I woke up hours later, in my old room at Pemberley. The doctor had patched me up admirably. The valet—obviously not Smithen—who’d been left with me till I woke told me how Miss Georgiana had refused to marry the baron, who’d been so cowardly as to faint at the sight of blood. She’d said, in front of everyone in church, she’d only agreed to marry him because she thought her true love was a villain. Now that she’d been proved wrong, she’d marry for love or not at all.
And Smithen had been on the point of arrest, for fraud and conspiracy and attempted murder, when he turned his pistol on himself, spraying his brains over the walls of the ancient chapel at Pemberley.
Darcy—well, the valet, a good lad of maybe fifteen, wouldn’t say anything even ironic about his master. But it was clear from what the valet did say that Darcy was shaken and oddly contrite. Oddly contrite for Darcy, of course.
“He muttered much about his abominable pride that didn’t allow him to look behind the seeming facts for the truth,” the valet said.
I nodded and started pulling myself up on the bed. “Where are they now?” I asked. “Have they retired?”
“To bed? No. No one has gone to bed. The guests are perhaps in bed in their wing, but in the family wing, no one has gone to bed. Although they’re not in the drawing room, and I’m not quite sure…”
I knew then where they were. I knew for a certainty. Sitting on the bed, I looked about for clothes to make myself decent. I spotted a dressing gown thrown over an easy chair by the window. It was blue and silk and I was sure it belonged to Darcy. How kind of him to share. “Give me my dressing gown, man. Quickly.”
The valet stared. “Sir, I—” He swallowed.
“Come on,” I said. “The dressing gown. Be quick about it.”
“Sir, the doctor said as you weren’t supposed to get up.”
“Boil the doctor,” I said. “What does he know?” I had to see Georgiana. I had to talk to Darcy. I had to make sure this wasn’t all a fevered dream.
“But sir—” the valet said.
“Now.”
He obeyed. Although reluctantly, he obeyed with—it occurred to me—far more alacrity than was owed Wickham, the son of auld Wickham, estate manager for the Darcys.
His hands trembled as he held the robe up for me. “Only, Mr. Darcy said nothing was to happen to you, for you had been his brother. And before the month was out, chances were you’d be his brother again.”
My chest expanded as I grinned. The pain in my shoulder meant nothing. “If you want to keep me safe, you’ll help me walk downstairs.”
“Downstairs, sir?”
“To Mrs. Reynold’s sitting room,” I said, and grinned at his astonished expression. Clearly, he didn’t know that had been our childhood refuge, where the kind lady had fed us milk and chocolate biscuits and listened to all our tales.
But Darcy and Georgiana knew. And I knew where to find them.
“But why would Smithen do it?” Darcy asked.
We sat, all three of us, around Mrs. Reynold’s table, as we had when we were small children. Elizabeth Darcy, lovely if disheveled, leaned against the doorsill, in her dressing gown, looking—not left out—but bewildered, as our voices and manners acquired the ease of childhood again.
She was probably having trouble adjusting to the thought that I was no villain. I didn’t mind. She would get used to it. Darcy had married a smart woman.
Mrs. Reynold had fed us cookies and was pouring the second glass of milk for Georgiana. She gave Darcy a concerned look, as if hesitating about what to tell him.
“I always treated him well,” Darcy said. “Didn’t I, Wickham? Did I fail in something I ought to have done?”
Mrs. Reynold turned a concerned look on me. She sighed. She set down the milk jug and sat in her chair, at the corner. “It wasn’t either of you,” she said. “Or Miss Georgiana either.” She sighed. “It was Mr. Wickham’s father.”
“My…father?” I asked.
“Aye, sir, you must understand, your father didn’t want to marry again and subject you to the whims of a stepmother, but he was still a young man with…needs. It is said—and I’ve heard it from her own mouth—he went down to Bessie Smithen at the tavern. That child of hers, hedge-born, as it were…Well, your father got him a position as a gardener boy, and then Mr. Darcy had him transferred inside. But you must see, Mr. Wickham, he was your brother all along, and he resented that you were treated as a brother of Mr. Darcy’s and he was not.”
