by Nicky Roth
'Yeah, I guess. Mum has invited a couple of more people...'
His expression mirrored her own as he sank down onto the bench beside her.
'How many are we talking?' Darcy asked in a strained voice.
Yeah well, he knew her mother well enough by now to expect the worst, Elizabeth supposed.
'If only I knew. According to Charlotte, she's inviting pretty much everyone she's meeting. Could be ten more, could be a hundred more. In short, I haven't got the foggiest.'
'Okay... - I presume there is little chance of finding out?'
'Nope.'
'Well, we'll manage.'
They would have to, she assumed. There was little they could do now without offending anybody, was there? Or even with offending, for that matter, considering that they didn't know whom her mother had invited so generously... - Never mind!
With a sigh, Elizabeth got up and ascended the ladder again, but somehow the enthusiasm with which she had worked before had left her. What was left was tiredness and an ominous feeling of doom.
Two more weeks of this madness. Two more weeks in which they could not be sure of anything. Not that it would have been any better, had they stuck to their initial plan. Things would still have gone haywire, and it would have been months they would have had to put up with that kind of shit and not mere weeks.
So, on with the work. This was the last wall they needed to paint, then at least that chore was out of the way. The benches were sanded already as well, and once they were varnished, all that was left to do was clean the church and voilà. Hopefully, that would be by the end of the week.
Suddenly, and with a loud bang, the door was flung open, leaves drifted in as two figures stepped into the room, hardly discernible in the bright autumn light that all but blinded her.
'Oh, what a lovely old church!' one figure exclaimed, while the other remarked: 'So, I see you are determined to hold your wedding here against all my superior advice.'
Yep, there now was the as yet missing number three of the bunch of misfortunes in the shape of her mother and Lady Catherine de Bourgh who had just appeared out of thin air. Okay, on the upside, this meant her mother couldn't invite any more people without Will and her knowing, on the downside, it meant their peace of mind from now on up until their wedding was in jeopardy. Okay, fuck peace of mind, it was more a matter of impending insanity.
'Now, what are you going to do about the walls, Fitzwilliam?'
'Paint them, as you can see,' was Will's laconic answer, while he held up his paintbrush demonstratively.
'And what colour do you intend to paint them?'
'White, obviously.'
'Just white?'
'Well, I tried to engage Michelangelo, but he declined, said he was too busy with the Sistine Chapel already.'
'Don't be silly, the sixteenth chapel has been finished ages ago, as far as I know,' Mrs Bennet chimed in, making Elizabeth cringe and at the same time wonder where the other fifteen chapels were supposed to be.
'That lying piece of shit!' Darcy sighed with mock exasperation. 'But as it is, now it is too late to do much about it.'
'It is never too late, Fitzwilliam, and at any rate, we are now here to give you a hand, aren't we Fanny?'
Her mother nodded vigorously. Not good, so not good at all. Bloody hell, they were even on first name terms already.
'By the way, you really should clean the place before the wedding.'
No kidding? Wow, they would never have figured that one out all on their own.
'And does this... - this... - blast, I can never remember what it's called, you know, this gruesome cross-thingy there. Does it have to hang so prominently right over the altar?' Lady Catherine carried on, pointing at the carved crucifix that dangled somewhat precariously from the ceiling.
Eh...? - Yes. Elizabeth kind of doubted that a statue of Venus would be very befitting for a church, but she might be wrong there, of course. What did she know? Admittedly she wasn't very religious. But last time she'd checked, a crucifix in a Christian church had been perfectly suitable, quite common even.
Said crucifix was actually the one thing they had not dared to touch and for which they had a conservator coming in on the morrow, to have it cleaned. Thank goodness there was a company for such things in Derby. The cross' substance looked alright, but it was grimy and seriously, the last thing they needed was to ruin a piece of ancient art by scrubbing it with soap.
Oh, why was it so quiet all of a sudden?
