Never Mind!

by Nicky Roth

  Bloody hell, had she really thought he couldn't sing? She couldn't have been more wrong. Where before people were about to laugh their heads off they now applauded them with standing ovations. When she looked around to find Darcy to thank him for saving the day, he was gone. She had been in such a daze that she had not even realised he'd left the stage. But there he now was, making his way towards their table, taking his jacket and then walked out of the door.

  Without thinking she dashed after him.

  'Mr Darcy?'

  Astonished he turned around.

  'I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I didn't mean to humiliate you.'

  'You didn't. I'd rather say you saved the day when you just started singing.'

  'What else was there to do that would not have ended in deeper mortification?'

  She could only shrug. He was right, the longer they would've stood there on public display, the more horrible it would have been.

  'You sang beautifully. Pray, tell me why you didn't want to sing?'

  'I don't much like public display. It doesn't suit me.'

  'But...'

  'You are cold,' he interrupted her, putting his jacket around her shoulders. 'It'll rain. You should go back inside.'

  'Won't you come, too?'

  'No.'

  'And what will you do now?'

  'Walk back to Netherfield and start packing. I've finished my job there and since Monty and his idiots are leaving tomorrow morning, Bingley no longer requires my company or rather my moral support.'

  'You are leaving?'

  Averting his eyes he simply said: 'Yes.'

  NO!

  'Perhaps we'll meet again?' Darcy inquired softly reaching out.

  She could only nod, and take the hand he'd offered, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces.

  As if in a daze, Elizabeth walked back into the pub not even realising that she still had Darcy's jacket around her shoulders.

  'Hey, sugar,' she was greeted cheerfully by Lieutenant Wickham as soon as she stepped through the door.

  'Hey, George. How are you?' she asked flatly.

  Really, she was in the right mood to wipe that annoying smile off his face, but kicking random people in the crotch was probably not considered to be very lady-like.

  'Fine, but I dare doubt the same can be said about you, can it now? Trouble with your boyfriend?'

  Fucking right he was, she felt horrible. But boyfriend, yeah right, as if she had time for that. As tears brimmed her eyes, she could only shake her head.

  'Lizzy? Lizzy what's wrong?'

  Jane had appeared by her side, taking her hands, Bingley in her wake, looking equally concerned while Kitty and Lydia stuck their heads together, giggling before pouring Bingley's fresh pint of lager into their own glasses and then immediately assuming an innocent expression again. Under normal circumstances, Elizabeth would scold them, but she felt too wretched right now to even point it out to her sister.

  'I think I'd rather go home. I'm not feeling so well all of a sudden.'

  And indeed she did not. The combination of a Caipirinha on an empty stomach, the smell of deep-fried food served at the bar, the stupid gossip all around her and Darcy leaving made her physically sick and before she knew it, she was heaving. Pressing one hand to her revolting stomach and the other to her mouth, she dashed out of the door to get rid of her non-existent stomach contents, right in front of her aunt walking her dog.

  'Oh my goodness, are you feeling unwell?'

  'No, I'm having the time of my life,' Elizabeth answered acidly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  'No need to snap at me, Lizzy! You know, you shouldn't drink that much if you can't stomach it.'

  'Sorry, Aunt Rosy, I'm just not feeling much like myself tonight – which, by the way, has sod all to do with alcohol.'

  Okay, a bit perhaps...

  In reply, Mrs Phillips only huffed indignantly. Still, Elizabeth's stomach carried on playing up and she kept on pressing her hand firmly against it to keep it from cramping. Damn what was that? PMS XXL? Take one cramp and get one for free? It sure felt like it. And she wasn't even due with her period for another week. But to think that part of all the gossip going around had originally stemmed from her mother and sisters and had all but made Darcy leave was enough to make her feel physically ill. It was as if someone had kicked her in the guts.

  Jane, Bingley stepped out, dragging Kitty and Lydia with them.

  'We'll bring you home, Lizzy. You are in no condition to stay here, are you?'

