Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Elizabeth Darcy woke up late, in an unfamiliar bed, with the sun streaming in through an equally unfamiliar window. For a moment she had no idea where she was or how she had got there, but her discombobulation soon passed as she recalled the extraordinary events of the previous evening at Rosings. Her recollections also went some way to explaining why she was still in her evening gown.

Heavens! She could not possibly go home dressed like this; it would be as if she were taking what Kitty and Lydia used to refer to as “the perambulation of shame”. Then she caught herself and gasped. Lydia! She had got so caught up in her own adventures that she had scarcely given her missing sister a second thought these last few days. But these ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Er … come in?” she said. Wickham entered, bearing a package.

“I have some day clothes for you, Mrs Darcy,” he said, handing the package to Elizabeth. It smelt musty.

“Why … I … thank you, Mr Wickham. At least I think I do. I – ”

“I understand that they should be a good fit. I had our local agent make the necessary adjustments – ”

“How – ?”

“It’s … a skill I have. I can assess a lady’s measurements in a matter of sec – ”

“Really?” said Elizabeth, pulling the covers up around herself. “You become more surprising with every minute that passes, Mr Wickham.”

There was an awkward silence. “I have checked the timetable for the coach and there is one leaving in two hours,” said Wickham. “The route is clear all the way through, apart from a short stretch by Nuneaton where the road is impassable.”

“What shall I do instead?”

“Apparently, there is a replacement sedan chair service.”

“Ah – ”

She stopped in mid sentence. Wickham was looking at her. “Mrs Darcy, are you sure that you wish to return to Pemberley?”

“Why of course, Mr Wickham. Why ever not? It will soon be time for our Midsummer Ball, and – ”

“It’s … it’s – ” He seemed to be struggling to find the words. “It’s just that … it’s just … I think you should keep an eye on Mr Darcy, that’s all.”

“I beg your pardon? Keep an eye on my husband? Mr Wickham, I think I must ask you to leave before you say anything that you may have cause to regret!”

“I … I apologise, Mrs Darcy. I was speaking out of turn. It’s just that I … that is, one of our operatives … thinks that he may have seen him … somewhere … somewhere … where he shouldn’t have been.”

“Enough, Mr Wickham. Are you seriously suggesting that my husband is mixed up in this … this alien nonsense?”

“Great heavens, no … although, as you have seen for yourself, it is far from nonsense – ”

“As I have already made clear to you, Mr Wickham, what I imagined that I saw last night was a mere fancy which was itself a direct result of Lord Byron corrupting my drink. There are no aliens, any more than there are magical flying machines in the sky over Rosings. It is true that Lady Catherine was behaving strangely … but she has always been more than a little queer, has she not? And in any case, was she not bound to react most vigorously when confronted with a gentleman such as yourself appearing unannounced at her dining table via the window, waving a water pistol about his head?”

“Please, Mrs Darcy, be assured that I was acting purely in your best interests – ”

“Mr Wickham, I think you should leave. I need to prepare for my journey to Pemberley.”

“As you wish, ma’am. But please … please … be careful.”

“Mr Wickham, I am always careful.”

She watched as Wickham bowed and left the room. As soon as she returned home, she would write to Lady Catherine to explain everything. Yes, that was the right course of action. There was no problem that two ladies could not resolve between them when the spirit was willing. It was only when foolish men such as Wickham and Byron got involved that things started to go wrong.

Seth Moriarty slowed his horse to a halt and dismounted.

“Stay there, Harley,” he said.

Crouching down on the ground he found what he was looking for. It was camouflaged well, but old Seth knew exactly what it was. A trap. Fresh, too, by the look of it, but empty so far. Well, that’s something, he said to himself, watching as a couple of rabbits bounded across his line of sight, their fluffy white scuts flickering in the morning sunshine. His Lordship would have something to say to him if there wasn’t any game for next weekend’s shoot, and he made a mental note to return later with one of the mantraps. Give the bastard poachers a taste of their own medicine. He spat on the ground in disgust.

Looking up, he saw something unexpected on the horizon. It was a man, heading straight for him, waving at him. What was even more unexpected was that the man appeared not to be wearing any clothes. Seth screwed up his eyes and peered into the distance. Yup, he said to himself. Stark bollock naked.

