Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The dark shadow of Rosings loomed over the Collins’ humble dwelling like some monster of the night, blocking out the moon. Elizabeth shivered as she stepped out of the carriage.

“Evening, Mrs Darcy,” said Mrs Garson, emerging from the front door. “Is Mrs Collins unwell?” she said, peering into the carriage.

“She has a mild fever, that is all,” said Elizabeth.

“I understand,” said old Mrs Garson, tapping her nose. She picked up her skirts and climbed into the carriage, emerging a few moments later with Charlotte slung over her shoulder. “Used to do this when she were a wee baby,” she said. “And I used to end up with sick down me back even in them days.”

Elizabeth turned away. Poor thing. What was to be done with her?

“Mrs Darcy?” said Garson, with Charlotte still swinging alarmingly on her back. “I hope you don’t think I speaks out of turn, but has Mrs Collins ever said anything to you about any of her new friends?”

“New friends? I know nothing of any new friends, and she has certainly not spoken of any to me these past few days. I am sure that if she had any new friends, she would be only too delighted to have told me, and I would have been only too delighted to have heard of them. I do hate the thought of poor Charlotte on her own here with only Mr Collins for company.”

“Aye, well that’s as maybe,” said Garson. “And I’m not one to poke my nose where it don’t belong, but them arty types ain’t the kind of folk that a gentlewoman and wife of a holy man should be hobnobbing with, in my opinion.”

“Mrs Garson, please! I am sure that Mrs Collins exercises the utmost caution in all her dealings with the world, and if she has acquired some new friends of an artistic sensibility, well, I for one would welcome such a thing. Artists are gentle, sensitive people who can surely only enrich our ordinary everyday lives for the better?”

Garson shrugged and bustled off into the house with Charlotte’s head just missing the doorway as they went through it. Elizabeth followed, wondering what on earth the old woman could have been talking about. As she entered the house, she fancied that she could hear music. She followed the sound to the drawing room. She knocked once and received no reply. Realising that the door was ajar, she nudged it open slightly and then knocked again. There was still no reply, so she opened the door and went in.

The room was full of a sweet-smelling smoke, evidently coming from the cheroot in the mouth of the young man plucking at the strange exotic instrument. As soon as he saw Elizabeth, he stopped playing and stubbed out his cheroot. He stood up, took her hand and bowed. As his hand touched hers, a strange spark of electricity shot through her entire being.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing towards his instrument. “I was just plucking at my bouzouki.”

“Well, if your – ”

“ – bouzouki – ”

“ – needs to be plucked, I would be the last one to try and stop you,” said Elizabeth, with a touch of nervousness.

“But soft, who is this vision of loveliness in front of me?” said the young man, as if taking in Elizabeth’s appearance for the first time.

“Er … my name is Darcy,” she said, faltering a little, “Elizabeth Darcy. And who might you be, sir?”

“I will tell you,” he said. “But first you must promise not to believe a word you hear about me. Some call me mad,” he took her hand to his lips and kissed it, “some call me bad,” he kissed it again, “and yet others say that I am dangerous to know,” he kissed her hand a third time before releasing it. “But you may simply know me as Byron.”