  Elizabeth shook her head, wanting nothing more than to go home and cry. Bloody emotions!

  'But it's not even half eight yet. Can't we stay behind? We've still got half an hour...'

  'Not on your own,' Jane replied calmly letting go of Lydia to take Elizabeth's arm and pull her into an embrace.

  'By the way, where's Darcy?' Bingley suddenly realised that his friend was gone while the car was still there.

  'He walked home.'

  'Well, that doesn't help us much, since he's got the keys, otherwise we could drive you home.'

  'Could they not be in his jacket?' Kitty asked, pointing at the garment Elizabeth had completely forgotten she was wearing.

  They were.

  'Good, then I can drive us all home, I've had nothing but ginger ale yet,' Jane smiled.

  Of course, she was. She always did.

  Dentist's appointment? - Smile.

  Broken Arm? - Smile.

  Food poisoning? - Smile.

  Sometimes Elizabeth really wished she was more like her sister, but alas, she was not.

  Happy? - Smile.

  Angry? - Frown.

  Honest, wasn't it? Though actually with Jane it was, too. She just always saw the bright side of life no matter what.

  'You don't have to leave on my account,' Elizabeth managed to press through from between her lips, not daring to open them any further than necessary.

  'Oh, come now, never mind. Truth be told, I'm not much in the mood for singing anymore either and Charles just said the same, Lizzy, so it is no bother. And in your current condition, I will not have to leave you on your own.'

  'But I happen to want to stay!' Lydia exclaimed, looking petulant. 'I haven't sung yet, and neither has Kitty.'

  'Perhaps if I stayed?' Mrs Phillips suggested, glancing at her second oldest niece with an odd expression while Lydia's face instantly lit up.

  'Yes, that is the perfect solution! You can go home and Kitty and I can stay here and wait for mum to pick us up and we're all happy.'

  What was there to do?

  In the end, it was exactly what they did. Jane and Bingley shoved her into Darcy's Land Rover and off they went while Kitty Lydia and their aunt stepped back into the White Hart.

  Chapter 17:

  Meet 'The Police'

  The walk to Netherfield had been beneficial in so far, that he had calmed down a bit. Oh, how Darcy hated to be the centre of attention! Especially when it was for all the wrong reasons. But perhaps he had left a little too abruptly. However, his instincts had told him to flee as quickly and as far away as he possibly could.

  Hm, thinking about it now, he perhaps should have asked Elizabeth whether she wanted to be brought home or not.

  On the other hand, what if she had misunderstood his intentions? Okay, perhaps he had done the right thing by simply leaving Or perhaps not...

  Why was it always this difficult to assess one's own feelings and even worse to try and figure out what other people would think and do?

  Darcy had been deep in his thoughts ever since he had left the pub. Ah well, a little bit of distraction would do him good. A good book or a crossword-puzzle usually did the trick, at least temporarily. For five minutes or so.

  Or even better, to solve the crucial question of how to get into Netherfield House.

  Yeah, right, very clever to give Elizabeth his jacket and forget that his keys and wallet were within.

  At least it ensured that he would see her again
and could take leave properly. Admittedly he had been a little bit of a dick. Okay, a lot, he could just as well admit to it as he ought. He had taken leave with the subtlety and grace of a bulldozer.

  Rounding the house he tried to find an open window, but nope. Of course not.

  He himself had taken care that after a good airing all the windows were properly closed again, at least on the ground floor. And he had been thorough. He should be proud of himself.

  If only he had his pocket knife on him, he could push back the lever of one of the windows, but alas, that was in his jacket also. Bummer! And did he really want to break one of the window panes? Nope, not a very good idea either.

  Okay, what other options did he have aside from waiting for Bingley to return home, which might only be in a couple of hours and walking back to the pub?

  Ah, one window on the upper floor was open and there was a waterspout just within reach of it.

  Yep, that should do. It should be easy enough. Theoretically.