Seth was a man of simple rules. He knew where he stood with most of the things that encroached onto his Lordship’s lands. Foxes, for example, were most definitely bad. Poachers were bad, too. But he wasn’t one hundred percent sure what was the correct line to take with naked men.

He was only a hundred yards or so away now, and Seth could see that he was a fine figure of a man with well-toned musculature: a big man, in every respect, and almost certainly a man of high standing in society. The man waved again, and Seth raised his arm and gave a weak reply.

“You there,” called the naked man as he drew near. Seth looked around. There was no-one else. This person really was addressing him. “I said you!”

“Sir?” said Seth.

“I need your clothes, your riding boots and your stallion,” said the naked man. It was a cultured voice, although it was undermined to some extent by the man’s matted hair and straggly beard.

“Beg pardon, sir?” said Seth.

“I said, I need your clothes, your riding boots and your stallion.” There was a hint of exasperation in the voice, as if the owner was well within striking distance of the end of his tether.

Inside Seth’s head, deference struggled against the opposing twin forces of outrage and confusion – and deference won. He looked around again. There was no-one watching.

“’old on a minute, then,” he said. He sat down and took off his boots, grumbling to himself as he did so. Finest leather, they were. Made by old Bonham-Carter, the village cobbler and he’d long since retired, leaving the shop to that no-good daughter of his. Then he unbuttoned his jacket and removed his trousers, handing them over to the stranger, who put them on without another word. Forgot to say “please”, he muttered to himself.

When he had put on Seth’s riding boots, the patrician newcomer put his left foot into the horse’s stirrup and swung his leg over. With barely a backward glance, he kicked with his heels and rode off.

Seth stared after him, dazed at what had just happened. Then he snapped out of his trance and called after the man, “Will you be back?”

But there was no reply: just the wind picking up and the leaves on the trees softly swaying backwards and forwards. It was getting chilly and he hugged himself for warmth. Now he thought about it, this was going to take some explaining to Mrs Moriarty. And the sky was beginning to turn grey.

“Bugger me,” he said out loud. “Looks like there’s a storm comin’, an’ all.”

At a little after nine of the clock on this fine summer’s morning, the ghost of Mary Ann Nicholls walked through the front door of the Department of Illegal Aliens and paused for a moment to clear her throat. She still hadn’t got used to walking through things and she especially disliked the strange woody taste you got in your mouth after you’d been through a door. Still, it was better than brick dust, which made her sneeze terribly. The guard on duty inside didn’t give her a second glance.

The entrance hall was vast and cavernous, with staircases leading off in all directions, and the marble floor echoed with the footsteps of various uniformed men striding across it with great purpose. How on earth was she going to find this Wickham person? What if he wasn’t even in? As she was trying to decide what to do, a man barged through her on his way towards the staircase ahead of her, shivered and gave a nervous glance around. Serve you right for being so rude, she thought to herself. On a whim, she decided to follow him.

The man led the way up to the second floor and then down a long corridor decorated with paintings of men striking heroic poses. On the sixth door on the left, there was a plaque containing the legend Capt. Maberly, Special Projects. The man knocked and a voice said “Come!” He went in and Mary Ann Nicholls snuck in behind him. What she saw on the desk in front of her chilled her to the bone.

It was a cage. And inside the cage was a small creature. A creature with tentacles.

“What do you think?” the man in the room was saying, gesturing towards it. “Caught it in Whitechapel a few days ago. Don’t say a word to anyone, though. Very hush hush. Orders from the Colonel.”

“Does it talk, Maberly?” said the other man.

“’Course not. It’s only a baby. To be perfectly frank with you, Briers, I’m not even sure what I should be feeding it on.”

“Rusks, perhaps? Or maybe a spot of gin. My nanny always used to swear by gin. Never did me any harm. Apart from the incident with the goldfish, of course.”

“Your nanny used to swear by gin for most things, if I remember correctly,” said Maberly. He was interrupted by a buzzing and looked up. “Damn that fly!”

The two men broke off for a moment to track the course of the insect on its wild trajectory around the room and then gawped in amazement as the thing in the cage sent out a tentacle, grabbed the fly and consumed it in one seamless movement.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Briers. “There’s your answer, Maberly.” But Maberly had gone quite pale and seemed at a loss for words.

