Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The cage containing the small tentacled animal sat on the desk between Mr Collins and Mr Darcy. The little beast was bouncing up and down and squeaking in an apparent attempt to gain the latter’s attention.

“I think … it wants … a cuddle?” said Mr Collins, amazed at such a word issuing from his own lips. Up to this point in his life, he had shown little interest in children, being firmly of the view that they should neither be seen nor heard until they had reached middle-age. However, ever since he had rescued this one from recycling after Annie Chapman’s unfortunate demise, he had developed a curious bond with it. “Look,” he said, pointing to Mr Darcy, “That’s Daddy!”

Mr Darcy made a face and pushed the cage away from him. “Mr Collins,” he said, “Please desist. I am not that creature’s Daddy, as you put it. That thing is merely the unfortunate by-product of a biological experiment – and because of your unwarranted fondness for it, we are low on our quota for grade C slop for tonight’s supper.” At this, the creature stopped bouncing for a moment and fixed Mr Darcy with a watery glare.

“But Mr Darcy – ” Mr Collins was sure that this wasn’t quite what he had agreed to when Lady Catherine de Bourgh – his beloved patron – had asked him to set up the Mission. In fact the whole set-up was more than a little queer, and if it had been anyone other than Lady Catherine …

“Enough!” said Mr Darcy. “I have received word from the High Command that we are to move on to Phase Two of the Experiment.”

Mr Collins blanched. “Phase Two? Are you sure? We cannot possibly be ready for – ”

“Ready or not, we must move on.”

A vision of Annie Chapman’s ruptured corpse floated briefly through Mr Collins’ mind and he shuddered. “But Mr Darcy, as I’m sure you will be aware, we have had two … ah … rejections already. What if – ” he said.

“I am fully aware of this. But the same thing may not necessarily happen to the Prime Subject. She is … different. I may know more about this very soon, as a fortunate coincidence has given two of our Technicians the opportunity to inspect her themselves this very evening. In fact, we have your wife to thank for this.”

Mr Collins gasped. He opened his mouth to speak but failed to fill it with anything approaching words. The creature in the cage tilted its head on one side and gave him a tender, sympathetic look.

“My wife?” he said, eventually.

“Yes. I believe you have a wife, Mr Collins?”

“I … well … but you have not involved her in this … business, have you? I hasten to add of course that if this is what Lady Catherine de Bourgh wishes, then so be it. Lady Catherine’s desires are coincident with mine as always. But I did not think – ”

“Mr Collins, we will take whatever steps we need to achieve our objective. However, in this case you may rest assured that your wife is an innocent bystander. She has merely been the vessel that has conveyed the Prime Subject to Rosings.”

“Ah – ”

“I shall be leaving for Pemberley tomorrow,” continued Mr Darcy, “to await the Prime Subject’s return. And then Phase Two of the Experiment will commence.”

“I … I … am speechless,” said Mr Collins. “I mean, I am in awe – ”

Mr Darcy’s lips straightened into a thin smile in acknowledgement.

“So does this mean that the other poor girls – ”

“It means that they will have to be processed tonight, Mr Collins. Please therefore arrange for Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly to be prepared and then brought to my chamber.”

Mr Collins grimaced and bowed his head. As he did so, the cage in front of him rattled from side to side and a tentacle shot out, giving Mr Darcy’s nose a tweak. Mr Collins stifled a smirk, before noticing to his chagrin that an evil-smelling liquid was now leaking out from the base of the cage and burning a hole through his desk.

By late afternoon, Elizabeth’s head was feeling considerably better, although her coordination was still poor. She fervently hoped that she would not be called upon that evening to perform on Lady Catherine’s fortepiano – or at least anything more complicated than a couple of refrains of Mr Cobain’s Maggot.

Charlotte joined her in the front parlour and seemed to be finding it difficult to express herself.

“Dearest Lizzie, about last night – ” she began.

“’Tis nothing. I have forgotten the occasion already. ’Tis as if it never happened.”

Charlotte looked at Lizzie in a hopeful manner and then shook her head. “No,” she said. “It is not a trifle. I have done you wrong, dearest friend. I have shared intoxicants with you that are the gateway to the deep, dark void that is at the heart of my very being. You do not want to go there.”

