Posted on Sunday, 11-Oct-98

Author's Note: I would like to dedicate this story to Ellen for her inspiration, and I would like to thank Cate for long ago starting that funny thread off of a Charlotte/lesbian discussion . . . thanks, y'all! Enjoy! :D

arcy smiled and blew a kiss at his reflection in the mirror as he smoothed the soft cotton of his beautiful new forest green gown, while Bingley was occupied in tucking some ivory-colored Brussels lace into the front of his apple-green muslin. The Colonel carefully put on his new white sash over the front of his stunning red scoop-neck with the gold appliqué work. After a little more time for the gentlemen passed in further efforts to tuck their bonnet-bows charmingly under their ears and waiting for Hurst to finish his toilette, (which consisted of a bright pink velvet creation coupled with a hideous pea-green turban with orange feathers) they were all finally ready to go clubbing.

Of course, there was but only one choice for the stylish, dashing, and conscientious Jane Austen character, if he so desired to find a fun yet tasteful crossdressing environment—Chamberlayne's. Chamberlayne's was the most exclusive crossdressing club in London. It was a very select place; offering both a dance-assembly and a beauty salon in which one could find the best facials in all of England. It was where one went to see the latest of fashions, and also to amble in a very chic environment.

In any case, when Darcy and his clique arrived, the place was packed, and the line outside was huge. A whole regiment of bouncers stood outside, holding back the huge crowd of bejeweled men who wanted a chance to flaunt their finery with the hoi-polloi. But when Darcy and his Crew stepped out of their carriage, the doors of the place flew open and Denny welcomed them inside with a wink.

It was dark in the entry where the gentlemen abandoned their bonnets and shawls, but they were soon enough walking onto the main staircase, where they stood and looked over the railing down at the crowds beneath. The group began to wave greetings to their many friends.

However, they broke up soon, as Hurst went off to the punch bowl with his friend Grantaire who was fetchingly attired in Revolutionary-style garb, with a mob cap and a tattered coarse wool frock to his credit as he carried a half-way knitted scarf for effect. Colonel Fitzwilliam also strutted off with his friend Colonel Brandon who wore a similar gown as his friend, leaving Darcy and Bingley to brave the crowd alone.

These two shoved their way through to the benches on the sides, where they sat down. Darcy whipped out his ivory fan and excitedly began fanning himself with it.

"Oh! I declare, Charles, I have never been to Chamberlayne's without lamenting over the crowds. Really, you see the most vulgar people here anymore—for example, look over there," said Darcy, using his fan to indicate a thickset young man squeezed into a yellow checked muslin with the ugliest turban imaginable wound upon his head.

"John Thorpe. A most deplorable young man, and no countenance! I don't know how he ever got in," sighed Darcy, and Bingley nodded his head in firm agreement.

They continued to survey the crowds, pointing out the well-attired (such as Frank Churchill, who had on a to-die-for sky-blue linen creation that bespoke of elegance and refinement—"Really, Darcy, I think I truly must find out the name of his tailor!" cried an excited Bingley) and the vulgar (such as Sir Walter Eliot who pranced about with a Sir Basil in a low-necked purple brocade—"Far too heavy and gaudy," was the consensus of Bingley and Darcy). Suddenly, Darcy felt a pair of somewhat callused hands cover his eyes, and a deep voice murmuring "Guess who?" Darcy ran his hand along the man's right arm and felt the thick arm hair with a wedding ring . . .

Darcy giggled happily. "Oh, I would know you anywhere, Frederick Wentworth! Now stop this nonsense!"

Frederick quickly removed his hands and took a seat next to them. Darcy pulled out his monocle and looked Frederick's raiment over with a critical eye. Frederick turned about so that Darcy could get a good look at it.

"Well, how do you like it?" he asked anxiously.

Darcy's eye squinted for a moment, then his face relaxed into a smile. "I approve quite well, Frederick. Those military styles are all the rage! You chose well!" he cried, giving an approving look to the blue silk that was only decorated by the same sort of gold appliqué as the Colonel's gown and a pair of jaunty epaulettes.

