Punch-Drunk ~ A Short Story

Posted on Wednesday, 14 February 2007

A/N: Readers apparently wish to be pre-warned if a story deviates from the usual format. Very well. I live to please. WARNING!The following story is written in present tense, not past tense. If this is not your cup of tea, please hit the back button now. Also, I am sorry to say, there is no witty banter in here. Nor has this story been beta-ed. Sorry. Thank you for your attention and a (late) Happy Valentine!

Fitzwilliam Darcy surveys the room and would rather be anywhere else. He sighs. Another night he will spend trying to avoid the matchmaking mammas and their scheming daughters. It is all Bingley’s fault. Stupid Bingley and his stupid sad puppy dog eyes.

“A Valentine’s masquerade ball,” Bingley had said. “We will meet there. It will be fun.”

As much fun as having your teeth pulled out. Darcy glares at the crowd from behind his mask. Maybe he will be able to hide for the whole evening. So far, it has never worked but – as they say – hope for the best or some such thing. He stealthily makes his way to the darkest corner of the room, only to find it occupied by none other than Mr Hurst. The man is not really recognisable in the ridiculous harlequin outfit he wears, but his slouching posture and the almost empty decanter of port on the table next to him are a dead giveaway. Nobody has ever brought the drunken slouch to such perfection as Mr Hurst. If there was an international club for alcoholics, people from all over the world would flock to England to worship the Hurstian slouch and try to learn from the master. Books would be written about it. The man could probably make billions and still be roaring drunk all the while.

Snapping his thoughts firmly back in gear – ‘You are in a war zone here. Do not let yourself be distracted, man.’ – Darcy sneaks off to find another dark corner. Where is the ruddy card room? There should be one. Or billiard. He is not choosey right now. He will go any place that women are not allowed in. Or, at least, where their presence is frowned upon. No English female will enter a place where she might be frowned upon. The frown is almost the worst kind of punishment you can inflict upon someone. It is a comforting thought. It can only be surpassed by a condemnatory ‘tsk’. That is, it works if the person is English. With a shudder and cringing internally, Darcy remembers that French girl who had not known what was proper. Such indecent behaviour!

The happy cry of “D, da man! I would know that scowl anywhere!” interrupts his thoughts.

Busted! Curse the fates!

Slowly, Darcy turns to face his assailant and is relieved to see that it is only Bingley. Who apparently has already been rather enthusiastic in the consumption of punch if the glassy look in his eyes is any indication.

“How do you do, Bingley?”

“How do you do, D?”

“Please, I had rather that you not call me D.”

“As you wish, D, old pal.” Bingley slings his arm companionably around Darcy’s shoulders, probably to stay upright as he is a bit unsteady on his feet, and continues, “I was not sure if you would come. But I am glad that you are here. Together we shall stand strong against the tide of unmarried girls and their mothers. You will look out for me. You always do.”

It comes out a bit slurred. Darcy is trying his best to understand his friend, while keeping him steady and simultaneously having to avert his own face because Bingley’s boozy breath is just too much to stomach. This is becoming increasingly difficult as the poor, drunk boy now starts to gesticulate wildly with his free arm.

“They are everywhere. You cannot step out of the house without meeting some girl who is scheming to trap you in marriage. Their mothers are even worse. There is no escaping them. Not even the house is a safe haven anymore. Caroline has visitors almost everyday.” Bingley accentuates the next words by viciously stabbing the air with his finger to every one of them, “Stupid mercenary mothers with their stupid mercenary daughters who are not beautiful at all!”

Darcy nearly groans. It is about that Jane Bennet business again. He had not thought that his friend had been so affected by the girl. It is all the more reason to keep him away from her. Once Bingley’s heart has healed, he might see her again. No, make that: once a few years have passed since Bingley’s heart will have healed. It may be best if she were married by that time. No, not even that might be enough. They should not see each other until they are eighty years old. Even then only from afar; if it is in any way possible to arrange, with a gulf or a chasm between them. They should not under any circumstance speak to each other. Bingley is so naive and gullible. No, no, they would best not meet ever agai-

“My angel!”

This time, Darcy does groan. The fates are conspiring against him. Someone up there is having fun at his expense. He does not like that notion.

“Ms Bennet, how do you do?”

“How do you do, Mr Darcy?” Jane Bennet’s voice falters for a tiny moment but then she says even more serenely, “How do you do, Mr Bingley?”