“I most certainly do not, dearest Charlotte.” Elizabeth paused for a moment, pondering the depths of Charlotte’s dark void. Then she came to a decision. “I think you should dismiss Lord Byron from this house at once – ”

Charlotte looked at her uncertainly. “Must I?” she said.

“Yes, you must. He is a corrupting influence. And what would your husband say if he knew?”

“Mr Collins is never home,” said Charlotte, coldly. “How could he ever find out?”

“We-e-ell … that’s not quite the point of my proposal,” said Elizabeth, fearing that Charlotte was not taking her suggestion in quite the way that she had intended. Then a question occurred to her that she’d always intended to ask. “What exactly is it that Mr Collins does in his mission?”

“Dearest Lizzie, have I not explained to you before? Mr Collins has been charged by Lady Catherine de Bourgh to rescue the fallen women of Whitechapel.”

Elizabeth considered this. “And do women fall a lot in Whitechapel?” she said. “Are the pavements particularly badly maintained?”

Charlotte smiled. “No, no, no. You know. Fallen women.” She made a gesture with her hand that Elizabeth failed to understand. So Charlotte whispered something in her ear instead.

“No!” said Elizabeth. And then, “Really? How extraordinary. I had no idea that sort of thing went on in Whitechapel.”

“Yes, apparently it does. And Mr Collins tells me that some of them even – ”

There was a cough as a newcomer entered the room, preceded by a waft of exotic pomade. Elizabeth looked up in horror as Lord Byron loomed over her.

“So, ladies, are we all ready to depart?” he said.

She turned to her companion in alarm.

“Charlotte, you can’t seriously imagine that it is a good idea for – ” she could scarcely bear to speak his name “ – this man to join us at Rosings tonight.”

Charlotte gave a weak shrug and smiled thinly back at her. Elizabeth scowled. “Sir,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “You are a cad and a libertine. You are a bad influence on Charlotte, and – ”

“Au contraire, my dear,” he said. “Any influence I have on your poor friend here is entirely for the better. And in any case, I understand that the invitation extends to the gentleman as well as the ladies in this room. Fear not, however. I shall behave myself –  unless the evening becomes a dreadful bore, in which case I may perchance undertake to spice things up a little.” At this, he withdrew a small vial from an inside pocket and tapped his nose.

Elizabeth turned away in disgust. Charlotte maintained an embarrassed silence.

“Hmmm. I wonder what they will serve us for supper?” continued Lord Byron. “I rather fancy a roast.”

Elizabeth awoke with her mouth full of grass. This was to be expected, given that she had fallen asleep face down on the Collins’ lawn, but it was quite some time before she established the connection between this action and its consequence. Likewise, it took Elizabeth several minutes to deduce the connection between the damp state of her dress and the presence of dew.

She spat out the grass and tried to sit up. This could not be considered at all successful in any meaningful sense of the term, owing to the fact that her attempt was curtailed in short measure following an attack on her head by a renegade army of midgets armed with pickaxes. Her mouth had been used as a receptacle for cigar ash by some small creature of the night, and then as a location for its funeral pyre. She felt bad. Things were seriously amiss.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” came a voice from several miles above her.

“Urgggggggggggggggh,” said Elizabeth by way of response.

“’S’alright ma’am. You don’t need to get up for my benefit.” Through the fog that surrounded her brain, Elizabeth slowly recognised the voice as belonging to Mrs Garson. Visual confirmation of this was impossible as her eyes were still firmly clamped shut. But as she listened harder, she thought she could detect undertones of either disapproval or disappointment.

“Urggggggghmfffhthrghhh,” she said.

“I wouldn’t ’ave disturbed you,” said Mrs Garson. “Only we’ve ’ad word from the big ’ouse. Apparently Lady Catherine’s guests arrived last night – foreign gentlemen, I’ll ’ave you know – and you and Mrs C are cordially invited.”

“Laycathdeburgggggggggh?” said Elizabeth.

“That’s the one.”

