At the Club (or Dr. Boodle's Lovelorn Cure-All)

Some troubles are best served by fencing and swimming, by taking to ship, or even by bearing things like a man. But the matters of the heart call for something...a bit stronger.

"Really, Bingley. I can't think why you brought me here."

"I should have thought the reason supremely obvious, Darcy," Bingley said, pushing open the door to his favourite club. "I can't bear to see you sitting one more Sunday about the house. Puts me in a dreadful shudder, you know, watching you...." Bingley's boyish face broke out into a large grin as he tipped his hat to a passing lady. "I say, Darcy," Bingley said, turning to look at the lady's retreating form. "Didn't that lady look like Miss Bennet?"

"What?" Darcy cried, turning. Quickly he recollected himself, and said, "No, no. Miss Bennet is much darker."

"Darker...? I should pluck the eyes out of your head for that. Come, come man! Miss Bennet is fair! As fair as...as...as.... Well, as fair a lady as any I've seen."

Darcy grinned. "And you've seen a fair share in your day."

"Indeed, I have. But I'll wager a hundred to one there's no one prettier in all of England than Miss Bennet."

"I'd take your bet," his friend said, ushering the lovestruck Bingley into the smoky confines of the club with a wave of his cane, "but that this isn't Whites."

In fact, Boodle's had been Bingley's choice this evening, whether from habit or appetite, Darcy did not dare hazard to guess. However, it was clear that neither gentlemanly habit nor appetite consumed his young friend now, for Bingley remained outside, staring wide-eyed after the hooded lady, holding his breath in delighted suspense that he nearly popped the buttons on his blue jacket.

Whirling to the taller gentleman, Bingley cried, "Then we shall go there, for I tell you, Darcy, there's no other girl has caught my fancy like she! Why - why she's like...like.... Like Spring itself!"

Darcy was not moved. "If your poetry is any indication of your heart, Bingley, you're in a very poor way all round. If you've any desire to take lessons in the manner of your writing, I could direct you to a certain Captain Wentworth of my acquaintance.... Ah, Knightly! I'd no idea you were in Town!"

The gentleman thus addressed turned blearily from his solitary meal to face the door, squinting at the fading light. "Until yesterday I'd no idea I would be here myself," Knightly responded with a lopsided grin, clasping Darcy's hand. His eyes twinkled with hidden joys and sorrows, and his breath smelt one glass too much of brandy. Shewing admirable restraint, Darcy introduced his two friends, and soon, all three were ensconced in chairs, the poison of their choice at their elbows, with promise of mutton and pie to be brought posthaste. Before too long the three were chatting amiably, with Bingley providing the majority of the conversation, which revolved, naturally, around the eldest Miss Bennet. The entrance of dinner provided a brief respite from his chatter, enough that Knightly was able to ask Darcy how Miss Elizabeth Bennet fared.

Darcy looked up from his signet ring, with a startled, "What's that?"

Knightly repeated the question.

"I can't imagine what you mean, sir," Darcy mumbled over the rim of his cup. "Miss Bennet and I.... We did not part well." All three were uneasy for a moment, until Darcy said with little grace, "But how is your sister-in-law, Knightly?"

At this the other gentleman darkened, pouring himself a second drink. "I am determined not to think of Emma, Darcy. I thank you."

"I think...." Bingley started.

"Ah, Brandon! What kept you?" Knightly cried, rising to greet a worn-looking gentleman wearing a flannel waistcoat. "Have you seen Wentworth?"

Brandon shook his head, sitting down with polite nods to the other two gentlemen. "I have found her," he breathed.

"Found whom, sir?" Darcy asked, a vision of fine eyes rising before him.

"Eliza," Brandon replied, his hand clenching. "And in much the same condition as her mother."

"By who...?" Knightly whispered.

The voice, once so soft, now growled in tones of deepest contempt, "Willoughby."

"Badly done. Badly done, indeed!" Knightly cried feelingly.

"I am sorry for your grievance, sir, whatever it may be," Darcy said, his own thoughts flitting to his sister's recent dilemma.

Brandon bowed, and ordered a glass of brandy.

"I think...." Bingley essayed.

