"If you place that card there, Mr. Collins, you will invite immediate financial ruin," Lady Catherine de Bourgh announced, her voice cutting through the stuffy atmosphere of the Rosings Park drawing room like a sharp frost.
The evening had been dedicated to a supposedly quiet game of "Commerce," but with Lady Catherine directing every player’s hand, it felt more like a military tribunal. Mr. Collins sat sweating profusely, his fingers trembling over his cards, while Charlotte kept her eyes resolutely fixed on her own hand to hide her amusement.
"Your Ladyship is always correct!" Mr. Collins stammered, hastily pulling back his card as if it had burned him. "A thousand apologies for my near-fatal lack of judgment."
Across the table, Elizabeth sat next to Darcy. Her eyes danced with dangerous mischief as she glanced at her husband's cousin. "Do not be discouraged, Mr. Collins. A bold gamble is often the only way to disrupt a predictable game."
Lady Catherine glared at her nephew's wife through her eyeglass. "Predictable, Mrs. Darcy? In this house, we do not gamble. We employ sound judgment. Fitzwilliam, surely you agree that a reckless play is the mark of an undisciplined mind."
Darcy sat perfectly upright, his cards held close. He looked from his aunt's stern countenance to Elizabeth's challenging smile. "Undisciplined, perhaps, Aunt. Yet, I have recently learned that absolute predictability can become rather tedious."
"Nonsense," Lady Catherine snapped. "Play your card, Fitzwilliam. Let us see this sound judgment."
The climax of the game arrived a few rounds later. The pool of counters in the center of the table had grown substantial. Lady Catherine, confident in her superior strategy, laid down her cards with a triumphant thud. "A flush. The game is mine, as custom dictates."
Mr. Collins began to clap softly, but stopped instantly when Elizabeth cleared her throat.
"Not quite, Lady Catherine," Elizabeth said smoothly. She turned over her cards to reveal a perfect sequence. "A straight flush. I believe the pool belongs to me."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the drawing room. Lady Catherine’s face turned an alarming shade of plum. "This is highly irregular! The cards must have been improperly shuffled. Fitzwilliam, I demand a recount of the deck."
Before Darcy could answer, a loud, panicked squawk echoed from the hallway. The door burst open, and a frantic footman ran in, closely followed by a massive, colorful peacock from the Rosings gardens. The bird, startled by its own reflection in the long hallway mirrors, had flown inside and was now flapping wildly toward the card table.
"Good heavens!" Lady Catherine shrieked, ducking beneath her silk shawl. "Remove that beast! My porcelain!"
Mr. Collins immediately dove under the table for safety, accidentally knocking his head against the mahogany wood with a loud crack.
The peacock landed squarely in the center of the card table, sending Elizabeth's winning counters flying in every direction. It let out another piercing screech, its magnificent tail feathers fanning out, ready to launch itself at Lady Catherine’s towering cap.
Darcy moved with absolute precision. He did not shout, nor did he panic. Grabbing a heavy velvet sofa cushion, he advanced on the bird with a calm, steady gaze. With a swift, sweeping motion, he gently but firmly guided the peacock off the table and toward the open French doors leading to the terrace.
With one final indignant squawk, the bird stepped out into the night air. Darcy calmly shut the doors, locked them, and adjusted his cuffs.
The room was in shambles. Counters littered the carpet, Mr. Collins was groaning beneath the table, and Lady Catherine was clutching her chest.
Darcy walked back to the table, picked up a single stray counter from the floor, and placed it gently in front of his wife.
"It seems, Elizabeth," Darcy said, a brilliant, rare smirk touching his lips, "that your straight flush was disrupted by a higher authority."
Elizabeth laughed, gathering her scattered winnings. "Perhaps, Mr. Darcy. But I notice that even the grandest birds must eventually yield to a gentleman with a sofa cushion."