Frederick blushed happily. "Well, Darcy, it was hardly anything creative—many Navy men turn up in such rig, but I am glad you approve!"

Darcy's eyes widened, and he nearly tut-tut-ed his friend. "Why, Frederick, don't you dare say such a thing! I have seen many Naval men try to aspire to higher fashion, but your clothing shows a delicacy that theirs usually lacks. You have taste, and a decidedly better figure than most men you see."

Frederick flushed again, pleased with his received compliments. Suddenly, however, another man approached . . .

"Wickham! That tomcat!" muttered Darcy cattily.

"You rang?" said Wickham in a darkly amused tone, his train rustling along behind him.

Darcy quickly pulled out his monocle and began to examine Wickham in his most impudent manner. Darcy really could not find much to fault in the blushing-rosy color of the satinet dress, or the delicate tawny color of his lace that complimented it very well. Despite the fact that Darcy could not fault his taste, he still wasn't going to let this new arrival's arrival pass by without demur.

"What are you doing here, Wickham? You know that I always come to Chamberlayne's on Tuesdays . . . I thought that you agreed that we would be gentlemen about this . . . you know you aren't supposed to be here—this is my club!" whined Darcy effectively, stomping his feet with gusto.

Wickham shrugged. "Darcy, Darcy, me lad! This is hardly adult-like!"

"Oh, hush!" frowned Darcy, sticking his tongue out at his loathed enemy. When Wickham stuck his tongue back out at Darcy, suddenly Darcy jumped out and pulled one of Wickham's false braids, starting a fight.

"CATFIGHT!" was the call of the crowd, and everyone watched eagerly as Wickham tried to scratch Darcy with his Lee Press-Ons while Darcy tried to slap him away. Suddenly, the regiments arrived and took Wickham away, making Darcy give a sigh of relief.

"Oh, I hate fighting!" said Darcy, brushing off his gown and readjusting his shawl. Bingley managed to get him to settle back into a chair while he fanned his agitated friend, and patted him on the cheeks with a handkerchief dipped in rosewater. After a few minutes, Darcy was able to gather his composure and they rose for a refreshing turn about the room.

They were enjoying themselves very well until Bingley felt a foot on his train, and a voice called out a warning about torn muslin.

"Henry Tilney!" cried Bingley, turning around to see his good friend, offered his hand for shaking. "How have you been? and how is Bath?"

"Bath is deplorable," moaned Henry. "I looked all over, but could hardly find a tolerable muslin in the place! This," he said, indicating his own yellow-sprigged variety of the fabric, "was all I could find, and I worry that it might fray yet!"

Darcy sighed. "Well, what can you expect from Bath?" he cried as they kissed each other on the cheek (well, they simulated it—they really kissed the air near the cheek) in greeting. "Those fuddy-duddies just don't understand weave, but my dear Mr. Muslin, you will find that London has some right good examples of it."

They continued about the room until they spotted a sober looking gentleman in a sensible dove-gray linen.

"KNIGHT-LEY!" cried Darcy. The gentleman flinched and ducked down for a moment, but then turned, straightened up, and walked over to the men.

"Knight-ley!" cried Henry.

"Knight-ley!" cried Bingley.

"Darcy . . . Henry . . . Bingley . . ." said Knightley in semi-playful suspicion. Then he gave a sly smile, and giggled. "Great to see y'all again, chaps! Like, how's the night life been?" Realizing a pun in his very name, he giggled again. "Knight-life! I guess I should, like, answer that one myself, and like, I can assure you that the Knight-life has been oki-doki!" He giggled again. "Like, for sure, dude!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!"

What?

"Like, for sure, dude?!?!"

So? I'm sure Knightley would have said it if he'd-a-only thunk it!

"That's 'thought,' and I will not be interrupted! Miss Schneider, I insist on being satisfied—is there nothing you will not profane? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"

Well, *giggles* like, for sure, dude!

"All right, that does it . . ."

And Mr. Darcy finally woke up from his dream and decided never to eat Stilton cheese and celery-root together again.

Finis