Mary Ann Nicholls was transfixed, too, but for a different reason. Her heart was pounding fit to burst, because something was stirring deep within her. Something primordial. Something that she couldn’t ever have any hope of controlling. And it was all to do with the way that the little tentacled creature in the cage was looking at her. It was staring right at her, its head tilted slightly to one side, round eyes wide and innocent, with the tiniest of smiles playing around its mouth.

It was asking for her approval.

And now she understood what she was feeling, and why it felt so utterly confusing. She was glowing with maternal pride. It was bad enough being a ghost. But now she was a ghost with responsibilities.

(Being an all-too-occasional 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, where she finds Wickham’s card on Annie Chapman’s corpse … Mr Darcy leaves the Mission to head back to Pemberley … The Dandy Highwayman and his tantalisingly unidentified accomplice kidnap a traveller, wipe his brain and probe him, keeping him locked in a dungeon at Rosings where he communicates with a fellow detainee before escaping without his clothes … Charlotte Collins, unwell and raving about tentacles, travels back to Rosings with Elizabeth, where they meet the extraordinary Lord Byron who introduces them to his cheroots and then accompanies them to supper with Lady Catherine de Bourgh … Wickham acquires a beard and makes his way to Rosings as well, disguised as a rough cottager with aloe vera issues, and rescues Elizabeth, Charlotte and Lord Byron from Lady Catherine and her alien guests … Lydia is still missing.

So there we are. It all makes perfect sense, does it not? 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 ...

“You’ll never get away with this!” said Wickham.

“Oh, I rather think I shall,” said Lady Catherine de Bourgh, her arm still gripped tightly around Charlotte’s neck. Elizabeth was rooted to the spot, desperately trying to think of something to do. Then she happened to glance down at the prostrate form of Lord Byron and in the half-light she was sure that she saw him wink at her. She quickly looked back at Lady Catherine, hoping that she had not seen this.

“Lady Catherine,” she said, suddenly feeling quite emboldened, “I am more than a little surprised that you find this an appropriate way for someone of your standing in society to behave.”

“What impudence!” said her ladyship. “How dare you – urggh!” She reeled backwards as Lord Byron hurled the phial of liquid at her. Her reaction was not unusual, but nothing compared to what happened next, because her body was suddenly transformed into a mass of writhing tentacles. “Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek!” screamed Lady Catherine.

“My God!” said Wickham. “A shape shifter! Stay back, evil beast from Hell!”

“Charlotte, my dear,” said Elizabeth, trying to stay calm, “I think you may find that this could be an excellent opportunity to free yourself.” As if in a dream, Charlotte gently moved aside the tentacles and fell towards Elizabeth, who caught her and pulled her away to safety. The four of them started to back away from the many-tendrilled monster that was gradually reasserting itself in the form of Lady Catherine.

“When I give the word,” said Wickham, “Get back to the window.” He waited for Lady Catherine to advance a little further and then kicked the door back in her face. There was a muffled imprecation from the other side. “Now!” he shouted. Elizabeth and Byron turned and headed for the window, dragging Charlotte after them. Byron gave Elizabeth a leg up and then she leapt through, landing on the ground outside. Then Byron passed Charlotte down to her, and finally the two men came through.

“Hey! Stop!” came a voice. It was one of the Rosings footmen, appearing from the side of the house, closely followed by Lady Catherine herself.

“Run!” said Wickham. “This way, Mrs Darcy. I have Jennifer parked over by that tree.” He turned to Byron. “Take care of this young lady, sir. They will not follow you, but you would be wise to go to ground for a while until this damnable business is over.”

“Fear not”, replied Byron. “I shall take most excellent care of her.” He winked again, slung Charlotte over his back and ran off into the night, her head bashing against his back with every pace that he took.

“He seems like a decent fellow,” said Wickham to Elizabeth as he lifted her up onto the horse.

“I – ” said Elizabeth, but her reply was interrupted by an explosion just above their heads.

“They’re firing at us! Duck!” said Wickham, leaping onto Jennifer and urging her away. There was another loud bang next to them. “Slap her on the – er – rump, there,” he said.

“Why?” said Elizabeth.

“Just do it!”

Elizabeth did so, and H’s fifty-fifty mixture proved just as effective in live use as in tests. “Great heavens!” she said, looking back at the figures of Lady Catherine and her footman, who now looked as if they had just crawled out of a midden heap. “That was most unseemly.”

“Indeed,” said Wickham. “They will not trouble us now.”

They rode on in silence for a while. Elizabeth was deep in thought. Then she remembered something that she had suppressed for the last few minutes.

