Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Colonel Sutherland studied the report in front of him and frowned. “Are you sure that it was him?” he said. “Can you be absolutely certain that your own feelings – ”

“I’d recognise that haughty demeanour anywhere, sir,” said Wickham.  “There was no-one else that it could possibly have been.”

The colonel sighed. “In that case, Wickham. I have no alternative. I’m taking you off the investigation. You’re far too emotionally involved. And we need to keep our senses in control of our sensibilities, if you see what I mean.”

“But sir – ”

“God knows, it’s difficult enough with you being involved with a member of the Bennet family – ”

“That was just a job – ”

“I know – ”

“ – and one that I made a dashed right royal mess of.” Wickham thumped the desk, stood up and walked away.

“She may yet be alive, George,” said Sutherland.

“She was just a child,” said Wickham. “I mean, obviously not in the sense of anything dodgy, but – ”

“I know.” Sutherland stood up himself and went over to Wickham. He put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on, old man, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know half of what we know now.”

“But half of that is speculation, and a whole third of that is incomplete conjecture, and nine-tenths of the rest is probably the rabid speculation of a deranged imagination – ”

And yet, that still leaves – ” the colonel paused for a moment “ – one sixtieth that may yet be of use to us.”

They both looked at each other for a few seconds.

“Are you sure?” said Wickham. “Look, if you take a half of a half – ”

“It matters not,” said Sutherland. “All that is important is that Lydia may still be alive and unharmed. And it is our duty to find her.” He paused. “Come here. I’ve got something new I want you to look into.” He went back to his desk, and Wickham followed.

“We’ve had another sighting. From one of our operatives in Kent. Take a look at this engraving.” He handed a piece of paper to Wickham.

“Hmmm. Nice work. I like the way he’s depicted the thrusters particularly. But just one moment, sir. I think I recognise the house in the picture – ”

“I thought you might.”

“My God. It’s Rosings.”

“Indeed it is, Wickham. I want you to go there and find out what’s going on. You’re going to have to infiltrate the establishment and see what Lady Catherine de Bourgh is up to.”

“Lady Catherine? Surely not. I really can’t believe the old bat – ”

“Assume nothing, Wickham. These are strange times that we live in.”

“But how am I going to get into Rosings? She knows me. She hates me. I seduced her niece, remember? She’s Darcy’s aunt.”

“So you’re going to need a disguise.” Colonel Sutherland handed him a card. “We tend to use these chaps. Good eggs. Theatrical types. Know their disguises inside out.”

Wickham took the card and raised an eyebrow. “Old Compton Street, eh? Can we trust them? Are they straight?”

“Straight?” said Sutherland. “Not sure what you mean there, old chap.”

The prisoner curled up on the damp stone.

“Hey!” he cried out. “Somebody help me! I’m cold and ashamed, lying naked on the floor.”

No-one replied. He felt torn. How had he got into this imbroglio? There had been a mist. A highwayman. Tentacles. A Probe.

Oh God. The Probe.

He tried to stand up, and then quickly sat back down again.

Oh God. The Probe.

“Hey!” he called out. “Somebody – ”

“Yeah?” came a voice from the other side of the bars. “What’s the problem?”

“Ah, yes. Good. Well, I’ve got a number of complaints about the way I’m being treated here. For one thing – ”

“’Ere, Tom. Prisoner says he’s got some complaints.”

“Really?” said another voice. “Well, ’e’ll ’ave to fill in a form, then, won’t ’e?”

“Yeah. ’Ave we got one ’andy, Tom?”

“Er … let me see … nah, we’re right out of forms, Bob. Sorry, mate, no forms, no complaint. Got to follow the procedure. Always got to – ”

“Look,” said the prisoner, “Do you know who I am?” He had a feeling that this usually had the desired effect.

“Yeah,” said the one called Tom. “’Course we do. But do you know who you are? That’s the more interesting question.”

The prisoner considered this in silence. “Ah,” he said. “Now you come to mention it, I have no idea who I am. No idea whatsoever.”

‘Well, that’ll make filling in a form difficult, won’t it?” said Bob with an unnecessary air of triumph.

“Bollocks,” said the prisoner. Then he had a thought. “But … you … know … do you?” he said, in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “Nice name it is, too. Dead posh. But if you want to find out what it is, you’ll ’ave to be a bit nicer to us first.”

