Darcy and Lizzy vs. Harry and Marv - A Chaotic Christmas Courtship

Happy Christmas Eve, dear readers! Today marks the one-year anniversary of my chaotic Christmas novella, Home Alone at Longbourn. Yes, it’s exactly wat it sounds like!

 

 

After Elizabeth grows frustrated at a large family gathering, she wakes the next morning to discover that her family has left her behind as they journey north for Christmas. She finds this enjoyable, until she discovers a plot by some of the officers in the militia to burglarize the estates of families who have journeyed elsewhere for Christmas – an Elizabeth has nobody to turn to but Mr. Darcy, who finds himself stranded in Meryton as a snowstorm cuts the village off from any aid.

 

 

Hijinks, booby traps, and outlandish regency shenanigans ensue, and romance blooms in the midst of a wild self-defense scheme….

 

Excerpt:

 

Elizabeth crouched behind the sideboard in the dining room, hidden from view of the window. A few feet away, Mr. Darcy stood concealed in the open doorway that led to the kitchen, while Georgiana hid beneath the large oak table in the center of the room. They were all so silent Elizabeth was not entirely sure they were breathing. The waiting was unbearable, and seemed to stretch on indefinitely, until at last they heard the sound of prowlers outside the window. 

There was a scrape as the windowpane was slid open, and hushed laughter as one of the bandits observed to the other, “They thought they was so clever, havin’ that party to trick us into thinkin’ the whole family come home, and then they don’t even latch the windows.”

“Not so high and mighty now,” the other officer agreed. 

Elizabeth gritted her teeth, silently fuming as she recognized their voices. It was Harrington and Marveston. She waited for the pair of dolts to shamble in through the window; her timing had to be perfect. 

When she heard the first scuffling of their boots on the floor, before their footing was sure, she stood and spun around to face them, and lifted a small dish from the sideboard. The dish contained wig powder she had found in the attic during the rummaging phase of their plan that afternoon; Elizabeth had mixed a little something extra into it. Shielding her own eyes with her forearm, she stepped closer to the officers and blew the contents of the little dish into their faces.

The two officers both howled with pain and rage, clutching at their eyes and shouting oaths and curses at her. “Not so high and mighty now,” Elizabeth said in a deep, mocking  voice.

Mr. Darcy moved swiftly from the shadows of the servants’ corridor. He lifted a silver serving tray from the dining table and brought it down over the head of the nearest officer, who was already fumbling for his weapon. At the impact, Harrington crumpled. Marveston had already doubled over from the pain in his eyes. “Ground pepper,” Elizabeth explained as Mr. Darcy fixed an inquisitive gaze on her. With a shameless wink, she quipped, “I thought I might add a little spice to our plan.”

He gave a bark of surprised amusement, while underneath the dining room table, Georgiana fairly snorted with laughter. And then the girl sprang out of her hiding place and swung a stoneware pitcher at Marveston before Mr. Darcy could raise the serving tray to land another blow. Wine sloshed out of the pitcher, dousing both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and as Marveston toppled, Georgiana’s mouth fell open in shocked horror at what she had done.

They were all quiet for a moment, and then Elizabeth burst out laughing. She retrieved a cloth napkin from the dining table, dabbing at her face with it before offering it to Mr. Darcy, who had reached into his pocket for a surprisingly frilly handkerchief. He decided on the napkin, and accepted it with an abashed smile before wiping his own face clean. 

“Sorry,” Georgiana murmured, biting back another peal of laughter.

“That was brilliant,” Elizabeth said.

“You were meant to remain hidden,” Mr. Darcy said at the same instant. He looked ruefully between the two women, then added, “But it was impressive and effective.”

Georgiana glowed at their praise. “Should we tie them up?”

“Yes – and disarm them for good measure,” Elizabeth said. She knelt down beside Harrington and removed his gun from its holster, offering it to Mr. Darcy and taking the wine-soaked napkin from him. She used it to bind the unconscious man’s wrists, and then checked Harrington’s pulse. “He is not dead,” she said with a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to kick him as she stood to retrieve another napkin. 