“Mr Wickham,” she said in a small, uncertain voice. “When we were in the dining room … when Lord Byron threw that … stuff … at Lady Catherine … for a moment, I had the unaccountable impression that she had grown … tentacles.” She paused for a moment. “Mr Wickham, can you please tell me what is going on?”

In the dungeon, the prisoner stared at the open door, wondering when they were going to come back with his food. This was so annoying. He had a feeling it was going to be the nice light grey gruel tonight too, which was his favourite, marginally ahead of the dark green stodge. In fact he was becoming so accustomed to it that he was thinking of asking for the recipe when – if? – he was ever released from this place.

And he really, really wished someone would turn those bloody bells off.

It was the bells that had caused the problem. The guard called Bob had just come down with his evening tray. He’d unlocked the door to the cell and was just about to enter, when the alarm went off right outside, causing both of them to jump several metaphorical feet in the air. In Bob’s case, the jump was literal as well as metaphorical, albeit only several inches, but sufficient to cause him to scatter the prisoner’s food all over the floor of the corridor outside.

“Bugger,” said Bob, bending down to pick up the smashed crockery. “Gave me a right turn, that did. I’ll ’ave to go an’ get you another load of grub now.”

“Do you think you need to find out what’s going on first?” said the prisoner. He had grown quite fond of Bob, and didn’t want to see him getting into trouble.

“Yeah, s’pose so. I’ll be right back. Don’t run off anywhere.”

But that had been several minutes ago, and there was still no sign of Bob returning. He stared at the open door again. That bell outside was getting really annoying, and he wondered if there was any way of muffling it somehow. Perhaps he could use some of his blanket as a damper.

He took it off and picked away at a corner, intending to tear off a small square. Unfortunately, in the process of doing this, he managed to remove a strip down the whole of one side. This left a frayed edge on the rest of the blanket, which without any further human intervention managed to completely unravel itself into a tangled ball of coarse wool. Whatever it was that he had done before he’d lost his mind, it probably hadn’t had a lot to do with tailoring.

“Oops,” he said to himself, looking at the sad remains of his clothing.

The bell was still ringing.

Finally, he stood up and went over to the door. He peered out into the corridor. There was no-one there. He went over to where the bell was, reached up and stuffed the strip of blanket into it. At last the dreadful sound stopped and there was silence. Silence, that is, apart from the bells ringing further away in the building. On his way back to the cell, he looked down and saw the remains of his food congealing on the stone floor. He bent down, put his finger in and then licked it. Yes! It was the light grey gruel! Well, that would be worth waiting for.

He went back in and was just about to shut the door behind him, when a thought occurred to him. He turned around and looked up and down the corridor again. There really was no-one there. No-one to stop him just … leaving. Walking out. Escaping.

But if he escaped, he’d miss out on the light grey gruel.

He really had been looking forward to it.

It was quite a dilemma.

Then he thought of the Probe, sighed and shut the door behind him. He prevaricated for a further moment, wondering which way to go, before deciding to head off in the direction of the bells. He briefly wondered if he should stop and do something about the prisoner in the cell next to him, but remembered that he wasn’t exactly dressed to meet a lady. He could always come back for her later. Once he’d got some clothes.

Inside the dining room, chaos reigned. Voices were raised in alarm, and footsteps clattered in every direction. Elizabeth was trying to make her way towards where she thought the door was, but her path was blocked by someone.

“Excuse me,” she said, “But I need to … urgh!” She felt something clammy against her face.

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ” said a voice in the darkness in front of her.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, trying to remove the clammy hand – no, it wasn’t a hand, more of a – no, surely not? – well, whatever it was – from her face. But someone else was approaching from behind her.

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ” came another voice.

“I do so wish you would stop doing that,” said Elizabeth, turning around, “Because – yeech!” Great heavens! What was happening now? There seemed to be two lots of slimy things crawling around her face now. Then all of a sudden, she heard footsteps coming towards her and a familiar voice rang out:

“Unhand that lady, sir, or you shall feel the power of my fist!”

“Wickham?” said Elizabeth. Then the man behind her went down, having evidently been punched hard in the mouth. She took this as her cue to turn on the other one and made a grab for his face, which unexpectedly came away in her hands. Dropping the horrible thing on the floor, she stood transfixed as her eyes, which were now adjusting to the gloom, saw that which her mind could not comprehend. The person in front of her no longer had a face at all, but … tentacles!