"You take yourself too seriously, my good sir," a tall, dark and handsome newcomer said, strolling in the door with two other gentlemen of a clerical bent. Sweeping off his many-caped greatcoat, the newcomer claimed a table, continuing his speech as though the room were his alone. "What a parent decrees and what the heart desires, although certainly rarely compatible, are not therefore exclusive! What is needed is a sister, sir, to explain to the good Mrs Ferrars that your Miss Dashwood - " (here Brandon's face turned from sorrow to despair) " - is an eminently suitable bride, though she be not as rich as some. And," he continued, "a sister may also be kind enough to aid a clandestine correspondence with your beloved - " (here Brandon's face turned from despair to anger) " - or even marry a Viscount, with wealth enough to blind the good Mrs Ferrars to Miss Dashwood's impecunity. Elsewise you shall end up shipward, like that poor Wentworth."

"I...I d-do not think that would be p-possible, Mr Tilney," Mr Ferrars replied, bowing. "M-my sister is adamantly opp...opposed to M-miss Dashwood."

"I cannot see how that can be so," Tilney exclaimed. "She is, herself, married to a Dashwood, is she not? Come, Bertram, you must side with me. If, perchance, you were to beg your father's permission to wed Miss Price, let us say...."

"Dear Fanny," Edmund Bertram sighed.

"Would not the match be looked upon favourably?"

"I hardly know," Edmund replied, stiffly. "Fanny would have no cause to think well of me, in any case." The room was silent as both Edmund and Mr Ferrars ordered brandies.

"I think...." Bingley cried.

"But Mr Ferrars," Tilney pressed, "hasn't your Miss Dashwood a sister? And is she not favourably disposed towards you?"

With a furtive glance at the table behind them, he said, "C-Captain Margaret Dashwood is inclined to let me swab her decks."

"No, Miss Marianne Dashwood, I believe."

"Knightly," Brandon whispered to his friend, "give me an occupation, or I shall go mad."

But it was Darcy who said, "You might keep your advyce to yourself, sir. I assure you, we none of us care to hear it."

Tilney laughed at looked at them critically. Then shaking his head, he said, "I am surrounded by fools and madmen. Are you in love as well, sir, that you scowl so fiercesomely?"

"I am not, sir," Darcy replied. "But if I were, I should ask no man for assistance in the matters of the heart."

"Abominable pride."

Darcy's face blanched. "Where there is a real superiority of mind, sir, pride shall always be under good supervision."

Tilney smiled, "The superiority of mind has yet to be tested, sir."

"I shall keep my ill humour to myself," Knightly muttered, standing. "Good night, all." And with the last swig of his brandy, he left.

"I think...." Bingley said.

Brandon waited a minute more, swigged his brandy, then, striding up to Mr Ferrars he said, "You know Miss Marianne Dashwood, sir?"

Mr Ferrars nodded, a faint colour coming into his pasty cheeks as he downed the rest of his glass.

"I would have a word with you."

Silently they left.

"I think...." Bingley laughed.

"Come, Tilney," Edmund said soon after. "Before it comes to fisticuffs."

"I know of no better way to settle a score," Tilney replied, setting down his glass and glaring at Darcy. "Outside, sir?"

Darcy bowed, setting aside his own glass, "At once, sir."

"I think...." Bingley squeaked.

"Your servant, sir," Tilney responded.

"Yours," Darcy smiled, holding the door for his opponent.

Edmund sighed and swigged the last of his brandy.

"I think...." Bingley shouted, as the door swung shut with a bang. The sound echoed through the room.

"More brandy, sir?" the porter asked, coming to Bingley's side.

"Eh - oh, yes. I think that'd be - yes. Thank you."

"Will that be all, sir? Do you expect anyone else, sir?"

"Eh, what? Oh, no. Except, that, you know, I was just thinking...."

Suddenly the door boomed open and a seaworthy captain burst into the room. Looking left and right, his hand still on the door as though to run back through it in pursuit of whatever he sought, the harried gentleman's eye at last settled upon the nearly empty decanter and cried, "Tell me I am not too late!"

Bingley sighed, and gestured to the porter.

"I think," he said, "that I shall have another glass."

The End

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