“Ohgogggggggggggggh.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Still plenty of time to get ready.” Mrs Garson’s cheery voice was several thousand shades too bright for Elizabeth’s head. The clammy dress was beginning to annoy her, and once again she tried to move herself. Once again she admitted defeat. Then she suddenly remembered about the previous evening, with Lord Byron and his horrible cheroots. And those extraordinary hallucinations about flying machines …

“Ohgogggggggggggggh,” she said again.

“I know it’s not my place to say so,” said Mrs Garson. “But I did warn you about Lord B. He’s a queer one and no mistake.”

“Iknowiknowiknowiknow,” said Elizabeth. Oh, she knew all right. Then she remembered something important. “ICharlottalrigggggggh?” she said.

“Sleepin’ like a baby. Heard ’er crawling up the stairs to ’er room in the early ’ours. I’ll go in and wake ’er up the usual way I do when she’s gaga. Poke ’er face, I do. Poke ’er face. Mmmm. Always works. I was all set to do the same to you, ma’am, begging your permission.”

“Urgggggggggggggh,” said Elizabeth, satisfied with this news. She didn’t, frankly, care what state Lord Byron himself was in. The man was a menace and she fervently hoped that the invitation to Rosings tonight did not include him. Heaven knows what he might get up to there.

“So what time do you think you might be getting up, ma’am?” said Mrs Garson.

“Soonsoosoosoosoosoosoosoon.” Elizabeth tried blinking her eyes open and immediately shut them again. The world was far too shiny a place for her to join in with at the present time.

“I only ask ’cos I’ve got a nice luncheon prepared for you ’ere. Pickled eggs, diced carrots –  ”

At this, Elizabeth made one final attempt to sit up and this time she succeeded. However, the strain was too much for her delicate constitution, and she began to retch violently. She forced her eyes open and to her absolute horror observed that the pool of regurgitated supper in front of her had apparently acquired legs.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” said Mrs Garson, looking down. “Them shoes o’mine needed a good clean anyway.”

The ground was definitely humming, thought Wickham. He lay spread-eagled on the rough grass of the paddock and pushed the side of his head down as far as he could. No, it wasn’t so much a hum. More of a throb. Either way, it was more noise than paddocks usually made. And now that he pressed both of his palms flat against the grass he could feel the slightest hint of a vibration.

Kneeling up again, he carefully looked around to see that no-one was watching. He reckoned he was pretty safe, as the paddock foreman tended to nip off for a swift half or two round about lunchtime. He wouldn’t return for a couple of hours yet – if he managed to stagger back at all, as he seemed to measure his halves in gallons. Satisfied that he was unobserved, Wickham began to scratch away at the ground with his bare hands.

As he dug further and further into the earth, the vibrations increased and his hands began to tingle. Then, about six inches down, he came across something solid. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Encouraged by this discovery, he scrabbled away at the hole until he had uncovered an area about a foot square. The surface underneath was unbroken, dull and metallic. But it was no metal that he’d ever come across, and he wondered if he’d manage to get a sample back to H for analysis. Unfortunately, that would mean trying to saw a piece of it off, and that could prove difficult. He’d have to come back under the cover of darkness.

He became aware that he was being watched. Slowly he turned around and looked up, straight into the face of the estate manager, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

“Been diggin’ for buried treasure, ’ave we?” he said.

“Er … n-no … no. I dropped my felching trowel down a rabbit hole – ”

“A rabbit ’ole, eh?”

“Yes, and you know what rabbit holes are like, once you dig away at them, you just go further and further down. There’s a whole matrix of tunnels down there – ”

The estate manager squatted down next to Wickham and peered at his excavations.

“Funny ol’ rabbit ’ole,” he said, looking at Wickham with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” said Wickham. “Isn’t it?” There was a long silence. Then the estate manager stood up and methodically kicked all the earth that Wickham had dug up back into the hole.

“Wouldn’t want any of ’er ladyship’s fine ’orses catching their feet in that, would we now?” he said.

Wickham stood up. “I suppose not,” he said.

The estate manager looked hard at Wickham and tilted his head on one side. “Y’know, you’re not soft, are you? But there’s things go on here that don’t concern the likes o’ you and me. And if you take my advice, you don’t want to go pokin’ yer nose where yer nose ain’t supposed to be poked. Right?” He tapped the side of his nose at this point.

