Mrs Darcy's Blog

Elizabeth Darcy lay back on the couch and groaned, despairing of finding a comfortable position. Oh, great heavens! What had she ever done to deserve this? When would this torment cease?

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” she cried, forcing herself to sit upright once more. The door opened and a visitor was shown in.

“Ah, Mr Wickham!” she said. “I trust you are well and that you have brought me good news?”

Wickham paused, and in that instant, Elizabeth knew that here would be no resolution to her condition today, at least. “Well, ma’am” he said, “Yes and no.”

“Pray elucidate,” said Elizabeth.

“The good news is that we have located Charlotte.”

“Ah! That is indeed good news. Where is she?”

“She is in the employ of a certain Mr Grey. I believe he is an acquaintance of Lord Byron.”

“Ah. That sounds less good. But at least she is safe and well. Were you able to speak with her?”

“Sadly no. Mr Grey said she was tied up at the moment.”

“Well, then. ’Tis good that he is keeping her busy, is it not?”

“I believe so.”

“Now. Of the other matter…”

Wickham frowned. “I fear we have made no progress whatsoever in our search for Mr Pinnock. We have observed his Twitterations but he gives few clues as to his whereabouts. We have even arranged for him to be – ahem – tagged in a blogging meme entitled ‘The Next Big Thing’ – ”

“Wickham, you speak in riddles. Pray what is a blogging meme?”

“I know little of such things myself. However, I understand that he has already been tagged three times, by Mistresses Philip, Mayhew and Parkin. And yet he still fails to respond! All we know is that he is still writing – ”

“Please do not torment me, Wickham. I have read his wretched book of short stories.”

“Some of them are quite good, ma’am – ”

“But none of them is a sequel! I need a sequel! Without a sequel, there will be no end to my pregnancy, which – I may remind you – is now over two years in duration! And with no end to my pregnancy, I still do not know whether I am carrying Mr Darcy’s long-awaited heir or the many-tentacled spawn of an evil race of shape-shifting aliens!” She sagged back onto the couch. “And it’s almost Christmas.”

“I know, ma’am. ’Tis most vexatious. Which is why I am proposing a new strategy. We should engage a professional bounty hunter.”

“Such as?”

“Well, we had hoped to secure the services of a Miss Lund. She is well favoured at the court of King Frederick VI.”

“A Dane? How exotic.”

“Yet she proved to be too expensive. I trust you will understand my reluctance?”

“I would certainly hate to feel that someone was making a killing out of my misfortune.”

“Indeed. So instead, I have signed an agreement with a Mr Feta.”

“Feta? Is he Greek? Mr Wickham, your connections grow more exotic with every passing minute!”

“I am uncertain. He says he was raised in a place called Planet Kamino.”

“Is that in Greece?”

“I know not.”

At this point, a curious armoured man was shown in. “Ah, Bob!” said Wickham. “May I introduce you? Mrs Elizabeth Darcy – Bob Feta.”

“Bob?”

“Bob.”

The mysterious bounty hunter made no attempt to join in the conversation.

“He doesn’t say much,” remarked Elizabeth.

“Bounty hunters are a taciturn lot. ’Tis a consequence of their profession.”

“Well, then! Do whatever you need to do, Mr Bob, and bring my author back to me!”

“As you wish,” said Feta, turning to leave.

“So he does speak?” said Elizabeth to Wickham.

“Very rarely.”

When Wickham and Feta returned, several weeks later, it was clear that all was not well, despite the fact that they did indeed seem to have located Elizabeth’s missing author.

“Well?” said Elizabeth.

“There is a small problem,” said Wickham.

“I can see that,” said Elizabeth. “My author is undoubtedly present, but he appears to be encased in some peculiar substance that renders him incapable of movement. Can you explain what it is?”

Bob Feta made no attempt at a response.

“Oh dear,” said Elizabeth. “Couldn’t you at least try to speak for once?”

The bounty hunter pondered this for a moment and then raised a single finger.

“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “One word … three syllables…”

Half an hour later, she and Wickham were arguing over the result.

