Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

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.”