Nope, both Lady Catherine and her mother were still there, but while the latter was currently trying to pry open the tabernacle, ignoring the key that was actually in the lock where it belonged, her Ladyship's brows were knitted as if she was thinking about something very hard.
After a couple of minutes, she confidently declared: 'I think yellow would go very nicely with the stained glass windows, but, of course, it would not fit with your pink flower arrangements.'
'We don't have pink flower arrangements, Aunt Cathy, and anyway, I will not paint the walls yellow!'
'Oh, we could do that for you,' Mrs Bennet, giving up on opening the small shrine next to the altar, beamed. 'What would look nice as well is doing it but halfway up and put a nice border around the top bit. I have seen a very lovely one at Homebase the other day.'
'The walls will stay white and that is final!' Darcy exploded.
'But...'
'No but! These walls have always been white and that is how they will stay. No coloured paint, no decorative borders, no frescos, nothing, is that understood?'
'Well then, have it your way, nephew,' Lady Catherine huffed. 'But you really should do something about that cross-thingy. It is quite off-putting.'
'And what do you suggest in its stead?'
'Why not a nice... - eh, something.'
Now that was helpful...
'It stays!' Darcy once again put his foot down, making her quite proud.
'But really Fitzwilliam...'
'What's in that cupboard?' her mother suddenly chimed in.
'It's a tabernacle, not a cupboard and it normally contains the wine and altar bread for the communion. This one, however, is empty. Both chalice and platter have been lost over time, as far as I know, but I have ordered a new set last night. It should arrive tomorrow.'
'Where does one order a religious chalice?' Elizabeth could not help asking.
Was there such a thing as a religious mail-order shop or something? Okay, yeah, possibly.
'Amazon,' Darcy grinned back at her.
Okay, that was not the answer she had expected...
'I also ordered a new bible and some hymn books, for I fully intend to make this a place of worship and retreat again.'
'What a ridiculous notion, Fitzwilliam. This place is far too quiet for that!'
Eh...?
Chapter 50:
Dumbwaiter
'Now what have you planned for the wedding breakfast, Elizabeth?' Aunt Catherine inquired, changing the subject so abruptly that not only Elizabeth, but also he was taken by complete surprise.
'Well, we thought about a nice oxtail soup...' Elizabeth stammered, catching his eye.
'Oxtail soup?' his aunt screeched with a face of sheer horror. 'Who eats oxtail soup these days?'
Eh, his aunt, last time he'd checked...
'I do,' both he and Elizabeth as well as Mrs Bennet piped up, earning a stern glance each from his aunt.
'But it's made from oxtails, and you know where those things hang.'
'Yes, I am fully aware of that, Aunt. By the way, you do eat eggs, don't you?'
'Of course I eat eggs. What have eggs to do with oxtail soup?'
'Not much, in all honesty. It is just, you know, where they come from.'
'They don't dangle in front of a cows backside.'
'No, but they come out of a chicken's backside and actually a chicken's arsehole serves a dual purpose...'
'That is disgusting, Fitzwilliam!'
'Well, you started
it. We'll have oxtail soup as a starter.'
'And then?'
He was tempted to say cottage pie but perhaps that was stretching it a bit.
'Roast. Roast lamb, roast pork, roast beef and roast chicken with condiments, vegetable platters and a variety of potato dishes.'
'That sounds more like a Sunday lunch instead of a fancy wedding breakfast. I see I'll have to take matters into hand.'
'No, you do not. Everything is sorted. There was no need for you to arrive early.'
'You, nephew, take this wedding panning far too lightly.'
Ouch! This had been the second time within an hour she had called him nephew. She never did so unless she was most determined to get her way, emphasizing her superior age, if not necessarily her superior experience, for lack of better arguments.
Before he knew it, she had leaned heavily against the ladder he had been working on and equally unexpectedly it began to slip a notch, the bucket of paint he had attached to its side using a hook swinging violently. If only the paintbrush did not...
It did. Fall down that was alongside the fortunateley almost empty can of paint. Both landed on his aunt with a big splash while merely showering the rest of them with few splatters of no consequence.