“No more complaints,” chipped in Bob.

“Oh, yes, yes,” said the prisoner. “Of course.”

“Promise?” said Tom.

“Promise.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Look,” said the prisoner, “I’m not trying to be pushy or anything, but I wonder if I could perhaps have some of my clothes back?” There was no reply. “And could you possibly tell me when the next meal is? It’s just that the thin gruel I had a few hours ago – nutritious though it was, and I did like the ant garnish, that was a lovely touch – didn’t really fill me up quite as much as I’d expected. In fact if I’d known, I might have gone for the – ”

“Is that a complaint?” said Bob.

“Oh no, no.”

“Right. Piss off, then. You’ll get clothed and fed when we decide.”

The prisoner’s stomach rumbled.

“I ’eard that,” said Tom. “Definitely a complaint, that was.”

There was a sound of footsteps approaching. “Still,” said Bob.  “No time for food now, anyway. Lucky boy’s got a visitor.”

The prisoner looked up as the door swung open.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said.

“Indeed it is,” she said. “It’s time for your therapy.”

“Oh,” he said. “Will this involve a Probe?”

“It always involves Probes. It always does. But in your mouth this time.”

“Ah.” He thought about this for a while. “You have washed it, haven’t you?” he said.

Elizabeth jerked awake from a surprising dream involving a lot of tentacles, and for a moment wasn’t quite sure where she was. Then the rocking motion of the carriage brought it back to her. She was accompanying Charlotte on her journey back to Rosings, partly because the poor girl wasn’t safe to be let out on her own, but mainly to get a chance to have a proper look at the place again. There was clearly something odd going on there, and in the continuing absence of Wickham, she felt duty-bound to investigate it herself. She hardly dared hope that it might lead her to Lydia.

Charlotte dozed in the opposite seat, snoring loudly and occasionally muttering odd comments about albatrosses. Poor thing, thought Elizabeth. She used to be such a nice, dull person, and now she was full of the raving madness. It was almost lunchtime, so she reached into the hamper next to her and looked to see what cook had packed for them. There were several cuts of cold meat, along with some of Farmer Olivier’s notorious pork pies – which were mainly there in order to ward off attacks by highwaymen. There were also some of those new-fangled bread creations made popular by their use in Italian gambling parlours, invented by the Duce di Ciabatta.

Charlotte stirred and opened her eyes. For several seconds they were completely vacant, and then a sheen of pain descended over them.

“Are you all right, my dear?” said Elizabeth.

“I feel a bit poorly,” said Charlotte. “My humours are out of balance, and I am in need of the fur of the spaniel.”

“I understand,” said Elizabeth, not understanding a word of what her friend was saying. “You must eat, though.”

“I cannot. See – it is crawling with worms! The stench of evil corruption!”

“Are you sure?” Elizabeth took another look in the hamper. “I think you may perhaps be mistaken, for I perceive that there are no worms therein, my dear.”

“There!” screamed Charlotte, pointing at Elizabeth. “The spiders are coming for me! The spiders! Five-foot high, sixteen-legged spiders!”

Elizabeth held up her hand. “One moment, please: you confuse me. Could we first decide whether the problem is related to worms or spiders – ?”

“Albatross! Get this albatross off me – ”

“Ah. We seem to be back to albatrosses. Perhaps I should begin again. I’ve got some exceptionally diverting Italian bready things here, some perfectly fine pork pies – ”

“– they’re crawling over me – ”

Charlotte stood up and grabbed hold of the carriage door. Before Elizabeth could do anything, she opened it and leant out.

“Aaagh! The ground moves!” she screamed, looking down. “It’s alive! The wildebeest are upon us!”

By now, Elizabeth was standing behind her, and she managed to pull Charlotte back into the carriage, closing the door again. Charlotte sagged down into her seat. Elizabeth took hold of her hands and looked her firmly in the eye.

“Charlotte,” she said. “Take a few deep breaths. Count to ten. With me. All right? One … two … three … four …” Charlotte joined in, silently mouthing the words and nodding with intense concentration every time.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“It will get easier,” said Elizabeth, more out of hope than any real knowledge. “It will.”

“I know,” said Charlotte. “Especially when the spiders leave me alone.”

Elizabeth sighed deeply, and rummaged in the hamper for something to give to her. She hoped that the poor girl might be better on a full stomach. Yes, that was what she needed.