  In practice it proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Darcy had hoisted himself up as gracefully as an elephant climbing a tree and gone up about five meters, by the way, why did old houses always have to have such substantial heights?, when suddenly he heard it. A small squeak and then one that sounded suspiciously like something being torn from the wall. Not a good sound at all. So not good. As if in slow motion, the pipe started to bend backwards, tearing itself from the wall and its buddy to which it had clung for centuries, to slowly bring him back to the ground.

  Okay, it was slow for the first bit of the five meters he was up in the air, the rest was a rather quick descent as the pipe snapped and he landed in the middle of a long-neglected rose bush, bottom first, fortunately, but with a water pipe that was determined to make the most of his humiliation by hitting him in the forehead. For a moment he felt quite dizzy from the impact, but fortunately, his skull was solidly built while the pipe, on closer inspection, sported a dent. Ha, take that you bastard!

  Scrambling out of the rose bush, Darcy carefully pulled the thorns from his buttocks, or at least those he could get a hold of, for some had managed to break once they had passed his denim and were now firmly lodged in his flesh and, of course, all in places where they were bound to make the most of it.

  Really, he never realised what an important piece of anatomy one's arse actually was.

  And, of course, it was at this point that it needed to start raining.

  Okay, what now?

  Ah well, he could just as well sleep in the stables, he supposed, though he would have liked to brush his teeth. As it was, his horses were obviously not in the mood to borrow him theirs. Perhaps it was an overdose of fresh air, but as he made himself half-way comfortable in the hay, suppressing the thought that only on Monday it had been used for decidedly different purposes, his gaze fell on the ladder that hung on the side of one of the stable walls. He had never noticed it before, for there had been no reason whatsoever, with only two horses and a stable meant to house at least twelve, to use the hayloft.

  It looked fairly solid and would be long enough to reach the window. Perfect!

  With the ladder on his shoulder, he stepped out of the stables again only to be greeted by one of his favourite bands of all time: The Police...

  'Drop that ladder and put up your hands!' one of the policemen shouted.

  'What?'

  He had heard and understood them, but for the sake of it, he could not fathom what they wanted from him.

  'Drop that ladder and put up your hands,' a female voice repeated her partner's words.

  'Sure, but why?'

  'Don't play dumb with me, laddy. What do you think why? How about breaking and entering?'

  'I live here. I mean, a friend of mine does, and I'm visiting him.'

  'By entering his house with a ladder? That's one strange way of visiting a friend.'

  'I forgot my keys in the pub. If we could just drop by there, Mr Bingley will confirm my story.'

  ' Nice try. We know that one, do you think we were born yesterday? As soon as you get the chance you will make a run for it. So, nope. You, laddy will go straight to the police station and then we'll see. You know, we are not as dumb as you think us to be, Mr Smarty-Pants,' the first policeman, obviously an older fellow, growled. 'And now put down that ladder!'

  Suppressing a remark that right now they did a very good job at appearing exceedingly stupid, Darcy, at last, put down the ladder and lifted his hands.

  Before he knew it, he was handcuffed and sitting in the back of the police car.

  Well, on the upside, he at least would have a warm bed to sleep in and one that had not been used for fornication. After half a week of more and more limited options as to where to sleep, that was something, he supposed.

  'Name?' he was roughly asked by the PC on desk duty.

  'Fitzwilliam Richard Walter Charles Henry Darcy.'

  'You are kidding me, right?'

  'By no means.'

  'ID?'

  'It's in my jacket which in turn, as I've told your colleagues repeatedly, is in the pub, as are my keys and my phone. I gave the jacket to a friend when she started to feel cold and forgot it when I left. Now, that is not so very difficult to understand, is it?'

  'Stop being testy, it won't do you any good.'

  Rolling his eyes in exasperation he dearly hoped that the two policemen, okay, one was a woman, so that was not exactly politically correct, he supposed, were actually following his plight and were on their way to find his friend to clear up this mess. And just as if to answer his thoughts, the radio piped up to inform the man behind his desk that they had not been able to find Bingley. Great!