“Right,” said Wickham. “Right.” He really couldn’t tell how much the estate manager knew.

“So, do we have an understanding?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Like I said, you’re not soft, are you?” The estate manager relaxed a little. “Anyways,” he said, “The reason I came over was to say we need an extra ’and over by the cobber-mangling shed. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be getting your arse over there right away.” He paused, as if trying to remember something important. “Oh,” he said, “An’ I’ll be dockin’ you ’alf a day’s wages for losin’ a felchin’ trowel, by the way. Those things cost a bleedin’ fortune.”

As he said it, Wickham thought he caught the faintest ghost of a wink.

Well, said the ghost of Mary Ann Nicholls to herself, that went well, didn’t it? Barely a couple of days into the job and she had managed to make a complete and utter mess of looking after Annie Chapman. In fact, barely half an hour had passed between her encounter with the Headless Whore and poor Annie being duped by that unpleasant Mr Collins into going into his Mission.

She’d tried everything. She’d kicked him, pinched her, shouted “HELLO?” as loud as she could right in her face, but neither of them took the blindest bit of notice. It clearly wasn’t anything like as simple as Headless had made out. Mind you, now she thought about it a bit more, taking advice from someone who didn’t have their head attached to their neck probably wasn’t one of the best ideas she’d ever had.

So she’d watched as Annie got taken in and subjected to the same peculiar probing that she’d been on the wrong end of. It wasn’t a pretty sight from any angle. Once again she’d tried her best to distract the nurse whilst she as carrying out the procedure, and once again she’d completely failed to make any impression on the land of the living.

Then she’d watched as Annie had been introduced to that cold, inhuman creature Mr Darcy, and heard that she’d been Chosen, just like she had been. Oddly, this time she seemed to understand what a capital letter was. Maybe that was something that happened when you were dead. Perhaps when you walked through a few educated people some of the learning rubbed off on you. She stopped and thought about this for a moment.

“A”, she said to herself.

“B”.

“C”.

Bloody hell. If only she’d known all her letters when she was still alive. She could have offered BDSM and charged extra for it.

She sighed. But all her new learning hadn’t helped poor Annie, had it? And there was the proof, lying on the bed asleep in front of her. Annie was having a disturbed night, thrashing from left to right, drooling and sweating feverishly. Occasionally she would call out something like “No!”, “Help!” or “Tentacles!” and flail her arms about wildly. I must have looked like this, thought Mary Ann, the night before it happened. And the same thing’s going to happen to her, isn’t it?

The worst thing was when Annie and Mr Darcy … she could hardly think of a word to describe what they did. It certainly wasn’t anything on her price list, that was for sure. And something very odd had happened to Mr Darcy whilst it was going on. He’d seemed to change. Things had grown out of him: tentacle-y things, un-human things, things from a different … species.

As soon as she’d realised what was going on, she’d tried to stop it of course. And at one point, she almost felt that Mr Darcy noticed her, because for one brief moment, his eyes caught hers. There was the faintest glint of a smile, and then he returned to his grotesque business with Annie.

And now Annie was lying there, wracked by nightmares, with a strange unnatural thing growing inside her. Mary Ann leant over her and tried to stroke her hair to calm her down. As she did so, Annie’s hand fell open and a piece of card tumbled out and landed on the floor. Mary Ann looked down at it and read the name Lieut. Geo. Wickham, Dept of Illegal Aliens, and an address where he could be contacted. Perhaps this was a man who might be able to help.

It was a balmy evening. Elizabeth, Charlotte and Lord Byron sat outside in the Collins’ little garden, replete after an excellent supper. The air was thick with the scent of cherry blossom, wisteria and the smoke from Lord Byron’s extraordinary cheroots. Elizabeth took a fit of coughing and tried to waft away the smoke with her fan, but Charlotte didn’t seem unduly concerned. In fact, she seemed to be positively inhaling it, and her chair was reclining at an alarming angle.

“Hey, Lizzie,” she said, breathing in deeply, “Y’seem dis – dis – distracked, my dear. Relax. Jus’ … be cool.”

“Cool?” said Elizabeth, gasping.

“Yeah … cool. ’s cool. Everything’s cool. That right, Lord B?”