Darcy has to admire her strength. He does not think he could be as poised when some random drunk would greet him with ‘My angel!’ It seems though as if Bingley’s last brain cells have overtaxed themselves with the greeting because the man is now goggling glassy eyed at Ms Bennet, sporting a big, goofy grin. One has to be thankful for small mercies. At least, he is not waxing poetics and making the situation even more uncomfortable. Now, how to best retreat without unseemly haste?

Casting about for something polite to say, Darcy resorts to the safest topic imaginable, “Cold, isn’t it?”

“Yes, isn’t it? But at least, it is not raining.”

“Yes. Well. But given the clouds, it is probably going to rain later on.”

“Yes, it certainly looks like it.”

At this moment, Bingley hiccoughs and reminds Darcy that he has a man to untangle from a highly unstable situation.

Smiling uncomfortably and apologetically, he says, “I will better take him someplace where he can sit down.”

Bingley grabs his arm painfully and practically yells, “No. I want to stay here with my Jane. Dear, dear Jane!”

“Be quiet, man. You are making a scene,” hisses Darcy terrified.

The other man does not listen. He lets go of Darcy’s arm and lunges across the space separating him from Ms Bennet. Latching onto her, he slurs imploringly, “Please, do not leave me. I love you, Jane. I cannot live without you.”

Great. It cannot get any worse than- Darcy instantly tries to quell this thought but the damage has been done.

“Do I smell a marriage in the making?” a voice resoundingly booms out behind them.

Naturally, the host of the evening will choose this exact moment to come up to them. Why? Why must the world be peopled with Sir Lucases? Capital.

Bingley’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Marriage! Absolutely!” he cries just as loudly as their host. “You must marry me, Jane! I would be the happiest man on earth.”

Months of careful work undone in one drunken moment. Bingley is as good as done. There is no extricating him now. Darcy wonders if it is paranoid to suspect that Ms Bennet has staged this whole evening. She must be oh so satisfied to have Bingley exactly where she wanted him all along.

Smiling – is that a hint of sadness he detects? –, she answers, “I am very flattered by your offer, but you are not quite in the state to ask such life-changing questions. Please, excuse me, but I must get back to my party.”

Darcy blinks a few times in rapid succession. Is she rejecting the boy? Is lowly Ms Bennet thinking herself above Bingley? Well, he never!

“Excuse me,” he says with a little chill in his voice. “Are you saying No?”

Blushing in embarrassment, she nods. He bets there are now at least two dozen ladies in this room, who hate her guts because she looks beautiful even when she blushes, Darcy muses.

“But,” he splutters, still trying to wrap his mind around the new development. “Why?”

Looking at the floor, she mumbles something that he cannot hear.

“Excuse me, can you repeat that? I did not quite catch it,” he growls. “Is it because his family comes from trade? Do you think he is not good enough for you?”

For the first time since the ill-fated arrival of their host, she looks up again. There is an angry sparkle of annoyance in her eyes. Huh, he did not know that she has that look down, too. He had thought only one Bennet’s eyes ever sparkle like that.

She hisses in a muted voice, “There is nothing wrong with him. Do not dare to implicate that.”

“What is the problem then? He said he loves you and wants to marry you. What is holding you back?”

Apparently, he has crossed the line now. He can see her last shreds of serenity fleeing before an almighty frustration and, once all traces of serenity are gone, she explodes and yells, “Because he is drunk and I will not trap him in marriage like that. I do not want to be despised by my husband.”

One part of his brain yells at him to Shut Up! for heaven’s sake, he is making things even worse; does he not realise that he is advertising Bingley to her? Another part of his mind panics at the raw emotion in her face and frantically screams ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Yet, amidst the mayhem, a thought pops up that brings everything to a grinding halt.

“You love him,” he says wonderingly.

She crosses her arms in front and glowers at him. Her stance speaks defiance. She will neither admit nor deny anything. Has she been taking lessons from her sister?

“You love him,” he repeats gleefully.

“Are you done mocking me now? Can I go back to my party?”

“No, wait. You love him!”

“Will you stop saying that? And for heaven’s sake, lower your voice.”

“I was not the one yelling only a few moments ago.”

She raises her eyebrow. That is another look she must have got from her sister. Maybe he should worry that he has her sister’s expressions catalogued in his mind?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But he really loves you. Not just when he is drunk. In fact, I have never seen him so much in love before. But if you really prefer him to propose sober, I offer a compromise. Tomorrow, as soon as Bingley is alive again, he will visit you and you both can take it from there.”