One, two... - Ah, there it was. Lady Catherine's temper tantrum never lagged far behind.
'FITZWILLIAM! Look what a mess you've made!'
Yeah, sure, it was all his fault. But heck, his aunt looked as if a giant bird had crapped on her. And there he had always been glad that cows couldn't fly... - Ah well, never mind.
'My new coat is ruined!'
Well, it was fortunate that there was no mirror around, for her hair was actually far worse off than her ugly purple coat. The paint was even somewhat beneficial, if he was any judge of that, for at least white didn't hurt the eyes as much as that bright coloured abomination she had donned. This colour would have looked extreme even on a five-year-old, let alone a woman of well over fifty.
With some exasperation, however, his aunt reached up to run her fingers through her permed curls and found out anyway. The effect was quite comical in itself as her expression changed from simple indignation to sheer horror, while her actions inevitably led to the paint dripping down her face, making her look like a grotesque harlequin. Suddenly the colour of the coat somehow seemed quite suitable...
'Do something Fitzwilliam!' Catherine de Bourgh screeched.
Right, he should have done so from the start, like throwing them out when he'd had the chance, but now it was too late and then there was always the thing that his aunt insisted she was a responsible adult. Just not when it suited her, apparently. It was Elizabeth who reacted first, picking up one of the sheets they had covered the stone floor with, wrapping it around the squirming damsel in distress. And that was all around, head to ankles.
'Let's get her to the house. It's easiest to get the paint off while it is still wet,' she stated matter of factly, before actually tying a rope around the fairly neat package, just for good measure.
Well, the sheet had to stay where it was, somehow, unless they wanted to have paint all over the car. It was a practical thought. The effect was that Aunty Cathy now looked like a walking, or rather stumbling rolled-up rug, her classy pumps, bright red, he noted and horribly clashing with the ruined coat, sticking out from underneath the sheet in a charming contrast.
'Are you alright, Cathy?' Mrs Bennet inquired over and over again, never gaining much more of a reply than an indiscernible mumble.
Okay, it was hard to speak when you had a sheet in front of your face, but come on, it was not as if she was gagged. There was but one thin layer of fabric in front of her face, nothing more. She would most certainly not suffocate.
Oh, of course, she had to keep her mouth closed if she didn't want the paint to seep into it as well... - Wow, this paint was really multi-purpose, just as it said on the label.
Yeah, well, the way Aunt Catherine was traipsing around aimlessly wriggling and squirming, though it had something to it, was not of much use with getting her into the car.
Alright, his aunt was fairly sturdy, but he would manage. It was not as if he had never carried a living sheep over his shoulder and they could put up quite a struggle. Peaceful animals my arse!
One, two and up! Throwing Lady Catherine over his shoulder, Darcy swayed a little, then regained his footing, while Elizabeth dashed to open the doors. The whole exercise would have been a piece of cake if his aunt would just keep still for once in her life. Bloody hell, did she need to make a point of his experience in carrying sheep? Apparently so. Thank goodness there was his car... - neatly parked in by his aunt's, of course.
That was some achievement, considering that they were in the middle of nowhere and there was lots of space all around. But no, his aunt had to park right behind him trapping him between a couple of trees and her lime green Morris Minor. Okay, just as well, it was unlocked and the keys were lying forlornly on the passenger seat. Typical!
Ah well, never mind. Indicating to Lizzy to open the back of his aunt's car, he put the still defiant woman down before pushing her into the boot like an obstinate piece of luggage. His aunt mumbled something but he ignored it. Not that it would have been possible to make out what she was saying anyway.
Why did he think of disposing of bodies right now? Hm, perhaps because a Morris Minor bore some resemblance to a hearse? Seriously, the picture in front of him was downright bizarre. A lime green Morris Minor, red pumps sticking out from a ghostly white sheet, stained with muddy shoe prints, a rope wrapped around the whole, he could only hope and pray that he would not be stopped by the police.