“Envy,” Darcy said, and sighed. “Oh, I should have known. And that’s why you two look so much alike,” he said.
A twinge of pain suddenly stabbed my shoulder, and I winced.
Georgiana put her hand on my forearm. “You should be in bed. But as soon as you can stand up with me in church, I shall be Mrs. Wickham.”
“And we’ll help with whatever you need for the little girl,” Darcy said. “And her education. She is our niece through her mother, after all.”
Elizabeth Darcy nodded, by the door.
“And mine through her father,” I said. “You know, I believe Lydia thought it was me in her bed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “She probably did. She was not the most observant woman around, poor Lydia.”
“And the living at Kimpton?” I asked Darcy. “Will you reconsider it, Will? Now that you know the truth?”
“The living at Kimpton?” Darcy asked, with that tilting sneer to his lip. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“But—” I said.
“Not for my brother-in-law. You must keep Georgiana in the style she’s used to. There are some lands I’ll make over to you both, and Georgiana, of course, brings ten thousand in dowry. We’ll fix up the old manor house at the other end of the farm, shall we? That way, you two will be near enough to visit, but not so near it will be like living in the same house.”
“When do you think you can stand up in church with me?” Georgiana asked.
I stood. “Why, now, if you wish.” The room swam before my eyes, but I would not give way.
Darcy laughed, looking easier than he had since childhood. “My sister and my best friend are not to be married in the middle of the night, like fugitives. Sit down, you fool.”
I sat, with relief. Georgiana’s arms held me, helped ease me down. Mrs. Reynold gave me another biscuit and poured milk for me.
And a feeling of great ease and happiness suffused me. I had Georgiana’s love and Will’s friendship.
I had come home.
A Long, Strange Trip
BY ELLEN GELERMAN
Ellen Gelerman was born and raised on Long Island, New York, and spent much of her adult life there. She received her BA in English from Indiana University, leading to a lifelong love of English literature as well as a twenty-five-year career as an advertising copywriter. Though she is largely retired from her formal career, writing is still her passion; she has created many stories based on Pride and Prejudice, including several booklength works, and she is working on a manuscript for an original novel. She currently lives in Connecticut with her husband, two college-age children, and two Labrador retrievers, and enjoys volunteering as a teacher of English for speakers of other languages.
“A Long Strange Trip” is indeed a very strange story, and the only story in this collection to violate the events of Pride and Prejudice. I read it when it was first published a few years ago, liked it a great deal, and when I was perusing the short stories available for the anthology, I immediately said, “This has to go in.” There’s simply nothing else like it. I hope you will see why.
HISTORICAL NOTE: According to the BBC, the first documented use of psychedelic mushrooms was published in the Medical and Physical Journal: In 1799, a man who had been picking mushrooms for breakfast in London’s Green Park included them in his harvest, accidentally sending his entire family on a trip. The doctor who treated them later described how the youngest child “was attacked with fits of immoderate laughter, nor could the threats of his father or moth
er refrain him.” From the online encyclopedia Wikipedia.org, under the entry “Psilocybin Mushroom.”
“WHAT A LONG, STRANGE TRIP IT’S BEEN.”
—THE GRATEFUL DEAD
Jane was by no means better, and Elizabeth was grateful to Miss Bingley for having invited her to remain at Netherfield until such time as her sister was recovered sufficiently to be removed back to Longbourn. Still, her gratitude was tempered by her feeling that she was intruding and unwanted among the family party, and so, at half past six, when she was summoned to dinner, she was reluctant to quit Jane’s beloved presence and descend the stairs. Yet propriety demanded that she must. And having eaten very little indeed since arriving at Netherfield that morning, her constitution demanded it as well.
Mr. Bingley asked after Jane’s condition with anxiety, and although Elizabeth would rather have given him a more encouraging answer, she was pleased at his concern. Mr. Darcy inquired, too, though it seemed more out of politeness than any actual unease. He then afterward remained silent, although he continued to fix his attention on her in a most vexing manner, causing her to suspect she had done something amiss with her toilette.