“But Carbonite isn’t a proper word,” moaned Elizabeth.

“Yes, I know,” hissed Wickham. “But that isn’t the real problem. The real problem is that Feta has reneged on our deal and is taking Mr Pinnock to someone else instead. That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier.”

“Wickham, you’re jabbering. Please try to make yourself clear.”

“What I’m saying is that Mr Feta here is about to disappear with our man in tow, and we’re unlikely to see him again for quite some time.”

“But that’s awful.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it, I’m afraid.”

“But how can we be sure that Mr Feta will look after him?”

“He’s no good to me dead,” said Feta.

“Great heavens!” said Elizabeth, “He speaks again! Mr Feta, can you at least tell me where you are taking Mr Pinnock?”

But that was the last they heard from the bounty hunter. Once more, all was lost. Mrs Darcy’s story was mired in indecision yet again. With no author to guide her, she was still stuck in that dreadful limbo ’twixt a promising debut and the foundations of a lucrative franchise with options for multimedia spin-offs and precision 1:15 scale die-cast figurines. Not only that, but it was still almost Christmas.

And yet, amidst all the gloom, Elizabeth perceived an unexpected shaft of sunlight. If her author was being taken away by Mr Feta to some ghastly unknown fate, who was writing this Christmas Special? Perhaps there was, after all, another she could call upon to write her out of this mess, if only she could find him? For the first time, she began to feel at ease. There was someone out there that could help to guide her through her travails. At last! A new hope!

By popular request, I am delighted to bring you a New Special Adventure, just in time to enliven your street party with a reading! Here it is: Mrs Darcy and the Jubilee! Enjoy! Spread the word! Buy the book! Buy it again! Buy it a third time!

God save the King!

Twilight was falling as the Royal Equine Club cart stuttered to a halt on the outskirts of the village. The driver turned around to address the passengers squatting in the back.

‘Right, this is where we stop. I shouldn’t really be taking you this far anyway, seeing as yer membership doesn’t seem to start for another 15 years. If yer ’orse still won’t go in the morning – ’ here he indicated the prone form of Jennifer ‘ – you’ll need to send for an ’Ome Start.’

‘Well, thank you my good sir,’ said Wickham. ‘This is most appreciated. Isn’t it, Mrs Collins?’

‘Er … yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What are we going to do now?’ she hissed at Wickham as he helped her down from the cart.

‘I have a plan,’ said Wickham, watching as the driver tipped the back up, depositing Jennifer on the road between them.

‘Giddy up,’ said Elizabeth, half-heartedly. Jennifer stretched, attempted to get to her feet and gave up again. ‘This isn’t going well, is it?’ she said to Wickham. ‘Our Fuchs capacitor whatsit is broken beyond repair and we haven’t even got a working horse.’

‘She’ll be fine in the morning. Probably. We just need to find something to cover her with to keep her safe whilst we locate your – er – future husband.’ Elizabeth grimaced. ‘But wait,’ said Wickham. ‘There’s someone coming. Get down!’

‘Too late! She’s seen us!’

‘Hello there!’ called a female voice, approaching them. ‘Are you local? I seem to be a bit lost.’ She scrutinised them for a moment. ‘Great heavens! It’s Mr Dickham!’

‘Wickham,’ said Wickham. ‘It’s that Austen woman!’ he whispered to Elizabeth.

‘Who?’ said Elizabeth.

‘And Mrs Arsey,’ said Jane Austen.

‘I beg your pardon? I am Mrs Collins.’ She turned to Wickham. ‘Who is this woman?’ she hissed.

‘Don’t you remember?’ whispered back Wickham. ‘Ah. Of course. Different timeline. When you were Mrs Darcy. She’s – ’

‘Mrs Collins?’ queried Miss Austen, ‘You were most definitely Mrs Arsey last time we met. I’m writing a book about you, you know. And that Mr Dickham there.’

‘Wickham.’

‘Whatever.’

‘But wait a minute,’ said Wickham. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘Yes, but I asked it first.’

Miss Austen shrugged. ‘I borrowed a time machine thingy.’

‘Borrowed?’