Marveston began to rouse. Mr. Darcy bent down and removed the officer’s weapon, using the butt of the gun to render him inert once more. He checked the chambers of both pistols, revealing that only one was loaded. He tucked it into his coat pocket, and tossed the empty weapon out into the snow. 

Elizabeth knew the officers must also be hefted back out the window, a prospect she dreaded. And then Georgiana’s voice lilted, “Captain Denny!”

Their ally had appeared outside the window, panting with exertion, his eyes alight with the thrill of it. He reached his hands in through the open window and made a beckoning gesture. Mr. Darcy grabbed Marveston by the collar of his coat and dragged him across the floor, toward the window. Elizabeth hastened to help him, and together they lifted the limp villain out of the window. Denny managed to sling his fallen comrade over his shoulder, and began to carry him off to the stable.

Next was Harrington; Mr. Darcy scooped him up with both arms and unceremoniously tossed him out into the snow. He closed the window, smoothed out his coat, and offered each of the ladies one of his arms to lead them from the room. “High and mighty, indeed,” he said, raising his chin so high he might give Miss Bingley a lesson in hauteur.

 

***

 

In the back parlor, Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Annesley waited behind a large folding screen they had discovered up in the attic. They were almost entirely concealed, though they both took advantage of the shadows that fell over them to peek around the side of the screen. 

To their left, the french doors that led to the back garden slowly opened from the outside. Two officers crept into the parlor, and Mrs. Hill squinted in the moonlight that filtered into the room, trying to make out their faces. She recognized them as officers that had visited once or twice – Mitchell and Hayes. She clenched her fists in fury at the nerve of them, repaying Longbourn’s hospitality with such treachery. Quelling her impulse to throttle them both, she stilled her breathing and watched as they fell into the trap. 

Two steps into the room, the officers reached the liberally applied floor polish, and their balance grew precarious. They wobbled and swayed, scrambling for surer footing, their arms flailing as they cried out in alarm. It was not long before Mitchell went careening to the ground, which had been strewn with rusty nails from the tool shed. He shrieked with pain, and Hayes jerked in panic before tumbling down after him. 

“They’re down for now – we had best make sure they stay down,” Mrs. Hill said to her prim and dignified companion. Mrs. Annesley gave a dignified nod of acquiescence, and the two women came out from behind the screen. 

“And Mr. Darcy requested we disarm them,” Mrs. Annesley said as calmly as if she were suggesting they ring for tea. 

The two officers were scrambling across the slick floor, still crying out in pain at the nails pricked and pierced their skin. Smiling at the thought of shocking the posh woman she had grown rather fond of, Mrs. Hill gave Mitchell a swift kick between the legs. He squealed and swore at her, doubled over on the slippery hardwood. 

Unimpressed, Mrs. Hill swatted at the lad’s hand as he reached for his weapon. She tucked it into her apron, then grabbed him by the elbow and began to drag his prone body toward the garden door, where Wilson was waiting. Wilson picked a few stubborn nails out of Mitchell’s clothing, then boxed the moaning officer in the ear and dragged him away toward the stables. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Annesley had disarmed Hayes, lifting his gun with two fingers and holding it away from herself as if it were a dead mouse. She tossed it out into the snow, and then returned to inspect the groaning lad who had propped himself up on his elbow but could not find purchase for his boots. Mrs. Hill shot her a sportive look, privately hoping the dainty creature would take the same approach as she had done with Mitchell.

Instead, Mrs. Annesley lifted her skirts a little and placed her foot on Hayes’s back, slowly pressing downward until his arms and legs splayed out across the floor, the nails digging into him. He writhed in pain, and tried to turn about. He managed to twist about enough to grab her leg, and tugged at Mrs. Annesley until she began to sway wildly.

Mrs. Hill acted quickly, darting toward Mrs. Annesley to steady her. Betraying no more dismay than a single, shaky gasp, the gracious lady reached up, freed one of the knitting needles she had used to pin up her hair, and thrust it into Hayes’s shoulder. He released her with a yelp, and Mrs. Annesley drew out the other knitting needle, and her long silver hair tumbled down her shoulders. She prodded Hayes in the throat and he instantly stilled, laying on his back with his hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry – don’t hurt me – the colonel forced me – I had no choice.”