There was no response from Byron, who was staring up at the sky as if in a trance.

“Charlotte, I think – ” said Elizabeth, but the clouds of smoke were starting to have an effect on her. She began to feel quite giddy. But after a while, a feeling of intense well-being flooded over her, and she started to imagine that everything was all right in the world after all.

Charlotte was trying to stand up and failing. “Hey, Lord B,” she was saying, “Don’t Bonaparte that cheroot. Pass it over to me.”

“Wha’ say?” said Elizabeth, struggling to locate her vocabulary, which seemed to have temporarily gone missing.

“Gimme smoke,” said Charlotte, waving at Byron. With one mighty effort, she heaved herself out of her chair and fell flat on the grass. She and Elizabeth stared at each other for a moment, and then started sniggering in perfect unison.

“Oi, Byron,” said Charlotte from her horizontal position, “Want a smoke. Lizzie wants a smoke too …”

“I don’t,” said Elizabeth, even though, much to her own astonishment, she found that she really rather fancied one.

“You so do,” said Charlotte.

“I so don’t.”

“Lizzie,” said Charlotte, heaving herself up onto her elbows. “You’re my bestest friend ever.”

“An’ you’re mine, too,” said Elizabeth, kneeling down next to her. “And Lord Byron’s our next bestest friend, aren’t you Lordy B?”

But Lord Byron was still gazing up at the heavens. “Moon,” he said, and then “June”.

“Byron,” said Charlotte. “You’re a dead rubbish poet.”

Charlotte and Elizabeth both burst into giggles again, hugging each other in order to avoid collapsing on the ground. Byron ignored them.

“Someone once told me,” he said, “That there is no dark side of the moon really. As a matter of fact – ”

“Wasssatt?” said Charlotte, sitting up sharply. She was pointing up at the sky, where a vast saucer-shaped flying machine, blazing with lights, was passing overhead in a slow and stately trajectory.

“Whoa,” said Elizabeth, her mouth agape. “That is … that is … so – ”

“ – totally – ”

“ – unbelievably – ”

“ – jus’ amazing,” said Charlotte.

There was a brief silence, and they continued watching as the great ship continued on its elegant way over towards the great house, where it drifted down towards the ground and disappeared.

“Charlotte,” said Elizabeth, when it had gone, “Hassat ever happened to you before?”

Charlotte nodded frantically. “Allthetime, Lizzie dearest. Allthetime.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath and then turned to Lord Byron. “Hey you,” she said. “Think I’ll try a smoke of that stuff after all.”

Meanwhile, in his room at the Saucer and Tentacle, undercover agent and would-be rough cottager George Wickham was oblivious to anything going on outside. He had had an utterly exhausting day in the fields at Rosings and he was flat out on his bed fast asleep, having not even managed to take off his boots.

The prisoner looked at the latest arrangement of scratches on the wall, counted four and then drew a diagonal line through them. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. The entire wall in front of him was now covered, and a visitor who didn’t know better might imagine that he’d been there for years. The truth was more mundane. He just liked drawing gates.

He sat down again on the cold granite and sighed. This was getting boring. He was almost beginning to look forward to the probing sessions, because at least you got to talk to someone, even if the conversation was not greatly diverting. He wondered what it was like outside. The only light he got was from a small window high up near the ceiling, and the temperature was uniformly cold day and night. At least they’d given him a blanket to wrap round himself now, even if it did smell strongly of horse.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of singing, far off beyond the opposite wall. He raced over and pressed his ear against the stone. He could just make out the words:

My Master has a ding-a-ling-a-ling

and he plays with it all day long

“Hey!” he shouted, slapping his hand against the wall. The voice stopped immediately. “Who goes there?” he said, slapping the wall again. There was silence for several seconds and then the voice started up once more:

I wish I had a ding-a-ling-a-ling

but he says it would be wrong

It was a young girl’s voice, tuneful and lilting. The prisoner found it uplifting and tantalising at the same time. He slapped the wall again.

“Hey! Speak to me, stranger!” he shouted. “’Tis a pretty tune you sing, young maiden, but I would much rather have discourse with you.”

There was another long silence.

“Please?” he said. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching the other side of the wall.