‘Yes. Borrowed. You see I need to know more about Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s family. Specifically her brother Sir Christopher. He has advertised for a Nanny, and I’m intending to apply for the job.’ She tapped her nose in a meaningful manner.

‘Christopher de Bourgh?’ said Elizabeth. ‘So you came travelling all this way – ’

‘ – through light years of time,’ said Miss Austen.

Elizabeth frowned. ‘I fear I am unfamiliar with that unit of measurement,’ she said. ‘Although if the truth were told, there is much of science that baffles me. That’s a most becoming red dress you’re wearing, by the way.’

‘Why, thank you. I understand he – ’

‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Wickham suddenly.

‘That’s what?’ said Elizabeth.

‘That’s how he managed to switch things around. Miss Austen comes here in search of Christopher de Bourgh, gets engaged as a Nanny, young Collins is visiting for Christmas, comes under her charge, she tells him everything about what’s going to happen – ’

‘ – and so he changes his tactics completely when he comes courting and wins me over so I become Mrs Collins instead of Mrs Darcy! Great heavens, Mr Wickham! You’re right!’

‘Excuse me,’ interjected Miss Austen, ‘But can one of you please explain what on earth you’re talking about?’

There was a pause. ‘Well,’ said Wickham, ‘It’s a bit like this – ’

‘Sssh!’ hissed Elizabeth, ‘There’s someone else coming.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Wickham. ‘It’s Collins! I’d recognise that hair anywhere.’

‘Collins?’ said Miss Austen. ‘Young Master Collins? But this is fascinating! I must speak to him!’

‘Wait!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘You mustn’t do that. It could … it could … I don’t know … it could be very bad … I think. Help me out here, Wickham?’

But Wickham’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. ‘Where’s Jennifer?’ he said suddenly.

‘Jennifer?’ said Miss Austen.

‘Yes, Jennifer,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Our horse. She’s gone.’

‘Ah, there she is,’ said Wickham, peering out across the fields. ‘Trying to get into that funny blue box. Although it’s far too small for him to … oh.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Well, that was unexpected,’ he said.

‘That’s no box,’ said Miss Austen, gathering up her skirts. ‘That’s my time machine! Come on!’

It was indeed a most peculiar device. ‘This is the work of the devil indeed,’ said Elizabeth once they were inside. ‘Indeed, ’tis bigger on the inside than – ’

‘ – on the outside?’ said Miss Austen. ‘Yes, that is indeed very queer. And yet one could say the same of a novel, couldn’t one?’

There was a prolonged silence whilst they contemplated Miss Austen’s assertion.

‘Up to a point,’ said Wickham eventually. ‘But Miss Austen, may I enquire as to precisely how you acquired this machine?’

Miss Austen sighed. ‘It appeared one day outside my house in Bath. A man emerged and told me his name was Mr Muppet or something like that and he was looking for interesting people to take part in an event he called ‘a Christmas Special’. He said they’d already tried someone called Kylie and some Jenkins woman and wanted to find someone a bit more real this time. Anyway, I thought if he could travel through time to find me I could use the same machine to research my book.’

‘So you stole it?’

‘A bit.’

‘Miss Austen,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I think you need to return it to poor Mr Muppet. I now know what it feels like to be stranded in the wrong time. He must be terribly worried. And besides, bad things can happen when you travel in time – as sure as my name is Mrs Darcy.’

Wickham looked at her. ‘Mrs Darcy?’

‘Yes, Mrs Darcy. ’Tis my name, is it not?’ Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘Great heavens! It is working! Order has been restored! Quick – we must get back to our own time before anything goes wrong!’ Indeed, everything was perfectly well again – the only minor inconvenience being that she had mislaid her copy of Lord Byron’s poems in the rush to get to the time machine. Although now she came to think about it, she had no idea why she had come to be in possession of a book by that revolting man in the first place.

‘Hurrah!’ said Wickham. He turned to Miss Austen. ‘So then. How do you fly this thing?’

Elizabeth Darcy awoke from her afternoon nap to find Dench looming over her.

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you have a visitor.’

