “What else was it? I was only trying to keep hurrr from mar-marr’ing Caroline… wait… no it was… what is that r’diculous oaf’s name? Bingley,” he brightened suddenly, straining up a little, “maybe you should mar—*hick* m-marry her. She’s-s nice to you.”
“You forget, old friend, you claimed her yourself! I think I had best not get involved!” Bingley could not help chuckling a little. He had never seen Darcy show the least effect from drink since they very first met. Darcy never lost control, never wavered in his solemn propriety. Even as a young fellow at school, the future Master of Pemberley had looked and acted every inch the proper gentleman at all times. Now here he was, dead drunk and raving like a fool after clashing with a mere country miss. The man must be thoroughly besotted! But no, not Darcy—that was impossible.
Darcy grumbled and rolled to his side. Carefully, he put his hands on the floor and tried to push to a sitting position. With a deep groan, he paused to clutch his head, then took a breath and heaved himself up. Immediately he shielded his eyes. “Eg-gad, what happened to my f-fi-urrre!”
“What fire? You had let it die. Now, tell me what all of this is about. Miss Elizabeth is angry with you, I understand?”
Darcy made a scornful noise, then hiccoughed. “Angr-ry? Angry would have been s-something like, ‘Missturrr Dar-Darcy, you were somewhat pres-sumpchuous in the-there. You must promise to w-warn me before pro-pr’posing in public ag-again.’” He mimicked a high falsetto voice, setting off another hiccough and drawing a helpless snicker from Bingley. “Not my Liz-Lizzbeth. She does nothing in half m-measures.”
“What did she say? Exactly.” Bingley spoke slowly so his friend’s muddled brain could keep up.
With haunted eyes, he gazed at his companion dully and repeated with careful enunciation, “That I was the last man in the wurrrllld she would evurrr marry. Did you know sh-she likes to throw rocks? No, I already mentioned that. Did I?” Darcy rubbed his furrowed brow, either trying to clear his thoughts or ease the growing headache.
Bingley covered his mouth, hiding his merciless smirk. He was dying to laugh out loud at how little Miss Elizabeth Bennet had dressed down the great Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, but it would be too cruel to taunt his friend quite so heartlessly. Still, he itched to snicker just a little.
“The last man in the world? Even ranked behind Collins, eh? I say, Darce, that is some achievement! You have finally found a woman who wants nothing to do with you. You ought to be pleased! Why, you will never have to dance again!”
Darcy glowered at him beneath his tousle of dark hair, anger causing him to sober somewhat. “I would get more sympathy from Aunt C-Catherine! *hick* Charles, I am ser-serious, she hates m-me!” Darcy’s heartbroken tone was palpable, so much so that he was beginning to sound almost lucid. Even then, it was difficult to take him seriously when he could not even manage a complete sentence.
Bingley sighed, pity for his friend finally forcing him to put aside his amusement. “I am sorry, Darce. Look, Miss Elizabeth will calm down. The poor girl is just shocked. You did give her quite the surprise, declaring you were engaged in front of everyone like that. Whatever made you do it?”
Darcy stilled, gazing vacantly into the fire. He sighed, his breath escaping softly, and on it the words, “I love hurrr, Charles.”
Bingley sobered. Of all the men he had known, Fitzwilliam Darcy had seemed the least vulnerable, the least disposed to romantic folly. Had not this same man, on more than one occasion, even pulled him back from unfortunate entanglements of his own? Was it possible that the impervious Darcy had a chink in his armour after all?
He drew closer to his friend, resting a comradely hand on his shoulder. “See here, Darce, we will call tomorrow… when you are fit to be about,” he eyed his friend’s face sceptically, “and we will have a chat with the ladies. If you think it will help, I will talk to Miss Elizabeth myself. You are in too deep now, old chap. We have to find a way to work this out. She is an intelligent woman, and you are… well, you are normally a very agreeable fellow,” he paused as Darcy interjected another hiccough, followed by a loud belch. “We will get this all straightened out.”
Darcy shook his head emphatically, earning a pounding between his eyes and a wave of dizziness as a result. “She hates me. She said she didn’n like me before, and then sh-she got an earf-ful from W-Wickham. He-’s the pride of the r-reg’ment, you know. Has all the town fawning over him. Blast, where did the man g—*hick* get all his ch’rm? I’m j’st ‘s’ ch’rming, right, Charles?”
“It would be better if I do not answer that just now. Come on, Fitz.” Bingley had not called him such since their days at Cambridge. “Up with you, you need sleep, old friend. Let’s get you into your nice, comfortable bed.”
“S-staying right here.” Darcy pouted, childishly shoving his hand away and flopping back onto the floor. “Do not feel like r-riding to Long—*hick*Longbourn.”
“Darcy,yourbed is precisely eight feet away. It is not at Longbourn.”
“Eh? Oh.” Chagrined, Darcy let Bingley help him to his feet. “Ch’rles-s?” he asked uncertainly, turning his face close to his friend’s.
Bingley coughed and gasped. “Have a care, Darcy! Do face that way! Yes, what is it?”
“‘Liz’beth is a gr-great reader.”
“Mmm-hmm. Here you go,” he hefted the taller man’s frame haphazardly into his elegant bed.
Darcy rolled awkwardly onto the mattress, holding his head but turning to look back up at his friend. “You are wr-rong, you know. She is much lov-loveliurr than her sis-sisturr.”
Bingley stiffened his neck, helplessly compelled to defend his lady despite his companion’s unreasonable state. “I cannot agree with you there, man. Jane Bennet does not have her equal, but I will allow that her sister is far from plain.”
Darcy lay back on his pillow and waved his hand dismissively. His words—coherent, for a change—came out as a soft breath. “You have not seen her with the wind in her hair and a flush on her cheeks. Ch’rles-s?” Darcy craned his neck again toward Bingley. “Think she w-would like Pemburrrley? Sh-she likes to walk in the m-mud.” Puzzled, he turned back to Bingley, who ducked quickly out of range. “Does Pemburrrley have mud in the libr’y? Hope she will read my letturrr.”