It wasn’t in front of her for much longer, however, because another hefty blow from Wickham sent it swiftly in a direction towards the horizontal.

“Mrs Darcy, are you all right?” said Wickham.

“Y – es,” said Elizabeth, although her answer was inaccurate in almost every single respect. What had that man Lord Byron put in the drinks? What on earth was happening? Surely this couldn’t be real?

“… sure?” Wickham was saying.

“I am perfectly well, Mr Wickham,” she said, recovering her composure, “But – ” her hand went to her mouth – “Lord Byron! Charlotte! Where’s Charlotte?”

There was no reply.

“Charlotte! Where are you?”

The room was completely silent now. Then the tiniest whimper came from the doorway. Wickham whirled around towards the source of the sound, raising a finger towards Elizabeth. Peering into the gloom, she could see nothing apart from a couple of indistinct shapes. She saw Wickham reach into his pocket and withdraw something, which he proceeded to strike on the sole of his boot. When he brought his hand up again, it held a flame.

Holding the light, Wickham slowly walked towards the door, with Elizabeth following behind at a short distance. As they got nearer, she saw Lord Byron lying on the floor, apparently unconscious. Well, serve him right, thought Elizabeth, immediately regretting it. Then she looked up and saw something that chilled her to the bone. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was standing in the doorway, her arm firmly around the neck of Charlotte Collins.

“Well, Mr Wickham,” said Lady Catherine, “What a fine mess you’ve made of things. And not for the first time, either.”

“Let her go,” said Wickham. “She’s no threat to you.”

“Give me the Darcy woman instead.”

“No!”

“It’s all right, I don’t mind – ”, began Elizabeth, once again being less then strictly accurate about her frame of mind.

“No!” said Wickham again.

“In that case, I have no alternative but to incarcerate you all,” said Lady Catherine. “Listen! I have sounded the alarm. Within a matter of minutes, this place will be overrun and you will be powerless. Resistance is useless! Prepare to be Probed!”

As she said this, bells started to ring all over the house, and Elizabeth heard the far-off sound of running feet.

Wickham heard the scream as he crept round the side of the house, leading Jennifer behind him. As soon as he heard it, he tied the horse up to the nearest tree and raced over to the nearest window. A peculiar sight met his eyes. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was seated at table with her back to him. To her left were a gentleman that he did not recognise and a lady who was almost certainly the author of the scream – now incapable of making any sound owing to having a face full of beef and gravy. To Lady Catherine’s right were two strange individuals, one of whom seemed to be struggling to put his face back together. Then the penny dropped. Aliens! Damned aliens in disguise!

And then Wickham noticed who was seated between them. He gasped. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran back to Jennifer and located the compartment containing Colin, his pedigree White Emperor carrier pigeon. His immediate instinct was to abandon his mission altogether and race in to save Elizabeth, but he needed to check with HQ first.

He scribbled a note to Colonel Sutherland, rolled it up and attached it to Colin’s leg. Then he unstrapped a second compartment and withdrew a bottle, followed by cylindrical object with a long wooden stick and a fuse poking out of one end. The object was labelled “Primary Booster” and the sight of it caused the pigeon to start hopping up and down in alarm.

“Sorry,” said Wickham, tying the booster to Colin’s back, “but I need a response within a matter of minutes, so we need to use the information superflyway. Just hang in there until it burns itself out, all right?”

The pigeon shook its head violently and then put its wings over its eyes as Wickham placed the booster in the bottle and lit the fuse. After a few seconds, the rocket lit up the sky as it soared aloft, carrying its avian passenger towards London.

“God speed you, White Emperor,” said Wickham.

He had only been pacing up and down for a few minutes before he heard a squawking in the sky above him as Colin came back, tumbling out of the sky in a maelstrom of flapping wings, before impaling himself in the ground, beak first. In the moonlight, Wickham could just make out a wispy plume of smoke from the bird’s tail and there was the faintest whiff of cordite in the air.

Wickham went over to where Colin had landed and prised him out of the ground. The pigeon seemed relatively unharmed, but his heart was going nineteen to the dozen. “Sorry,” said Wickham again, but the bird fixed him with a malevolent glare and managed to nip his finger whilst he was trying to prise Colonel Sutherland’s reply message from his leg. “Ow!” said Wickham, and for an instant, he was convinced that Colin was grinning. Without further ado, he put the bird back in its cage in Jennifer’s saddle.