“Cold turkey?” she said.

Mary Ann Nicholls paced up and down her cell. She glanced up at the figurine on the cross on the wall. “Listen mate,” she said. “I think you need to have words with some of the people what run this establishment of yours. The food’s crap, the service is terrible and the furnishings could do with a once over. And I really don’t know where the Probes fit into it, either. Actually, I know exactly where they fit, come to think of it.” She paused and adjusted her undergarments.

There was a rap on the cell door.

“Surrogate Nicholls! Prepare for inspection!” came a voice from the corridor outside. The door opened and a large woman in her late forties came in.

“Look, can I just say,” said Mary Ann, “If it’s the Probe again, could you perhaps warm it up this time?”

“Silence, surrogate Nicholls,” said the woman. “Come with me.” The woman seized hold of Mary Ann and frog-marched her out of the cell, down the corridor into an office at the end. She recognised the man at the desk as Mr Collins. At last. A chance to speak with the management.

“Ah, Mr Collins. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you – ”

“Silence!” shouted the woman again.

Mr Collins looked up at her and winced. He shook his head slightly. “It’s all right, Mrs Pike,” he said, “I’ll deal with this now.”

Mrs Pike muttered something under her breath and then let go of Mary Ann. Then she turned around and marched out of the room.

“So, Mary Ann Nicholls,” said Mr Collins. “How are we settling in at the Mission?”

“Well, as I was saying – ”

“Good, good,” said Mr Collins, waving his hand. “Good.” He paused, looked up at Mary Ann and put the tips of his fingers together and then brought both hands up to his lips. For a moment, he appeared to go into a trance, and then just as quickly snapped out of it. “Miss Nicholls, as you will be aware from the bible study that you have been engaged with in the past week, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

“Sorry?”

“And it seems that you have been Chosen.”

“Chosen?” For an instant, Mary Ann wondered why Chosen had a capital letter. Then she realised that she had no idea what a capital letter was and put the thought from her mind.

“Yes, Chosen. In fact, the reason why I’ve brought you here this evening is to meet a very special person.”

“Father Christmas?” said Mary Ann, hopefully. That was usually what they meant when they talked about a very special person. Although it usually turned out to be some old tramp with bad breath.

“No, not Father Christmas, Mary Ann. But he is very special indeed. And he is very keen to meet you.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Mary Ann. “I think I know where this is going. And if you think anyone’s going to get any without paying for it …”

Mr Collins looked aghast. “Oh, good Lord, no. Good Lord, no. I mean to say … no, no, no. The very suggestion – ”

“Perhaps I can explain,” said a new voice. A proud, arrogant voice. Mary Ann turned and watched as the newcomer entered the room behind her. He was dressed in the finest clothing, the hair was perfectly coiffeured and he had the bearing of true aristocracy. She stared at him, open-mouthed. She’d seen a few nobs in her time, but this man was something else.

“S-sir?” was all she managed to say.

“But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

(Being a service provided to late arrivals. Please do take your seats as quickly and quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the other readers. And remember, mobile telephonic devices should be switched OFF.)

Elizabeth receives a mysterious summons to meet Mr Wickham at the quarry, where there is much tentacle-slashing and unpleasantness … Mr Darcy requires an heir and Elizabeth offers to help, although Mr Darcy has to leave for London before they can proceed further … Mr Bingley enters an unwise business arrangement … Elizabeth has a confusing conversation with old Mr Firth … Wickham fails to charm Becoming Jane … Colonel Sutherland diverts Wickham to Whitechapel … Mary Ann Nicholls meets Mr Collins and goes to his Mission … The Dandy Highwayman and his tantalisingly unidentified accomplice kidnap a traveller with intent to probe … Charlotte Collins is unwell and raving about tentacles … Wickham meets Annie Chapman and makes a startling discovery … Lydia is still missing.

So there we are. It all makes perfect sense. Comments are open, should you wish to add your twopenn’orth. This is a respectable site, so no intemperate language or lewd behaviour will be tolerated. Anyone speaking French will obviously be shown the door immediately, as will anyone who asks for “Prussian”.

Now read on …

George Wickham took the hunk of mutton out of his pocket and tore off a mouthful. Then he reached for his hipflask and took a swig of gin. He grimaced at the rough taste and made a mental note to ask provisions to fill it up with Plymouth next time. Still no sign of any movement from the house opposite. Footsteps approached, and he melted back into the shadows of the alleyway.