Hesitatingly, she replies, “That… would be nice.”

“Although,” he continues magnanimously, “if I were in your place, I would accept his proposal now. It will spare you a few months of hassle. English courtship, I have observed, tends to be filled with awkwardness, clumsiness and quite a lot of embarrassment.”

“I think we will manage.” Her serenity is back in place.

With their combined efforts, they get Bingley to sit down in a chair. Ms Bennet, who will soon be Mrs Bingley provided that they quickly get past the awkward, clumsy and embarrassed phase, takes the seat next to him and starts berating the man for overindulging.

They already look like any other married couple, Darcy thinks and smiles. Then it hits him. He has just persuaded Ms Bennet to marry Bingley. For a few moments, he stares vacantly at them, digesting that particular thought. There is only one way to deal with this perverse turn of events.

“If you will excuse me? I will be over at the punch table having a glass or two to honour the occasion.”

A glass or two or three or four – who counts them anyway? – later, he begins to see the humour in the whole situation. A fine spectacle they have been. He chuckles. They must have set the tongues of the gossips wagging. This season has been far too free of scandal for these old telltales anyway. They should actually thank him for providing them with fodder for endless hours of gossip. Picture that, he was practically negotiating about Bingley’s marriage proposal, with Ms Bennet no less! He cannot help laughing a little.

“I see you have given up your masquerade as sour, taciturn Mr Darcy,” says a light voice next to him.

He turns and looks into her eyes which twinkle mischievously. They have that sparkle. Her sudden appearance unsettles him a bit. Why he should be so surprised, he hardly knows. After all, her sister is here as well.

“There are moments to be sour and taciturn and there are moments to be gay. I find that this evening is leaving me in the best of spirits.”

“Contrary to evenings spent at small country dances?”

“I have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.”

He is delighted when she laughs, “That was a particularly Darcy-ish sentence but you know the rules. Once you have shed the mask, there is no turning back.”

“Well,” he laughs, infected with her laughter, and takes a sweeping bow, “in that case, I will have to do something very un-Darcy-ish then and abduct you to the dance floor this moment.”

She laughs again and it makes him all tingly that it is something he did that makes her laugh so delightfully.

In seconds, they have joined the dance. He cannot believe how easy it is to dance with her. He cannot believe how easy it is to converse with her. He cannot believe how much he enjoys making her laugh. Sometime during the third set (3 sets! The gossipmongers must be running wild), he asks for her hand in marriage.

She laughs again but there is a wistful sound to it which puzzles him.

“Be careful what you ask for and whom you ask it from,” she says. “I think you are mistaking me for someone else.”

What is it with women and their reluctance to proposals tonight? He wonders if it might have been something in the punch.

“Are you trying to break my heart?” he asks mock-seriously.

“No,” she answers, suddenly quite serious. “I merely ask you to wait until the de-masking.”

“You are not going to try a Cinderella exit, are you?” He grins roguishly at her, “I might just do something drastic if you are.”

“I knew I should have taken my glass slippers along,” she quips half-heartedly.

Afterwards, they speak of other things. He does not propose again.

The moment of de-masking has finally come and she looks as if she really contemplates running away. But before she can let actions follow her thoughts, he takes a few steps towards her and kisses her. In front of the whole ballroom. He can hear the other party-goers starting to whisper. They do not expect prim and proper Mr Darcy to exhibit such a scandalous behaviour.

He feels a bit bad about marking her as his like that. She has not even really consented. On the other hand, she has not refused him as well.

It is not a long kiss, more a little peck, but it is enough.

He steps back and looks at her. There is something akin to fear and a resigned hopelessness in her eyes which he cannot fully comprehend.

Then she takes off her mask and he understands.

She is not Elizabeth Bennet.

Caroline Bingley looks at him and says, “I am sorry.”

He would like to sob like a child or swear like a sailor, but he has used up his quota of barely allowed flaunting of the rules of proper behaviour already. Come to think of it, he has probably used it up for years to come. Then a comforting thought comes to his mind.

He could do worse.

Actually, he could have done a lot worse. With a mental shudder, he remembers the French girl who had been so French.

He thinks of her laugh, how much he has enjoyed spending his time with her tonight and knows that it will be alright.

He takes her hand, places a gentle kiss on it and smiles at her. “There is nothing to be sorry about.”

The End

A/N2: You didn’t mean a warning about the fact that Darcy ends up with Caroline, did you?