‘Dear me!’ said Elizabeth, smoothing down her skirts. ‘Do send them in.’

The newcomer was male, elegantly coiffed and with a strong scent of pomade and a definite air of familiarity about him. He strutted in like a peacock, bowed and took Elizabeth’s hand.

‘Great heavens!’ said Elizabeth, her heart fluttering unexpectedly. ‘And who might you be, sir?’

‘Some call me mad,’ said the man, kissing her hand, ‘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 Mr Collins…’

In a mews near Sloane Square, the woman checked the address on the piece of paper in her hand. Having established to her satisfaction that she was indeed in the correct place, she pushed the stable door open a fraction.

‘Hello?’ came a voice from the interior. ‘Who goes there?’

The woman applied more weight to the door and squeezed in. ‘’Tis I, Elizabeth Collins,’ she said.

‘Ah, Mrs Collins!’ ’ said Sir Humphry Davy. ‘How wonderful to see you again. Were you followed?’

‘I do not think so,’ she replied. ‘Who on earth would do such a thing, and why?’

‘We have reason to believe that Mrs Darcy – ’

‘Charlotte? Surely not – ’

‘Yes, we believe Mrs Charlotte Darcy has got wind of our plans,’ said a new voice, emerging from the shadows. ‘And for obvious reasons, she would prefer them not to succeed.’

‘Mr Wickham!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘I am surprised to find you here as well.’

‘Lieutenant Wickham is an essential part of our present endeavour, Mrs Collins,’ said H. ‘Or rather Jennifer is.’

He nodded towards the far end of the laboratory where a fine grey horse was being led in by a group of technicians. The look on its face was a peculiar mixture of alarm, panic and sullen resignation.

‘What part will she be playing, Sir Humphry?’ said Elizabeth.

‘A vital one,’ said H. ‘Let me try to explain.’ He paused for a moment, seemingly unsure as to where to begin. ‘Ever since we received your missive to the Department following the events of last Christmas, we have been trying to fathom what may have caused the unfortunate change in your circumstances.’

‘As I understand it,’ interjected Wickham, ‘’Tis all to do with alternate realities.’

‘Indeed,’ said H, ‘’Tis a theory proposed by an excitable young colleague of mine, Master Barnabas Coxcomb, although I must confess he is a difficult man to extract much in the way of detailed information from, beyond the assertion that science is really, really amazing. Still, I suppose things can only get better.’ He gave a brief sigh before continuing. ‘However, my understanding is that at some point in the past, Mr Collins – your husband – ’

‘My present husband, yes – ’

‘ – must somehow have gained access to some vital information that has enabled him to manipulate events so as to cause you to end up as his wife rather than your friend Charlotte. At some point in the past, your timeline has split into two separate and yet entirely self-consistent paths, and everything else in reality has adjusted in order to fit around this. Unfortunately, it seems we are now travelling along the wrong path, wherein your matrimonial arrangements have been altered to the benefit of the said Mr Collins.’

‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, ‘You gentlemen are causing my head to spin with your science! But what about all the stuff with the ghosts and visions?’

‘We think that was simply your brain trying to provide you with a plausible explanation for your change of circumstances. I take it you are not happy with the present state of affairs?’

‘I most certainly am not,’ said Elizabeth with some feeling. ‘Can you imagine what it is like being married to that man? I am truly wretched. My only solace is in the works of Lord Byron.’

‘Ah, Lord Byron,’ said H. ‘A truly great writer. Have you read the Ballad of Nell the Inuit?’

‘I have indeed. ’Tis a most extraordinary work. However, we stray from the subject. Is there anything that can be done to return ourselves to the correct path?’

‘As a matter of fact we can. I have in my possession a most extraordinary device: a Fuchs capacitor, which I acquired at the same time as the man’s dirigible. We can use this to send you back – ’ here he paused for dramatic effect ‘ – to the past!’

‘How extraordinary! I have never heard of such a thing! How does it work?’

‘Ah, the great man’s inventions are notoriously hard to fathom,’ said H. ‘There used to be a saying when he was alive: “How does it work? Fuchs knows.”’ He paused. ‘All we know is that it does. Provided you are travelling at 88 miles per hour at the time, of course.’