Not long thereafter, Elizabeth found herself seated at the end of the table next to Mr. Hurst and knew conclusively that dinner would hold little pleasure for her. Sighing to herself, she stared at the savory concoction of meat, potatoes, vegetables, and mushrooms that was even now being ladled onto her plate by a servant. Under ordinary circumstances she would eschew such rich fare. But now her stomach growled in a most unladylike fashion—though thankfully none in the party seemed to hear it—and she delicately began to indulge.
“There is nothing I like better than a fine ragout,” said Mr. Hurst, digging into his serving with gusto. “Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?”
Suspecting that any meal set before Mr. Hurst would be quickly labeled his favorite, Elizabeth declined to concur.
“In truth, Mr. Hurst,” Elizabeth said, “I much prefer a plain dish. A simple roast beef with boiled potatoes is my favorite dinner.” Nevertheless, her hunger was such that she ate what was before her in its entirety, and after being served a second time, consumed that as well. The rest of the party seemed in agreement with Mr. Hurst, for they all consumed hearty portions. Only Miss Bingley seemed cross.
“I despise mushrooms,” Caroline said, pouting. “Cook has ruined the ragout with the horrid, slimy things.” She pushed the offending fungi aside. “Dinner is completely spoiled.”
“Not at all, Miss Bingley,” replied Darcy amiably. “For it has been much enjoyed by the rest of the party, and I see that because they have been added as more of a garnish, and not cooked together with the rest of the ingredients, you have easily separated the mushrooms from the meat and vegetables. There is no reason not to enjoy the remainder of your meal.”
Coming as it did from Mr. Darcy, this comment was sufficient to cheer Miss Bingley, and she complied with his suggestion, leaving the mushrooms on the side of her plate.
It was not long after dinner was completed—indeed, the entire party had just retired to the drawing room, the gentlemen declining their usual after-dinner solitude, claiming fatigue—when Elizabeth began to feel rather queer. She found she could no longer attend to her needlework. The room began to swirl around her, the colors of the draperies blended with that of the rug, and the sound of the others’ voices took on unnaturally deep tones. She turned her head slowly, for that was all she could manage at the moment, and stared wonderingly at the woman across from her.
“A witch!” she cried, pointing, with great effort, at Miss Bingley. “Fie! Leave us, creature of darkness!” Her own voice sounded slow and wrong in her ears. She tried to stand and run, but found her legs strangely rooted to the spot, her head in a muddle. The walls had started to melt. Trembling, she could only gaze at Miss Bingley in terror.
Miss Bingley was affronted in no small way. “Miss Eliza, what did you call me?” she demanded, aghast.
“There, there, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy comfortingly, making his way on unsteady legs to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa. He awkwardly began to stroke her arm, as one might stroke a cat. “There is nothing to fear, Miss Bennet. I will protect you. Besides, it is no witch, after all,” he added, laughing, “simply a scarecrow!”
“Witch! Scarecrow!” Miss Bingley sputtered. “How dare you!”
Darcy continued to stroke Elizabeth’s arm, and she quieted. He was feeling more than a little peculiar himself, and Elizabeth’s bare skin fascinated him. It flowed like silk. It was silk. Pink silk. How extraordinary! He was using both hands now, drifting his touch delicately over her face, neck, and shoulders. Her usually subtle scent overwhelmed him, and he found himself in a garden of giant pink roses, fondling the tender petals and pressing his whole body into them. He was entranced. His head was spinning—but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Moreover, the satiny feel of the roses was exquisite. Would their taste be as well? He tried one; it melted on his tongue. Delightful! He wanted more.
Elizabeth was now standing under a waterfall of a thousand shining colors. The water flowed down her head, over her shoulders and bosom, and down her legs. The experience was unlike any she had ever known, and was almost unbearably pleasurable. She parted her lips to catch the delicious sparkling waters and found her mouth immediately filled. She had no thirst, yet she was inclined to keep drinking, drinking deep of the sparkling water, while the colors swirled around her.