“Who goes there?” came the voice. “Do you intend to probe me, sir?”

“No, madam. Sadly, I am the probee in these parts.”

“Ah, so you are a fellow prisoner, then.”

“I am indeed.”

There was a brief pause.

“May I enquire as to who you are?” said the girl. “Do you even know your name?”

The man sighed. “No, I fear I do not.”

“Ah. ’Tis the same with me. I fear my mind may have been befuddled. I remember nothing that happened before the day I arrived here.”

“And yet your voice … your voice … it reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Really? How nice. I wonder who that was.”

“Yes, I wonder too.”

There was another silence, longer this time.

“Do you think they’ll ever let us out of this dreadful place?” said the girl.

“I don’t know. Perhaps there are yet friends of ours striving to set us free. Surely we must have had friends … once?”

“I am sure we must. We must have had friends. Everyone has friends. Even – ” And then it seemed that the effort of trying to keep her spirits up finally failed the girl, because all the man could hear now was sobbing.

“No, please don’t start weeping my dear – ”

“It’s … it’s all right. I merely have a mote of dust in my eye. Look! I rub my eye and blink once then ’tis clear.” She paused. “You are right, sir. We must be steadfast. We must dream of freedom. Close your eyes. Draw back the curtain – ”

“Curtain? I am not so certain about that – ”

“It scarcely matters, sir. Any dream will do.”

(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 a series of unwise business arrangements … Elizabeth has a confusing conversation with old Mr Firth … Wickham fails to charm Becoming Jane … Colonel Sutherland sends Wickham to Whitechapel, where he meets Annie Chapman and observes Mr Darcy going into Mr Collins’ Mission … In the Mission, Mary Ann Nicholls is Chosen by Mr Darcy, subsequently giving unnatural birth to an alien, following which her body is sent forward in time, leaving her confused ghost back in the present … The Dandy Highwayman and his tantalisingly unidentified accomplice kidnap a traveller, wipe his brain and probe him … Charlotte Collins, unwell and raving about tentacles, travels back to Rosings with Elizabeth … Wickham acquires a beard and makes his way to Rosings as well, disguised as a rough cottager with aloe vera issues … Lord Byron plays the bouzouki, amongst other things … 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 …

Elizabeth was just about to ascend the stairs to her room when she noticed Mrs Garson coming towards her carrying a tray.

“Morning, ma’am,” said old Mrs Garson. “I was just taking a little breakfast up to our other – er – guest.”

“Ah, the mysterious Mr Byron – ” said Elizabeth.

“Lord Byron, I’ll have you know,” said Mrs Garson, raising her eyebrows. She sounded as though she could scarcely believe it.

“Really?” said Elizabeth. “I wasn’t aware that he was a member of the nobility.” She looked at the contents of Lord Byron’s breakfast tray, some of the details of which seemed unusual. “I wonder – could you tell me what that is around the edge of the teacup there?”

“Ah, that is sugar, ma’am. His lordship says that a gentleman needs a good hard rim in the morning to wake him up.”

“Good Lord,” said Elizabeth. “I have never heard of that before. I must try it myself some day.” She paused. “Tell me, Mrs Garson,” she said. “Do you know how Mrs Collins became acquainted with Lord Byron?”

“Ah, that’s an easy one. They both happened to be looking for some works of art in an auction not far from here, and his lordship offered to put Mrs Collins in touch with his dealer. Although – ” and here her voice dropped to a whisper “ – I don’t think he’s on very good terms with this dealer any more, because I overheard him saying that the reason he’s staying here right now is to avoid the man. Some dispute over a wicked skunk or some such.”

“Well, there’s a thing!” said Elizabeth. “So he trades in exotic animals as well?”

“Apparently so. But you know, ma’am, I’m a simple soul and I know little of the world beyond the garden gate. It all seems mighty queer to me, and the least said about it the better. All I know is he’s not good for my mistress. And I worry about what he’s doing to the carpet up in his room, too.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Elizabeth at this apparent non-sequitur.

“He’s refusing to let the parlour maid in to clean,” said Mrs Garson, in an aggrieved tone. “Says it’s a bit of a mess ’cos of him dropping some bad acid last week. Well I ask you!”

