Choose Your Own Misadventure: You Are Attending a Victorian Ball — Part 3
Do not worry if you have not read parts one and two. There is still plenty of time to join now and completely blow it.
You are sitting in the castle library waiting for the promised arrival of Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham. Earlier this evening, you met Captain Chris Christopher-Robin-Wind-in-the-Willows-Oil-Bottom in the garden. Though he was a man amongst men and your first choice, the scent of romance in the air was replaced by the acidic odor of sudden, explosive diarrhea from the dear captain as he approached you for a kiss.
Instead of retiring from the evening’s festivities with the sound of undergarment-melting projectile excrement ringing in your ears, you have elected to allow love another opportunity to sprout. And so here you are, waiting in an empty library as the ball continues and your friends dance with handsome suitor after handsome suitor. You hope Lord Cumbergrantham is worth the wait.
“Ah,” Lord Cumbergrantham exclaims as he enters the library, shutting the door behind him. “I see you have made the wise choice.”
“Oh, have I?” you play along, rising to your feet. Your heartbeat increases in speed as he strolls to you with a cocky grin. He is tall, angular, impressively dressed, and atrociously handsome.
“Indeed you have, my dear. You see, I have accomplished the very thing I set out to do this evening, the very thing I declared to you upon our first meeting mere hours ago. I engaged in a game of chance with several gentlemen of wealth and privilege, and I emerged not only victorious but also far richer than before.”
“Your modesty is admirable, my lord,” you tease with a playful smile.
“You mock me,” he states as he lunges in close to you, “and yet I find you irresistible. I can only assume that since you are here, you have considered my proposal from earlier this evening and accepted my offer.” He throws his arms around you and brings you close enough for a kiss. “We will be wed before the sun sets again, my dear.”
“My lord, please!” you say, pulling away. “We have only just met!”
“What is this treachery? I present a bountiful platter to you, a life in which you will want for nothing, and yet you cast it aside? I extend to you the honor of being my wife, and you meet me here as requested, only to refuse me?”
“My lord, you are simply moving with too much haste. Please calm yourself and let us …”
“You are not really a lady, are you?”
“Wha … what?”
“No lady of good standing would humiliate me so. I suspect you are a fraud. A woman of low class who by disreputable means came into an invitation to this ball with a fine dress to match. Am I incorrect in this assumption?”
“Why, no. No, my lord. I am indeed a lady.”
You are trembling from the realization he may find out YOU ARE NO LADY!
“Prove it then, my dear. See over there on that desk? Drawing paper and tools with which to write. A proper lady has been trained from a young age to create pleasing works of art. Let us see you make a fine drawing of a family on a picnic!”
“My lord, this is a most absurd request. I will do no such …”
“Do it, or I will expose you as a pretender and see you whisked away from this castle!”
You only pause for a moment before you take your seat at the desk and begin to illustrate. Lord Cumbergrantham stands over your shoulder and elicits quiet sounds of disgust as your hand drafts the crudest of images. When you are finished, a stick-figure family stands on flat ground adjacent to a horrendous tree with a not-quite-round sun hanging overhead.
“My god …” he mutters to himself as he slowly turns away.
“I am a lady!” you shout as you stand. “I was never schooled in such things where I was raised.”
“No? Well, then, surely you must have learned how to bring forth beautiful music from an instrument. Many respectable ladies are required to be disciplined in some form of audible craft. Sit here, my dear. Let your fingers coax a melody from these keys if you can!”
You ease onto the bench with a pinched face and slide your fingers upon the keys.
“A proper lady always smiles, my dear.”
You look up at Lord Cumbergrantham and stare into his eyes as you pound on the instrument. BONK! BRAM! BONK-BRAM!
“Good heavens,” he vomits. “What on earth do you call that?”
“It is an original piece,” you declare without breaking eye contact. “I call it, ‘Men Talking.’”
“Oh, you are indeed no lady,” he accuses with disgust and contempt. “No lady at all. And to think, you almost had me. Almost became my bride through deceit and dishonesty. Me! The greatest prize a female of the species could ever dream to wed. Ah, but I exposed you, my dear. And now I will reveal your shenanigans to the host of this ball, and you will be cast out like the dirty peasant you are.”
And with that, Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham turns, trips on a rug, and smashes his forehead upon the corner of the desk as he falls to the floor.
“Oh, dear … oh, dear,” come the pitiful moans from his crumpled form.
And now you must ask yourself — WHAT WILL YOU DO NEXT?
Post a comment with your preferred course of action. After a week (or two), the votes will be tabulated and the most popular choice will act as a springboard for the next part of the story. Your choices are:
- Check to see if Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham is in need of a doctor.
- Gather your friends and flee the ball before you are all discovered to be the common folk you are.
- Go down to the kitchen to reconnect with nervous, awkward, sweet, lovely Peter Bogstench-Poorblighter from your past.
Good luck!