‘But how on earth can Jennifer go that fast? No horse alive can – ’

H held up his hand. ‘Do not worry, my dear Mrs Collins. I have found a way around that problem too. I have obtained some powder from a mysterious Franco-Japanese pharmacologist called Monsieur de l’Orient that will assist Jennifer in achieving the desired speed.’

Elizabeth noticed that one of the technicians was holding the horse’s mouth open whist one of the others was pouring a curious white powder down her throat. The rest were doing their best to restrain the animal.

‘I think you’d better be getting ready,’ said H, nodding in the direction of Jennifer. ‘We have triangulated the date of the pivotal event with as much accuracy as we can manage and configured the Fuchs capacitor accordingly. The rest is up to you.’

Elizabeth looked at him in some alarm. ‘I have to go as well?’

‘Your involvement is also essential, Mrs Collins. Look after her, Wickham! This venture is fraught with danger.’ Indeed, Jennifer’s eyes were now bulging and she was straining furiously against her restraints. Wickham was already climbing into the saddle as Elizabeth got there. He grabbed her by the arms and swung her on board.

‘Hold on tight, Mrs Collins, this is going to get a little bumpy!’

She had barely positioned herself behind the Lieutenant when the beast bolted and smashed her way out through the doors of the laboratory into the mews, picking up speed all the time. Carriages and pedestrians threw themselves out of the way as the deranged animal hurtled on through the streets of London at an ever-increasing velocity towards the East End and London Docks. Elizabeth abandoned all attempts at decorum and flung her arms around Wickham, sinking her fingernails deep into his frogging.

‘Look out!’ she cried, seeing ships’ masts ahead. ‘We’re about to go straight into the water! I said, we’re going to – ’

But suddenly sparks began to crackle all around them and London Docks vanished, to be replaced by teeming streets and cries of ‘Treaty of Basel Latest!’ and ‘Haydn’s 102^nd – The Critics’ Verdict!’

‘Can we stop now, please?’ shouted Mrs Collins as the horse thundered on.

‘I don’t know how!’ replied Wickham.

‘What?!’ But Wickham failed to reply because an instant later, Jennifer screeched to a halt and keeled over on the spot, frothing at the mouth.

‘Is she dead?’ said Elizabeth as they extricated themselves from the saddle.

‘I hope not,’ said Wickham. ‘Because we’ll need her to get back.’

‘But how?’ said Elizabeth, pointing in horror to the debris scattered on the ground. The Fuchs capacitor had been smashed beyond repair.

To be continued…

…in which our intrepid author comes face to face with a machete-wielding madwoman!

Sign the guestbook and leave a comment in order to have a chance of winning a free copy of the book.

Many thanks to vvb32 reads for the invitation!

It was a dark and stormy night. Elizabeth awoke to her window clattering back and forth in the wind.

‘Hello?’ she said, levering herself upright. ‘Who goes there?’

‘Whooooooooooooo!’ came a voice from the shadows.

Elizabeth sighed. One of those ghosts again, no doubt. Just like in that Christmas Special, when she was six months’ pregnant. She scratched her head for a moment. How many months was it now? She was convinced it was now only three or four. Life could be so confusing when it was run by publishing schedules, with no firm idea as to whether there was ever going to be a sequel and a concomitant end to her confinement. She could be with child for years at this rate.

‘So which one of you is it?’ she called out. ‘And what do you want this time?’

An evil figure stepped out, swathed in bandages. Elizabeth shrieked. ‘Great heavens,’ she cried, ‘What kind of fiend are you?’

‘I am your Mummy!’ it said.

‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ said Elizabeth, collapsing back onto the bed.

Elizabeth was glad of company as she broke her fast the next day. Mr Darcy was out early on some business matter, but fortunately her friend Charlotte Collins was staying for a few days before returning to the care of the Prior of Roehampton.