Colonel Sutherland’s response was terse. It simply said, “Rescue ED at all costs.” Wickham had already worked out his plan of action, and he knew exactly what equipment he needed. He let down the other side of Jennifer’s saddle and removed his Lee van Enfield musket, complete with the custom super-soaker attachment. Having assembled this, he went back to the window.

Peering in, he could see that the woman who had fainted was now having smelling salts administered to her by the gentleman sitting next to her, whilst Elizabeth Darcy was leaning over and touching her on the arm. As she did this, Elizabeth was evidently oblivious to the fact that the aliens on either side of her were extending tentacles towards her. Wickham had to act fast.

He smashed the window with the butt of the musket, then took aim and pumped a high-pressure stream into each of the candles, plunging the room into darkness. Now for some fun, he said to himself, as he levered the window open and climbed in.

An appreciative silence descended over the heavy oak dining table at Rosings, as Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s party quaffed their claret and tucked into their roast beef. Lady Catherine herself sat at the head of the table, presiding regally over the occasion, whilst Charlotte and Lord Byron sat next to each other on one side. Elizabeth was seated on the opposite side to them, between the two curious foreign visitors. She had been given their names, but despite several attempts all she had managed to grasp was that one of them was apparently called Cuthooloo. It was, however, possible that she had misheard this.

Elizabeth cut off a slice of beef and was about to eat it when she caught Charlotte’s eye. Her friend was motioning with her head towards the gentleman on her right, so Elizabeth risked a glance in his direction. He was struggling to put his food in his mouth, and in fact the more that Elizabeth studied him, the more his mouth seemed to be nothing more than a rather badly gouged hole in the scarred flesh of his face. Her hand shot to her own in an involuntary motion.

“I hope you won’t mind me asking, sir,” she said, trying to recover her composure, “but would I be correct in deducing from your scars that you are a military man?” She had been warned that neither of the two gentlemen had a good grasp of The King’s English, but she felt that it was the least that she could do to attempt to engage them in polite discourse. However, the man’s red eyes registered alarm.

“Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek!” he said by way of response.

“I … see,” said Elizabeth, nonplussed. “I do apologise, but I am unfamiliar with your country’s language. Perhaps you could explain to me your meaning once again?”

“Eek! Ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek – ek!” said the man again, more urgently than before. Elizabeth noted with some alarm that the same sound was now issuing from the gentlemen on her left as well, and she wondered if she had breached some important rule of etiquette. She looked up towards the head of the table and saw Lady Catherine glaring back at her.

“Mrs Darcy,” said Lady Catherine, “Perhaps it would be better if you were to confine your experiments with conversation to those of us who understand your ways of speech?”

“I …do apologise, your Ladyship. I had no idea – ”

“These gentlemen have travelled far, and they are in no frame of mind to trade trivialities over the supper table with you, Mrs Darcy.”

Then why on earth have you brought me here, thought Elizabeth?

“They have merely expressed an interest in observing your manners,” continued Lady Catherine, as if reading Elizabeth’s mind. “They have little experience of young English ladies such as yourself where they come from.” Elizabeth glanced from side to side and noticed that the two gentlemen were now staring at her with an intensity that was more than a little disconcerting. And for a moment, she was convinced that something tentacle-like had popped out of the collar of the one on her left. She looked ahead and noticed that Lord Byron had an odd little smile playing around his lips. Oh heavens, she thought. Has he put something in the drinks already?

“And may I say, Lady Catherine,” he said, “That you have made an excellent choice in Mrs Darcy here.” Elizabeth grimaced and Lady Catherine de Bourgh fixed him with a gimlet eye that suggested that she was yet to make up her mind about this. There was an awkward silence, broken eventually by Lady Catherine herself.

“Lord Byron,” she said, “These gentlemen would be very interested to hear of your exploits in the saddle. I believe you ride to hounds?”

Lord Byron smiled that curious little smile once more. “Ah. Perhaps you misunderstood me. When I referred earlier to ‘dogging’, what I meant was – ”

But he had no time to finish his sentence before he was interrupted. Elizabeth watched in horror as Charlotte suddenly pointed at the gentleman on Elizabeth’s left, screamed and then fainted, head first, into her supper.