Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The little dirigible pitched, rolled and yawed as it chugged its erratic way towards London. Wickham and Sutherland maintained a watch on either side of the prow, whilst H stood in the middle, turning the wheel this way and that. Darcy, however, was clearly less comfortable with this mode of transport; he lay supine on the deck of the gondola, tossing from side to side and groaning.

Elizabeth fared even worse, spending most of the time leaning over the side, losing more of her breakfast each time she heaved.

Great heavens, it was a long way down, she thought.

“Why couldn’t we have taken the carriage?” she wailed.

No-one answered her.

“Can you see him yet?” called H.

“Not yet,” said Sutherland.

“Who?” said Elizabeth.

“Hold on, I think I see something,” said Sutherland. “Pass me that spyglass, will you, Wickham?”

Wickham passed it to him. Sutherland held the glass up to his eye and squinted into the distance. “Yes! There he is,” he said, pointing.

“Who?” said Elizabeth again. She lifted herself up from the side of the dirigible and peered into the distance ahead of them. She couldn’t see a thing. Meanwhile, Sutherland had passed the spyglass to Wickham.

“Good Lord, so he is!” said Wickham.

“WHO?” said Elizabeth. This time, Sutherland took pity on her, and beckoned for her to join them in the prow. She gingerly made her way forwards until she could grip the bow of the gondola, and stood there for a moment, trying to steady herself again.

“Here,” said Sutherland, passing her the spyglass, “Take a look.”

Elizabeth put the glass up to her eye and looked towards where Sutherland had indicated. Great Aunt Betsy! What madness was this? There was another balloon in the sky ahead of them, except that this one was tethered to the ground by an impossibly long rope. In it was a man dressed in a smock. To one side of him there was an easel. The man appeared to be holding an artist’s palette in one hand and a brush in the other.

“See?” said Sutherland.

“Y – e – es,” said Elizabeth, nonplussed. “But who is he and what is he doing up here?”

“He’s an artist,” said Sutherland, as if that explained everything.

“Yes, I can see that. But what is he painting? The clouds?”

“No, he’s painting us!” said Wickham.

“Us?”

“Yes,” said Sutherland. “Us. Let me explain. One day, when all this ghastly business is over, it may fall to some great writer to tell the tale of how we defeated the alien menace that threatened the very existence of our magnificent country.”

“Great writer? Not that dreadful Austen woman, I hope?”

“I know her not. Who is she?”

“The one who writes those ghastly Gothic romances about the undead.”

“Well, for one thing, I hardly think this would be a job for a woman,” said Sutherland with a laugh. Elizabeth shot him a look but he ignored her. “And for another, I think we would be looking for someone with a little more … ah … class.”

“That still doesn’t explain the artist,” she said, although she had a horrible feeling that it probably did.

“Well, obviously such a book will require illustrations – ”

She stared at him.

“ – and we felt that a picture of H’s revolutionary mode of transport – ”

She continued to stare.

“ – would be particularly … particularly – ”

“Appealing?” said Wickham.

Elizabeth looked at the three men in charge of the flying machine and noticed that each of them had now adopted a heroic pose as they were approaching the balloon. Good grief, this was preposterous. “Are you therefore telling me, sir, that our sole reason for utilising this absurd mode of transport is to provide an airborne artist with a picture opportunity?”

“Well … not in so many words … but … I suppose – ” Sutherland’s voice reduced to a mumble as he finished with a tiny “Yes”. Elizabeth folded her arms and flounced back to where her husband was still moaning on the deck. As they passed the other balloon, she distinctly heard Wickham call out “Good show, Sir!”