‘Charlotte dearest,’ she said, ‘I had the most extraordinary dream last night. At least I think ’twas a dream. There was this Mummy – ’

‘Ah, I have had many such visitations myself,’ replied Charlotte, her eyes widening, ‘Mummies, golems, zombies, vampires, werewolves, goblins and incubi.’ She paused for a moment and a wistful look came over her face. “The incubi were awfully strange. Do you know, they made me – ’

‘More tea?’ said Elizabeth, before her friend could elaborate further. She really had to talk to someone about this, but on reflection Charlotte may not have been the best choice. ‘How is your treatment going, by the way?’ she said.

‘Very well,’ said Charlotte. ‘In fact, Lord Byron – ’

‘Ah yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘We need to talk about Byron.’

‘My dear Elizabeth, you need not worry about him. In fact he is travelling back to Greece even as we speak. He has been asked to help their government decide on the best way to handle their finances.’

Elizabeth frowned at this. ‘Lord Byron is a man of many rare and unusual skills, but I was unaware that financial engineering was one of them,’ she said.

‘Oh no,’ said Charlotte. ‘I thought you knew. He has asked your brother-in-law to help.’

‘Charlie Bingley?’ said Elizabeth, brightening, ‘Oh in that case, everything will be perfectly fine. With Byron and Charlie advising them, the Greek economy will be as solid as a rock for the next two hundred years or more!’ Then her face clouded again. ‘Charlotte,’ she said. ‘I am still vexed about the Mummy. What do you think I should do?’

What you need,’ said Charlotte, ‘is a little diversion. Why don’t we both go to the fair?’

When they arrived, however, things were not looking good. All the tents had been packed up and loaded onto carts.

‘What’s up, Mr Barnum?’ said Elizabeth to the man in charge.

‘Oh, begging your pardon Mrs Darcy,’ said the man, doffing his cap, ‘but we’re moving on. This place has always been good to us, but there’ve been some odd things happen here these past few days and some of the men are saying like there’s a curse on us or something.’ He shook his head.

‘A curse?’ said Charlotte.

‘Aye, ma’am. A curse. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time with young Phineas eating us out of house and home. I hardly know how we’ll survive the winter. Happen we may even be forced to sell up and try our luck in the New World.’

‘But what sort of odd things have been happening?’ persisted Elizabeth.

‘Well,’ said Mr Barnum, scratching his head. ‘First of all there was the incident with the beads.’

‘Beads?’ queried Charlotte.

‘Yep, beads. Load of beads appeared out of nowhere, making people trip over and hurt themselves. But that was nothing compared to the swarm of bees that attacked them afterwards.’

‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed Elizabeth.

‘And then,’ added Barnum, his voice dropping to a whisper ‘And then there was … the Mummy.’

‘A Mummy?’ said Elizabeth, panicking slightly. ‘In Derbyshire?’

‘Aye, a Mummy. Came to us all in the night, one by one. Scared the wits out of grown men, he did.’ Barnum shook his head sadly. ‘So we’re moving on. Won’t be easy this time of year, but we’ll have to find somewhere else we can pitch up. Leave the place to the folk over there.’ Barnum nodded towards where a moth-eaten blue and yellow tent was being erected on the space left behind by his own, next to a large hoarding that read:

COME TO RYANFAIR!

CHEAP AND CHEERFUL FUN FOR ALL!

GET IN QUICK BEFORE THEY INVENT

HEALTH AND SAFETY LEGISLATION!

‘Good Lord,’ said Charlotte. ‘That sounds rather odd.’

‘That’s the owner over there,’ said Barnum, pointing to a man who was running around gesturing alternately at the crowd of fairgoers and at a group of men who were struggling with the guy ropes.

‘Oh, really?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Yep, that’s the feller.’

‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Let’s go and see if we can have a word with him.’

But they soon lost him in the crowd that was rapidly gathering around the new fair. Things were made worse by the fact that everyone was constantly on the move in order to avoid the Ryanfair ‘Ground Rental Charge’ that was levied on anyone who stood still for more than thirty seconds.

‘Now what are we going to do?’ said Charlotte.

‘He must have an office somewhere,’ said Elizabeth.

