A/N: Hey gang, sorry for the five day delay in posting. I got to the point where I had to do something radical, like write down the current disposition of all the players and figure out how to make it all work. I was a little surprised to find 17 characters in play. To add insult to injury, I wrote another short story (Netherfield Math) to give my brain a rest. But fear not intrepid readers, I'm back on task and will finish everything by the weekend. I have two chapters ready for posting now, so I'm only going to distract you with a couple answers from the reviews. I read and love every review, but a couple things bubble to the top:
Louisa Hurst. Louis Hurst! You're a genius. Best antagonist ever. I'm going to read everything you ever write until the end of time.
Thank you very much
Louisa Hurst. Louis Hurst! You're an idiot. Worst angagonist ever. I'm going to boycott all your stories, and may give up on JAFF altogether.
Thank you very much
Seriously, I have to admit it was going to be Caroline right up until the day I wrote the chapter to expose her, and she just seemed too obvious. Got about 70:30 Love:Hate on the idea, so maybe I finally want to far over the top. Don't worry though, I'm not totally redeeming Caroline so you can keep hating her… I promise (probably).
How did Louisa even know anything about anything, and how could she put her plan in place so fast.
The speed that the plan came together has always been a little tough to explain. I think I'll have to add a few paragraphs to the last chapter to clear that up. The idea was that she already had the plan in place, but was only going to take Darcy and maybe Fitzwilliam. She had the bad guys just sitting around Kent waiting for him to leave, and the rest of the ladies were just targets of opportunity or mistakes. He had to wait around in the Pirate cabin because she had to send for Wickham. It's admittedly a bit weak on the logical side, and don't subject the timeline to any overly close scrutiny, but that's how I think it works. Oh, and she's insane so I'll fall back on that when necessary.
Is Bingley really bankrupt?
Hard to say. You gonna believe Louisa Hurst?
Evil Cliffy. Evil Cliffy.
Hey… Good enough for Dickens, good enough for me.
So no more distractions. One chapter that's a little bit fillerish, then one to set the scene and the action starts.
Dougal Douglas Duncan surveyed his smithy with satisfaction. As the natural heir of Waylon the Smith, the most famous smith that ever lived, he considered himself the finest Smith in Gretna Green. In fact, he was the finest Smith in all of the Gretnas, and possibly all of Scotland. He was not an egotistical man, so he didn't consider himself the best in England, but mostly that was because he thought it generous to allow for the possibility of a hypothetical better smith… not because he believed one actually existed.
Now, of course being a good smith, he plied his trade with all the aplomb of a master. There was no inconvenient hammering or heating or dousing happening in his smithy, and it was also a horse free zone. His forge was made of the finest seasoned oak, polished so bright you could use it as a mirror; or a very large snuffbox. It was a work of art capable of all a forge should be capable of… unless of course you lit a fire in it, at which time it would burn the entire building to the ground in minutes. Yes, this smithy was not the ideal place for traditional blacksmith work, but it was perfect for rich English chuckleheads to get married. In that score, this was the ideal smithy. It had everything a good smithy should have. It had a wooden floor covered in the finest carpets from exotic locales like Ireland and Meryton. It had a narrow polished brass dousing bucket attached to the floor with solid iron bars, created by Seamus O'Toole himself. It was attached mostly because the local lads kept trying to steal it to use as a spittoon.
His smithy had a very fine wedding register, which could usually be used to extract a few more pounds from the more clandestine of his clients. You just had to figure out if you were going to charge for hiding the names, or publishing them. One or the other was always good for a laugh and a bit of extra fee, and you could even wager on which was going to be more profitable. His smithy even had a feinting couch. This was of course for any ladies who may be overcome by the proceedings. The most common victims were the MOBs (DDD loved TLAs, even though they weren't a thing yet). Sometimes the bride would also prefer to make use of it, since their corsets were usually tied using a block and tackle and possibly a mule for the big wedding day. It was even occasionally used by the groom when the veil was lifted if he'd been subject to a clandestine bride substitution, which could be even more profitable than an ordinary wedding. Of course, the CBS couldn't be counted on for regular income, since that only happened a couple times a year.
The piece de resistance thought was the forge. As previously mentioned, this was the paragon of all forges. It was created from the finest oak boards that had once been used for a Viking ship. It was buffed and polished to a bright sheen. As such, it wasn't ideal for fires, but it did have specially slotted sides of exactly the optimum height, spacing and disposition, to maintain the most important part of any Greta Green wedding… a barrel of whiskey. Yes, Dougal Douglas Duncan was a traditionalist at heart, and no wedding took place in his smithy without the only ingredient more essential to a good wedding than a bride… Scotch whiskey.
Now a purist might think that statement bold, since a bride was usually thought to be quite essential, but with the local bonny lasses, Dougal only found the chucklehead showing up with money but no bride to be a minor inconvenience. One bride would do as well as another.
Yes, Dougal Douglas Duncan had seen it all and done it all. There was nothing that could possibly happen in the wedding business that could surprise him. Missing your bride; no sweat; just get a bonny lass. Missing your groom, just make a wager with one of the local fathers that their son wouldn't marry a woman they'd never seen… done. Four grooms and three brides, all you had to do was a little misdirection, and they'd all sort it all out after the ceremony. Mother of the Bride has a fancy for the groom and wants to snatch him from the daughter… easily done with the help of the feinting couch. Want to marry two couples at a time, or three, Dougal was your man. Got five sisters with no dowry, no money, a ridiculous family, an entailed estate and no grooms… well, that one might be a bit much, but he'd give you even money he could get three of the five hitched within a week… unless of course it was Seamus O'Toole betting. Nobody with any brains bet against Seamus O'Toole. Ran out of whiskey… well, that was the only thing he could imagine that would stop one of his weddings from proceeding apace. Tradition must be maintained.
Yes, Dougal Douglas Duncan had been there, done that, done it all, seen it all and nobody and nothing could shake him up… until today, when two chuckleheads showed up with two, shall we say reluctant, wedding participants, guarded by sixty armed men and one obviously insane ring leader. Of course, the sixty men were nothing all that unusual… he saw that all the time… although having three men holding one of the grooms at swordpoint wasn't as common as all that. The obviously insane ringleader, well she'd be considered about normal in Gretna Orange. Even the two carriages stopped at the edge of town with what were either more hostages or more customers depending on how things played out weren't that far out of hand. None of that really gave him the slightest concern. What did have him nearly ready to break out the whiskey barrel early was the unholy, abominable, disgusting and thoroughly repulsive worst thing he thought he'd ever seen. This was bad enough, that he thought even Seamus O'Toole would blanche at the sight. I mean really, an Orange Wedding Dress?
Dougal did the only thing a man in his position could possibly do. He looked at both couples and their various armed escorts and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, have some whiskey… I insist."