  He just needed to check, but no, it was not Friday the thirteenth.

  'Can I just try and call my friend?'

  Bingley's was one of the few mobile numbers he knew by heart. But it was easy enough considering that all he had to do was count down all the prime numbers up to thirteen – one, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen.

  There was only one little downside, Bingley had turned his mobile off. Well, when everything else had gone wrong, why should there be an exception to the rule? This was clearly not his lucky day.

  Walking ahead of yet another constable he was glad to find that there at least was a toilet, a sink and all necessary toiletries aside from a razor waiting for him. There was also a bed, which looked inviting enough at this point. And had it not been for the chap in the cell opposite his, who was contently hugging a red plastic bucket and heaving, showing clearly why he was in there, everything would have been dandy.

  'Hey there, mate,' the drunkard greeted, his voice slurred, before once again retching.

  'Hi,' Darcy replied shortly, plunking down on the bed, trying to ignore the splatter of vomit dropping into the bucket.

  When the man was done throwing up he grinned widely, asking: 'And what you in here for?'

  'Trying to get into my friend's house after leaving my keys in the pub.'

  'And, she didn't appreciate that, I take it?'

  'He, actually. I don't think he would have minded, but the police thought otherwise. So, why are you in here?'

  Not that he really needed an answer, as said, it was obvious enough.

  'Oh, the usual. Had a bit of a drink. When on my way home from the pub, I felt the need to take a dump...'

  He retched again filling the bucket just a little bit more.

  How much capacity did a human stomach have? With cats and dogs it was a simple answer, about twice their body size, with cows it was slightly above a hundred litres, so hopefully that man was not an ox in disguise. At any rate, Darcy was not entirely sure if he really wanted to hear any more.

  '... and I did,' the man went on. 'I mean it was really really urgent and the spot was pretty convenient, too, right behind a large van, parked underneath a tree right opposite another pub. It was just unfortunate that the lady driving it had not yet gotten out. Thought I wanted to rape her or so
mething, as soon as she saw my willy. Should have heard her screeching.'

  Opposite a pub? Was there any use to ask a drunk man why he had not simply gone into the pub to do his business there? Probably not. Though as intoxicated as he was, the explanation would presumably be quite entertaining.

  'I can vividly imagine,' Darcy said instead, pretending to yawn. 'I think I just go and brush my teeth and then sleep a little. Do they turn off the lights?'

  'No, in case we feel like hanging ourselves. They don't like to do more paperwork than is absolutely necessary, and Harry is the worst of all when it comes to filling out forms, believe me.'

  'Swell!'

  Though he had never liked sleeping with the lights on, Darcy did actually sleep fairly well considering his surroundings and the thorns still stuck in his backside. He would need to see a doctor to get them out, he presumed.

  Shit, by the looks of it, he was close to winning a Darwin Award... - Not quite yet, but if he carried on like this, he might

  have every chance.

  His companion had eventually ceased throwing up and was now snoring peacefully and with the gentleness of a jackhammer on his bunk. The neon lights overhead flickered cheerfully as if they meant to get a job as Christmas decoration as soon as they had managed to escape the prison they were currently held in, and the dripping of the water tap right next to his pillow was the perfect symbol for the passing of time. Unnerving, steady and with nothing that could stop it. Just about perfect conditions for a restful snooze...

  The next morning, Darcy regained consciousness somehow by the warden serving breakfast.

  For some reason he had expected watery porridge and tea, instead, he found that his plate swam in a mass of baked beans with a slice of toast shyly hiding underneath, with only one corner peeking out as if to check whether the coast was clear or not. It was. He had never liked baked beans or soggy toast for that matter. To call those things vegetables was plain heinous. Okay, at one point they had grown on a bush, but then someone with cruel intentions had boiled them to a point close to death only to finally drown them and completely finishing them off in what some would call tomato sauce.