They found it in a caravan parked at the back of the big tent. Elizabeth and Charlotte went up to the door and knocked. There was no reply.

‘Come on then,’ said Elizabeth, grabbing hold of the door handle.

‘Do you think we should, my dear?’

‘Of course. I mean, what would Wickham do?’

‘Something wild and dashing, and more than a little stupid?’

‘Charlotte, my dear, I do believe you’re beginning to talk perfect sense at last.’

The two women glanced at each other and nodded.

‘Stand aside,’ said Charlotte. ‘This is not a job for a woman in your condition.’ She took hold of the handle, turned it and simultaneously hurled herself against the door, which responded by falling off its hinges. ‘Oops,’ she said.

‘Never mind. We will soon prove there is wrong-doing afoot.’ Elizabeth scanned the room, searching for clues. ‘Aha!’ she cried, ‘Look, over there!’

Charlotte looked. ‘Great heavens! A jar of beads with a scoop next to it! And listen! Can’t you hear it?’

‘Hear what?’

‘The buzzing! From that hive in the corner!’

‘Good Lord, I do believe you’re – ’

But Elizabeth was interrupted by a sound behind her. She turned around and caught sight of a dreadful apparition. Judging by the scream from her companion, Charlotte had seen it too.

The Mummy had returned.

‘Run!’ screamed Charlotte, ‘Run!’

But Elizabeth stood her ground. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘You’re no Mummy.’ And grabbing hold of a bandage, she proceeded to unwrap the intruder, until standing there in front of her was the man they’d seen earlier.

‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed Charlotte, ‘’Twas the manager of the rival fairground all along!’

‘Bejaysus, you pesky pair of eejits!’ said the man, ‘You’ll pay for this!’

‘I rather think not,’ came a familiar voice behind him.

‘Mr Wickham!’ said Elizabeth. “I was wondering when you – ’

‘I’m here too, dear,’ came another voice.

‘Ah, Fitzy dearest. Always good to have a few men around the place. Just in case we need anyone to claim credit for anything.’

‘But for the love of Mary, how did ye know it was me?’ said the fairground owner.

Elizabeth glanced at Charlotte and they replied in perfect synchronization.

‘Scooped beads – ’

‘– duped bees, too – ’

‘Ah, faith and begorrah, ’tis a fair cop,’ said the man as he was frog-marched off between Wickham and Darcy.

‘Come on,’ said Elizabeth, ‘Let’s go and tell Mr Barnum the good news.’

As they walked away, Charlotte turned to Elizabeth. ‘Lizzy my dear’ she said, ‘Is it my imagination, or is there a very large mangy old dog trotting along behind us?’

‘Ah,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I was wondering when you were going to mention him.’

Elizabeth Darcy woke up on the cold floor, choking against the tentacles around her neck. The slippery suckers chafed against her skin as they circled ever closer around her, squeezing out the last –

Tentacles?

She shook her head. No. Another nightmare. She opened her eyes and looked along the line of the floor to where her husband lay. There was a greenish cast to the light in the room.

“Fitzy?” she said. “Are you all right?”

He said nothing, so she shuffled herself over towards him and shook him.

“Fitzy!”

Her husband groaned and mumbled something incoherent about a probe.

“No, Fitzy dearest, it’s me.”

“Ah, good … good. No probe then?”

“No, there is no probe, although for the life of me I have not the faintest idea of what you speak. Is it one of those things that men discuss when we ladies are not present? I have ofttimes pondered on this.”

Darcy groaned.

“Then again, “ said Elizabeth, “I suspect this may be one of those occasions when I am glad I am not – ”

She was interrupted by a clattering from the far side of the room, followed by a curse.

“Have at you, evil fiend!” said a voice. Elizabeth raised herself to her elbows and looked up. She saw a man in uniform, slashing wildly about himself with his sword.

“Ah, Mr Wickham,” said Elizabeth. “Pray sheath your weapon, sir. I fear you may be fighting a phantom of the night.”

He stopped, put his sword away and smacked his head with his hand.

“You are right, madam. I have no idea what got into me.”

“’Tis of no consequence. We have suffered visitations by similar fancies.”