“So he is a man of science as well as a musician, then?”

“He writes poems, too. Filthy they are, some of them. I found one or two lying around last time I went in there. There’s this one about a ship called Venus – ”

“The God of love? But surely that is a delightful idea?”

“Ha! You might think that, but I can assure you that you wouldn’t want to know what he says happened on that there ship. If that’s what goes on in the English Navy, well, I’ll tell you this for free: old Boney’s won the war already.” She frowned and shook her head. “But I will say this. Lord Byron can be a generous man. Only the other day he invited a couple of the young lads from the village in for a pork sandwich. He must have thought they were starving, poor mites.”

“So thoughtful!”

Mrs Garson’s face brightened. “And you know what? Only the other day he offered to give me a pearl necklace! At my age!”

“Great heavens! Is there no end to the man’s generosity?”

“’Course I couldn’t take it,” said Mrs Garson. “Wouldn’t have been right.” She sighed. “Anyways, I must be getting along, otherwise his lordship’s tea’s going to get cold. And Mrs Collins will be – er – needing her morning tonic.”

There was something a little over-familiar about the way Mrs Garson tapped the side of her nose, Elizabeth thought.

The man looked Wickham up and down and gave a disdainful sniff.

“Sir, I seek work,” said Wickham. “I am a rough cottager unjustly evicted from Lord Whitrow’s estate. I am skilled at coppicing, sedge-frotting and wither-mangling. I – ”

“Show me yer ’ands,” said the estate manager.

“I beg your – I mean, you what, mate ?” said Wickham, recovering quickly.

“I said, show me yer ’ands.”

Wickham shrugged and then presented his hands for inspection, palms upwards. The man grasped them and pulled Wickham towards him. As he did so, Wickham caught a strong smell of rotting turnips. The estate manager closed his eyes and rubbed Wickham’s hands between his own forefingers and thumbs. Finally, he scowled.

“These are a woman’s ’ands!” he said, letting go with some force.

“Sir, they are most certainly not!” said Wickham. “These hands have worked as hard and as long as any man’s hands in this great country of ours. They have worked in the fields from dawn to dusk throughout many a harvest and bitter winter. These are the hands of an honest English labourer.”

“Bollocks,” said the estate manager. “’ands of a sodding ballet dancer, more like. Smooth as a bleeding baby’s bottom, they are. Show me where the calluses are, then, matey! Show me where the thorns of the haggleberry bush have pierced yer flesh! Show me the bruises from fencing whiplash!”

“Sir, I maintain that these hands – these ’ands – of mine are – despite appearances to the contrary – the hands of a man of the soil. And when I tell you why, you will be sorry you ever questioned my honesty, sir. For I – ” Wickham paused for dramatic effect “ – worked for ten long years on Lord Whitrow’s aloe vera crop.”

There was a long silence, during which the estate manager looked hard into Wickham’s eyes. Then he softened, and a look almost of pity came over him.

“Aloe vera, you say?”

Wickham nodded, lowering his head. The estate manager put his hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t yer say, old feller? ’Tis notorious round these parts what the aloe vera can do to an honest man’s ’ands.”

“I know. They used to be coarse and gritty, my hands did. Young women would flinch when I touched them – ”

“Aye. As young women should – ”

“ – and then I started working for Lord Whitrow. I said I didn’t want to work on the aloe vera, ’cos I’d heard all the stories – ”

“ – I know – ” said the estate manager.

“ – but I was – I were – only a young lad then, and I couldn’t say no. I stuck it out for ten years, and in that time my poor hands became so soft that a cat would let me stroke it!”

“No! A cat?”

“It’s true. And women used to say that they liked me to … to … hold their hand.”

“Holding hands is no way for a rough cottager to carry on.”

“I know. I know.” Wickham waited for a moment and then looked up at the estate manager again. “Sir, will you give me a chance to turn my life around? Will you let me use my wretched smooth hands for gorse-gathering? Will you allow me to pummel stones for her ladyship’s rockery? Will you let me develop some proper … calluses?”

The estate manager looked back at him and Wickham detected the faintest ghost of a smile. Then he patted Wickham on the back. “’Course we will, mate,” he said. “’Course we will.”