The footsteps stopped and someone peered in his direction.

“Anybody there?” said a female voice. “I said, is there anybody there?”

In one swift, practised movement, Wickham grabbed hold of her and pulled her into the alleyway with one hand, clamping the other firmly over her mouth.

“Apologies for the rough handling, my dear,” he hissed, as he dragged her further into the alley, “but I haven’t been on the Chivalry Refresher Course yet this year, and my manners are a bit rusty.” When he was well away from the street, he released her. He took out a Chancel match and lit it by dipping it into a bottle of acid. “Well, my dear, who are you?” he said, holding the match up to her. She was a rough sort, evidently ravaged by laudanum, gin and bad sex – known to the medical profession as Harker’s Triple Whammy.

“I’m a simple ’ore, sir,” she said, backing away from the flame, “A simple ’ore, a-going about me honest trade of a night. You after a good time?”

“At this precise minute, my dear, no. But circumstances may change, so give me your card anyway.”

The woman passed him her card, and he examined it by the light of the match.

Annie Chapman

’Ore

Available for weddings, orgies and bar-mitzvahs

“The customer always comes first”

“Glad to hear it,” said Wickham, pocketing the card. The match fizzled and went out. “Bloody French technology,” he said. “Listen, my dear, I work for some … important people – ”

“Ha. Don’t talk to me about important people. D’yer know what I said to the Prince Regent the other – ”

“Er, yes, I’m sure that’s terribly interesting,” said Wickham. “But that’s as maybe. I’m more interested in … reports of … unusual things going on around here?”

“Not sure I get your drift.”

“Disappearances, perhaps? Anyone you know on the street suddenly … not on the street, as it were?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Ooh, funny you should say that, but I was just thinking about old Mary Ann Nichols. We usually meet for half a dozen gins on a Tuesday and she ain’t been around for a few days.”

“Interesting. Do you know anything about the Mission for Fallen Women over there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the street.

Annie Chapman laughed. “You’re not suggesting Mary Ann’s found Jesus, are you? That’d be the day.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. But I’m wondering if anyone you know has ever been there?”

“Ha, no. Once they go in there, you never sees them again. It’s like they’re too good for the likes of me any more.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s as if there was something wrong with being an ’ore. And I don’t know what they get up to in there, I really don’t. You should hear some of the noises.”

“Such as? Hymns?”

“Nah. Wailing, more like.”

“Fascinating. Well, I tell you what. Here’s my card. If you come across anything else unusual, drop me a line, eh?”

“That’ll be tricky. I’m illiterate.”

“Dear me. Have you an amanuensis?”

“Not last time it was checked, no. Listen, I’ll get word to you somehow. Nice meeting you. I like a man in uniform.” She winked at him in what she evidently hoped was a coquettish manner.

“Mmmm,” said Wickham. “Tell me, I don’t suppose you do Prussian, do you?”

Annie slapped him hard. “Filthy bugger,” she said, and strode off into the night. Wickham followed her to the end of the alley, rubbing his cheek. As he reached the street, he noticed a figure looking from left to right before entering the Mission.

“Good Lord,” he said to himself. “Surely not?”

Charlotte Collins appeared ill at ease. She seemed to be finding it difficult to sit still, and the drumming of her fingers on the dining table was beginning to annoy Elizabeth.

“Are you all right, my dear?” she said.

“I am … quite well. The journey from Rosings was taxing, and I did not sleep well last night.”

“Indeed. You must be exhausted. And here I am bothering you with tiresome enquiries about your health.” She paused. “Is the venison to your satisfaction?”

“It is very satisfactory,” said Charlotte, with a slight twitch.

The silence descended. Elizabeth surmised that Charlotte’s present disposition was connected to the fact that Dench had indeed managed to intercept her supply of laudanum and secrete it in a safe place. She had little experience of these matters, beyond the content of Mr Coleridge’s famous pamphlet, “Just Say No, Quoth the Albatross”, and the message contained therein was ambiguous to say the very least.

“Er … Charlotte – ” she began.

Charlotte threw down her cutlery and stood up, drooling slightly and with her eyes as wide as the Darcys’ best dinner plates. “What NOW?!” she screamed.

Elizabeth was taken aback, but held her ground. Asking the servants to leave them for a moment, she said, “Dearest Charlotte, whatever is the matter with you?”