This would be very hard to explain and even when unwrapped, his aunt, in all likeliness would not make it any easier. She never did.
'Just keep still, will you, Aunt Catherine? We are just driving you over to the house quickly so you can wash the paint off, nothing more,' he, at last, gasped, when he had managed to push her far enough in to be able to close the doors.
Again nothing but mumbling and a curt nod, which he took as an agreement. Odd. According to Newton's law, the paint could not possibly run into her mouth now. Gravity was a bitch on occasion, especially when a horse was involved, but a reliable one nonetheless.
Setting the car back, he pulled into the narrow country lane, while Elizabeth and her mother followed in his own automobile. There was no way around using the road leading around the park to get back to Pemberley. It was tricky to manage even with his Landrover, but most certainly impossible with his aunt's rickety old-timer. Not that it wasn't a very nice car if one ignored the colour, but it was not exactly cross-country compatible.
And sure enough... - There never were any police cars around. Never ever. Well, aside from today, that was. The man behind the wheel recognised him, ah yes, he had met him at the pub a couple of times, greeted, but that was that. Phew, thank goodness. As said, it would have been hard to explain why he had his aunt tied up in the back of her own car, but alas, he had been saved. Seemed God was happy with him for re-opening the church. At any rate, Darcy chose to take it as a sign. A good one at that.
Pemberley came into view a couple of minutes later. Ah, home at last. Safety and a shower!
Okay, fuck safety, not while his aunt was in residence, but at least that still left the shower.
'Don't ask!' he gasped at Mrs Reynolds as he stumbled over the threshold of the kitchen his aunt flung over his shoulder once again while exasperatedly mumbling to Lady Catherine: 'So, Aunt Cathy, we're almost there."
His trusted housekeeper only shrugged her shoulders and raised an eyebrow accordingly while he put his load down once again, wiping his brow. Bloody hell, he knew his aunt was not a light-weight, but heck, she must at least weigh fourteen stone, likely more. Some achievement considering she was only around five foot tall. No wonder the ladder had budged under her weight, so did he. There was no way he would be able to carry her all the way upstairs. Even with Elizabeth and Mrs Bennet's help,
it would be a struggle.
So, what now? It was tempting to just leave her there at this point, but he dared doubt that Mrs Reynolds would approve of the wriggling and moaning addition to her spotless kitchen. Right, he needed to be creative. Where was Elizabeth anyway? Hm, never mind, she would turn up sooner or later, he guessed. Ah, the dumbwaiter! Of course.
Pushing over the kitchen trolley, he put his aunt across it and dashed for the humble looking lift located in the scullery. It was large, it was built to carry heavy loads, it was perfect for the purpose of getting his fairly chubby aunt up to the second floor. Yeah well, it would have been easier if she wouldn't put up that much of a fight, but there was nothing to be done about that now.
'Don't worry, Aunt Cathy, I get you to a shower in no time. Just keep still, I have to get you into the lift somehow. Careful with your head, yes, that's it!'
Shit, he was talking to her as if she were an imbecile child...
And why did that little devil in his head feel the need to chime in that he should just cross out the “as if” and “child” from that sentence and it would be spot on, though grammatically incorrect?
It was a tight fit, and it most certainly was an uncomfortable one, but when there is a will, there is a way, right? Okay, second floor. Perfect.
Dashing up the stairs Darcy managed to arrive before the dumbwaiter did. A long time before the dumbwaiter did, actually. Hello? Nothing. The thing was stuck just inches away from the opening. Great! What now?
Turn the power off, wait a couple of minutes and then put the fuse back in sometimes worked.
Sometimes, not always. Today was not sometimes. Really, dealing with the police would have been easier. Thanks a bunch. Yes, you Fortuna!
Well, he had one more ace up his sleeve in the form of Henry Younge before he would have to resort to calling the fire brigade.
'Henry? Yes, it's me. Can you please come over to the house asap? I have a problem with the dumbwaiter and my aunt is stuck in there...'