Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Sir Humphry was right. Jennifer raced away like a thing possessed and they were in Rosings village well before nightfall. The first thing Wickham needed to do was obtain lodgings, and the obvious place to start was the inn on the green. He tied up Jennifer outside The Saucer and Tentacle and went in. The bar was packed with locals, all making a noisy racket. But as soon as Wickham entered, the place fell silent and all eyes were on him. He stepped up to the bar.

“Ah, my good man,” he said to the landlord, who was cleaning a tankard with a deliberate, thorough action. “A pint of …” Wickham raised an eyebrow as if to ask what pints there might be available. There was no answer forthcoming, so he continued, “ … a pint of … your very best bitter ale, good sir.”

The landlord pulled a face, expectorated noisily into the tankard that he had just finished polishing and then topped it up from one of the barrels behind the bar. He slammed it down on the counter and said, “That’ll be a groat and ’alf.” Wickham fished in his pocket and withdrew some coins. He took a sip and tried hard to keep the foul liquid down. All eyes were still on him, following his every movement. He realised that if he was to gain their trust he would have to go through with this to the bitter end, so he took a larger swig, then another and then one final gulp until the glass was empty. Struggling to maintain his composure, he gingerly placed the tankard back on the bar and slumped down onto a stool.

This was evidently the cue for normality to resume once more. Conversations picked up where they had left off, and the hubbub was restored to its previous rowdy level. The landlord reached over the bar and handed Wickham a bucket.

“You might be a-needin’ this,” he said.

Wickham tried to wave him away, but thought better of it as he felt his stomach begin to clench. Grabbing the bucket, he put it between his legs and heaved mightily into it. When he had finished, he handed the bucket back to the landlord. The landlord in turn inserted a funnel into the barrel that he had served Wickham’s pint from before pouring the contents of the bucket back into it.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he said. “Yer can’t be too careful with strangers these days. There be some odd folk about these parts.”

“Really?” said Wickham.

“Really,” said the landlord, filling up Wickham’s tankard from the other barrel. He handed it to Wickham, who eyed it with some suspicion.

“Go on, it’s safe.”

“Really?”

“Really. So you be looking for lodgings?” said the landlord as Wickham took his first nervous sip. Much to his relief and amazement, the ale was in fact remarkably pleasant.

“As it happens, I am,” he said. “I intend to seek work at the Big House.”

There was a crack of thunder outside, and the whole inn suddenly became silent again.

“At the Big House, you say?” said the landlord, narrowing his eyes. “Why’s you want to be goin’ there?”

“I … er … hear that they have some work available in the hop fields,” said Wickham, aware that everyone was once again staring at him. “I’ve always wanted to work with hops.”

“Interesting,” said the landlord. “Very interesting that a chap such as yourself with a mighty smart ’orse outside should be looking for ’op work. ’Specially when ’ops is out o’ season. But – ” the landlord relaxed a little “ – I guess it takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it lads?” There were murmurs of assent from the rest of the clientele.

“I … was evicted from my rough cottage only a few days ago,” began Wickham, before the landlord forestalled him.

“’S’alright. No need to explain any more. No more questions, young man. You just take care up at the Big House. There be odd doings there, I’ll be bound. And in the meantime, will you be wanting a room?”

“Well, yes I would,” said Wickham. “And another pint of your excellent …”

“Rector’s Prolapse,” said the landlord.