Charlotte advanced around the end of the table and stood over Elizabeth. “What have you done with it?” she said.

“What?”

“You know full well. I can’t live without –”

“Without what?”

Charlotte’s voice dropped to a whisper as she sank back into the chair next to Elizabeth. “My … little … bottle,” she said.

“Ah,” said Elizabeth, trying hard to disguise the triumph in her voice. “Good, good. I’m glad you’re facing up – ”

“You have no idea – ”

“– to your problems – ”

“– what it’s like living with him – ”

“– because I feel I can really help you here – ”

“– can you imagine what it’s like when he creeps into bed with you – ”

“– I really want to help, Charlotte, I really do, but you need to accept –”

“– when that greasy little body slides up behind you – ”

“– that it’s just a crutch and it’s not addressing the underlying problem, is it?”

“– and he goes finger, thumb, finger, thumb, finger, thumb all the way down your spine until he grasps hold of your – ”

“Charlotte? Were you listening to a word I was saying?”

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by soft whimpering from Charlotte. “I can stop whenever I want, you know, Lizzie,” she said. “I really can.”

“I know,” said Elizabeth, embracing Charlotte and rocking her gently to and fro, “I know.”

“And I hate Rosings, too,” said Charlotte. “That horrible de Bourgh woman – ”

“Yes, well – ”

“And the noises and lights in the sky that keep me awake – ”

“Sorry?”

“And the tentacles – ”

Elizabeth disengaged from Charlotte and sat bolt upright.

“Charlotte, did you say tentacles?”

Charlotte looked bemused. “I … don’t … think so. Why would I say tentacles?” Her eyes were wandering all over the room. “No, I can’t think of any reason why I should say tentacles. Did I really say tentacles? Sorry. Sometimes I get a little confused.” She gave a sad little smile. “I think I’d better go to bed now,” she said.

Elizabeth helped her friend up to her chamber and made sure that she was comfortable. Poor, poor Charlotte. But what on earth was she babbling on about? There was only one man who could help her find an answer to that, and unfortunately she had no idea how to get hold of him.

Elizabeth was seated at her escritoire next to the upstairs bay window. From here she could see the whole vista of Pemberley spread out before her, from the ornamental lake of delicious memory right over to the strange tower known as Blethyn’s Folly in the far distance. She sometimes had to pinch herself to remind her that she was mistress of all she could see.

She was trying to compose a reply to Jane, wondering whether she should mention anything about her two curious encounters at the quarry, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a carriage commencing the long journey up the drive to the house. Company at last, she thought to herself. She still had a few minutes, though, so she made one last effort to get the letter started.

Dear Jane,

You’ll never believe …

No, that would never do. She scrunched it up and threw it in the bin.

Dear Jane,

Guess what happened to me …

She shook her head and threw that one in the bin as well.

Dear Jane,

Remember Mr Wick-

She didn’t even complete the name before crossing everything out several times, tearing the letter up into small pieces, and then shredding it into even tinier ones, before crumpling it all up into a ball and discarding it. No, it was best not to say anything at all quite yet. Whatever was she thinking of? Poor Jane would worry herself sick.

Meanwhile, the carriage had almost arrived, and Elizabeth rushed downstairs to greet the new arrival. Hollander and Dench were already in place, and as soon as it came to a halt, Hollander stepped forward to open the door.

No-one emerged.

Hollander stood to attention, holding the door back, whilst Dench gave Elizabeth a quizzical look. She shrugged, and both her footmen shrugged back.

Still no-one emerged.

Dench looked at Elizabeth again, and this time she motioned to him to take a look inside. He peered into the carriage, came out and had a brief, whispered consultation with Hollander. The latter shook his head fiercely, but Dench nodded back at him with a similar degree of fervour. The two continued their silent pantomime for a minute or so, until eventually Hollander gave in and the pair of them both clambered into the carriage.

They emerged a moment or two later, carrying a comatose woman awkwardly between them. As they came up to Elizabeth, she took a look at their burden and sighed.

“The blue room, I think,” she said.

“Yes, madame,” said Dench.

“And … Dench?”

“Yes, madame?”

“When you take her luggage up, make sure that any … medication … you happen to find … gets stored … safely? Somewhere else, perhaps?”

“I understand, madame.” Dench lifted one finger up to tap his nose, letting one of the woman’s legs dangle loose as he did so. He clumsily picked it up again, and the two of them headed off into the house.