“Where are we?” interrupted Darcy. “This is intolerable.” He stood up and began to pace up and down. “It’s a disgrace!” he shouted.

“Actually, it’s a cube,” said Elizabeth. “With holes in the centre of each wall, so that perhaps ’tis in fact a series of linked cubes, wherein a path may be found to the exit. Perhaps even – ”

“I don’t care what dashed shape it is” said Darcy. “They have no right to put us in it. Whoever they are.”

“Calm down, my dear,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet.

“Yes, best to stay – ” began Wickham.

“Keep out of this,” said Darcy. “I still don’t trust y– ”

“Fitzy, I really – ”

Elizabeth watched in alarm as the two men squared up to each other. But they were interrupted by a movement in the ceiling above them. The grille was being removed from the hole in the centre and two female legs were coming through it, followed by a body. Then the body plummeted downwards and landed on Darcy, who collapsed back onto the floor.

“Charlotte?” said Elizabeth.

Charlotte looked up, her eyes the size of moons. “I have been in a blue room,” she said.

“Ah,” said Elizabeth.

“This room is green. I want to go back to the blue room,” said Charlotte.

“G-ood,” said Elizabeth.

“Blue room.”

“Can I get up please?” said Darcy.

Darcy staggered to his feet once again and resumed his pacing up and down.

“Fitzy, my dear,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps ’twould be for the best if you were to preserve your energies? Who knows how long we may be trapped in this place? Or perhaps we should try to find a way out?”

She lifted up the grille in the middle of the floor. All four of them peered in.

“’Tis a red room,” said Charlotte.

“I will go first,” said Wickham.

“No, I will,” said Darcy.

“Neither of you will,” said Elizabeth, removing her bonnet. She dropped it into the hole and watched in horror as it was cut to shreds by hidden knives.

“Ah,” said Darcy and Wickham simultaneously.

“Maybe that man will be able to help us,” said Charlotte, pointing towards the wall.

“I’m sorry?” said Elizabeth. Then she saw him. Where had he appeared from and when? Slumped against the wall opposite them was a dishevelled specimen with several days’ growth of stubble and a pallid demeanour.

“Pray who are you sir?” said Wickham, drawing his sword. The man shook his head and began muttering to himself and dribbling.

“See what he is saying,” said Elizabeth. Wickham went over and squatted down next to the man. He appeared to listen intently to him, asking questions from time to time. Finally, Wickham shook his head, stood up and came back to them.

“Well?” said Elizabeth.

“I hardly know where to begin,” said Wickham. “He claims to be some kind of writer. Apparently we are in a sort of – what was the word? – limbo, wherein we are held pending a decision on whether our story is to proceed further.”

“Limbo?” said Elizabeth.

“More intolerable mumbo jumbo,” said Darcy, pacing up and down again. “Limbo mumbo jumbo.”

“Fitzy – ” began Elizabeth.

“Want to go back to the blue room,” said Charlotte.

“Oh, for heavens sake,” said Elizabeth. “No-one’s going anywhere until we know the next room isn’t going to cut us into little pieces. Wickham, did the gentleman over there give us any more clues?”

“Well, he said the only way we’ll escape from this limbo is if we can somehow persuade everyone reading this to buy a book of some sort and create demand for a sequel.”

“Ah! ’Tis a metafictional construct!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “We have encountered this kind of thing before, have we not? And yet there is a fourth wall – six if you count the floor and the ceiling, and we may as well since this is a perfect cube – so ’tis not a conventional authorial intervention – ”

“May I suggest we simply kill him?” said Darcy. “If he dies, maybe the story dies too and we become free once more? Wickham, your sword please.”

Elizabeth held up her hand. “I fear ’tis not so simple. We risk being trapped forever if we proceed in that manner. No, I think our best course of action is to do as he says and try to persuade our readers to buy the book. But how?”

Wickham gestured towards the writer. “He told me ’twas the most fun you could have with a bonnet on.”

There was a brief silence as Elizabeth contemplated the hole in the middle of the floor. “’Twas such a pretty bonnet too,” she said with a sigh.