Miss Bingley gaped in disbelief as she watched Mr. Darcy draw Eliza Bennet into his embrace on the sofa, caressing that unsophisticated chit in a most intimate fashion, his hands flowing over her features, her skin, the material of her gown…gracious Lord, her bosom! Her legs! The brazen hussy was not even resisting his advances. What a harlot! And now he was kissing her in a most outrageous fashion, his open mouth shamelessly prying open her lips. Good heavens, did he actually have his tongue in her mouth? Disgusting! Disgraceful!
Her face burning, her chest heaving in jealous distress, Caroline finally tore herself away and turned to remark on this contemptible scene to Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, but found them sitting opposite each other, snorting in barely restrained laughter. The more they tried to control themselves, the louder their mirth became. Finally, they slid to the floor in each other’s arms, shrieking uproariously and most unbecomingly. Miss Bingley could not determine what was so frightfully amusing, for they did not acknowledge her presence and seemed quite incapable of rational conversation. Despite her attempts to interrupt their hilarity, their laughter continued unabated.
This was a nightmare; had the world gone mad? Finally, Caroline turned to importune her brother for help. But Mr. Bingley only sat smiling in his chair, staring at nothing, waving his hands in the air, humming loudly. Miss Bingley could not distinguish a melody. “Charles!” she demanded, seizing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at her. “Charles! What has come over everyone?”
Alas, it did not work. Charles was in heaven, flying through the air amid blue skies and rippling white clouds, attended by an angel. A blue-eyed, blonde-haired angel whose voice was at once all the notes of a heavenly choir. “Charles!” she said. And again: “Charles!” He smiled. Jane. His angel.
Fleeing the room, Miss Bingley nearly collided with a servant. “Do not enter that room. See that no one enters that room,” she hissed, slamming the door shut behind her. It would not do to have the servants gossiping about the extraordinary events taking place behind that door. The family’s reputation would be ruined. She ran up the stairs and burst into Jane’s room. “Jane, my dear,” she cried, breathlessly, “what sort of illness besets you? Could it be contagious?”
Awakened from a doze and startled by her friend’s sudden entrance, Jane looked up at Miss Bingley with fever-glazed eyes. “I am so sorry, Caroline,” she said and coughed slightly. “Of what are you speaking? I fear I am not the best company at the moment.”
Caroline could easily see that, despite Jane’s illness, s
he was not afflicted in the same manner as the rest of the household. Aware that it would serve no useful purpose to apprise Jane of the events unfolding downstairs, Miss Bingley apologized for disturbing her, smiled insincerely, and excused herself.
Heading slowly down the stairs, Miss Bingley attempted to make sense of the madness in the drawing room. Were they all possessed? She shook off the idea. Caroline Bingley was not given to superstition. The malady had come upon them very suddenly, not long after dinner. Perhaps they had imbibed too much wine? But no, no one had drunk immoderately, save Mr. Hurst, and that was, after all, his common practice.
What else could have effected such a change in demeanor? Caroline mentally numbered the courses: the hors d’oeuvres, the soup, the fish, the ragout—the ragout! They had all partaken of the ragout, of course, but she was the only one who had not eaten the mushrooms. How could eating mushrooms cause such a reaction? Perhaps they had been tainted. She was suddenly very nervous. What if her relations—and Mr. Darcy and Miss Eliza—were truly ill? Worse yet, what if they all died from contaminated food? Miss Bingley hastened back to the drawing room. She was not yet willing to call a doctor—fear of scandal held her in check—but she did feel it would be best to keep watch over everyone.
When she entered the room, she saw that nothing had changed in the five minutes that she had been gone. No one appeared to be in peril. Charles—the fool!—was still smiling and humming, Louisa Hurst and Mr. Hurst were still upon the floor, laughing boisterously at nothing (one would think they would have run out of breath by now), and Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were still engaged in mischief on the sofa.
Knowing that she was, in effect, unobserved made Miss Bingley bold. She viewed the two at length with a mixture of mortification, envy, and curiosity. Could this be what transpired between a man and woman during courtship? It seemed highly improper, even for those who were affianced. Perhaps these things were more in the purview of married couples. Another question arose in her mind: Were such attentions really so very pleasing? Miss Elizabeth surely seemed to be pleased, if one could judge by the sighs and moans emanating from her.
The Road to Pemberley Page 10