Poor Charlotte, thought Elizabeth. Still on the laudanum.

The carriage rumbled on through the mist towards London. The man inside leaned out of the window and called up to the driver.

“Can’t you go any faster? We need to get to Watford Gap by nightfall. The little chef said he’d have my special waiting in the oven.”

“Aye, sir,” said the coachman. “But we don’t want to lose a wheel round these ’ere parts and get stuck on the moor. ’appen there’s mischief afoot. They say the Dandy ’ighwayman is abroad.”

“The Dandy Highwayman?”

“Aye, sir. ’im as what spends his cash on looking flash. And all that.”

“Well, we’d best not give him any of our attention then, had we?”

“No sir. So if you don’t mind, I’ll take it nice and careful until we get to the Gap.”

The passenger sighed, sat down again and took out some papers to read through. No sooner had he done so, however, than there was a sudden flash of light and a dull explosion. The carriage jolted as the horses reared up and then came to a halt. He leaned out of the window again.

“What the h– ?” he said. Standing in front of the carriage, just visible in the mist, was a man astride a black horse. He wore vaguely military uniform, topped off with an extravagant tricorn hat, and his face was daubed with white stripes. He carried a gun, which he waved in the air with a jaunty air.

“Stand and deliver!” he cried, and his horse whinnied by way of accompaniment. “I’m the Dandy High– ”

“Yeah, we know,” said the coachman.

The highwayman levelled his gun at him. “Watch it, mate. None of your cheek.” He brought his horse nearer to the carriage, leant over and peered in, still pointing his gun at the driver on the roof.

“Afternoon,” he said to the occupant of the carriage. The occupant of the carriage glared back at him.

“This is quite intolerable,” he said. “Will you please let us go?”

“I don’t think so,” said the highwayman. “Seeing as you have something that we have need of.”

“I carry very little money with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh no, it’s not your money we’re after. C’mon. Out you get.” He re-trained his gun on the man inside. At this point, the coachman seized the opportunity to dismount and attempt a getaway. But before he had gone but a few feet, a long tentacle snaked out of the gloom, wrapped itself around him and dragged him off, screaming. The screams intensified for a moment and then stopped altogether.

“Now, mister, where were we?” said the highwayman, his gun still pointing at the passenger. “Are we getting out or not?”

Shaking, the man opened the door of the carriage and stepped out onto the moor. Then another, female, figure emerged from out of the mist.

“Good lord, it’s –” said the man.

“Indeed it is. Surprised, are we? Well, these are strange times that we live in, are they not?” She turned to the highwayman. “Tie him up. Make sure that he can’t escape. And be careful – I don’t want him injured.”

The highwayman dismounted and reached into his saddlebag for a length of rope. He bound the man hand and foot, humming to himself as he did so. When he had finished, he picked him up and leant him against the side of the carriage, face down.

The woman approached, and the two of them took their positions behind their prisoner.

“Right,” said the woman. “Pull his breeches down. Then – ” she paused for dramatic effect “ – fetch me my reticule – ”

Their prisoner relaxed slightly at this. “A reticule is nothing to be scared of – ” he said.

“ – and then open it and take out the Probe,” said the woman.

“Ah,” said the man. “Bugger.”

“Wub wub,” said the Dandy Highwayman with a snicker. “Bo diddley wub wub.”

(Being a service provided to late arrivals)

Elizabeth receives a mysterious summons to meet Mr Wickham at the quarry, where there is much tentacle-slashing and unpleasantness … Mr Darcy requires an heir and Elizabeth offers to help, although Mr Darcy has to leave for London before they can proceed further … Mr Bingley enters an unwise business arrangement … Elizabeth has a confusing conversation with old Mr Firth … Wickham fails to charm Becoming Jane … Colonel Sutherland diverts Wickham to Whitechapel … Mary Ann Nicholls meets Mr Collins … Lydia is still missing.

So there we are. Comments are open, should you wish to add your twopenn’orth. This is a respectable site, so no intemperate language or lewd behaviour will be tolerated. Anyone speaking French will obviously be shown the door immediately.

Mrs Darcy would also be most obliged if you could make your way over to the Preditors and Editors site, where they are holding their annual poll, and vote for “Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens” in what they amusingly refer to as the “Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels” section.

Now read on …