“You have a choice now, dearie,” Mrs. Annesley said sweetly. She turned to Mrs. Hill and said, “Tie him up.”

Mrs. Hill grinned, amazed at this serenely ruthless side to the woman she had initially taken for a dull snob. She scanned the room for something she could use to bind Hayes’s wrists, and settled on the thick cord used to tie back the curtains in the adjoining parlor. Skirting the periphery of the slippery floor, she retrieved the length of silky rope and offered it to Mrs. Annesley, who gave a nod of approval before tying it around Hayes’s wrists as he feebly whimpered and whined. 

They waited until Wilson returned to cart the lad off, and then the two women hastened to take their position downstairs in the kitchen. They reached their post in time to hear another of the bandits tumble down the narrow stone stairwell that led to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. Neither woman flinched at the shouts of profanity and threats of violence; they only exchanged a smug smile and waited for what was to come next – a blood curdling scream as the burglar clasped at the door knob. On their side of the door, three horseshoes that had sat in the fire all day had hung over the doorknob for the last hour, and even the officer’s gloves would be scant protection from such searing heat. 

As they waited, Mrs. Hill drew a cleaver out of her apron pocket and stepped closer to the door. It flew open. The furious officer, still crouched on the icy ground, had wrapped the bottom of his coat around the knob before turning it with the hand he had burned, and with his unburnt hand he pointed a pistol at them. 

Mrs. Annesley clutched Mrs. Hill’s free hand, and the two women shared a look of uncertainty. Under the guise of recoiling against a table in fear, Mrs. Annesley grabbed the lid off a cast iron skillet and hurled it like a discus at the officer just as he pulled the trigger. The shot would have gone awry, had there been a bullet fired. Mrs. Hill breathed out a silent prayer of thanks; this had been one of the guns Captain Denny had managed to empty.

The officer looked down at his weapon in surprise before clambering over the threshold and rising to his feet just beyond the edge of the ice. He dove for the cleaver, expecting Mrs. Hill to attack him with it, but instead she threw it at the thick woolen cord that had been rigged up above the doorway, severing the cord and triggering the release of the latches of two bedpans that had been rigged up there. Hot coals poured out of them, raining down on the officer, who crouched down and covered himself with his arms, letting out a high-pitched shriek. 

While he was distracted, Mrs. Hill turned back and grabbed the cast iron pan from the table. A blow to the head might be enough to kill him, which Colonel Fitzwilliam had expressly forbidden them from doing. So she struck him in the gut, instead; it was enough to send the officer careening backward onto the ice, clutching at his stomach as he cast up his accounts.

Captain Denny appeared from around the side of the house and ran to the top of the stairs, pointing a gun down at the officer. “Come with me, Dawson, and I will consider not shooting you.”

Dawson cast a wary look at the icy stairs and groaned. “Just shoot me,” he wheezed.

Captain Denny rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can you tie him up down there, madam?”

“Aye,” Mrs. Hill said. She removed her apron, passing the pistol she had confiscated upstairs to Mrs. Annesley, who gingerly deposited it into a sink full of soapy water and dirty dishes. Mrs. Hill chuckled as she twisted her apron into a thick rope and tied Dawson’s wrists roughly, double-knotting the rough fabric before using the excess length to bind his ankles, as well. 

“Very well done,” Captain Denny called down to them. “Where is the other fellow?”

“It was just him,” Mrs. Annesley said. 

“No, no, I have deployed these idiots in pairs. Dawson, where is Smythe?”

Dawson gave Captain Denny a withering glare, poised to say something hateful, when he unexpectedly began to retch once more, and then passed out in his own sick. 

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There’s more traps and treachery to the tale than this little taste – and the novella is available on Kindle Unlimited. Leave a comment for a chance to win a fee audiobook, narrated by the incomparable Harry Frost. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals!