Horatio Nicklebottom was so screwed. This should have been his moment. His golden opportunity. His time to shine.
But instead, the only thing golden about him was his jaundiced eyes.
The result of eating too many pumpkin pies, said the doctor. Just temporary.
Horatio had indulged copiously in such holiday delights before and had never changed color. Why him? Why now?! Untimely, that’s what it was! As well as the ruination of his current scheme to win Lady Charlotte’s affections. To be her sole support during the funeral. As it was, they had seated him in the back rather than next to cousin Charlotte. As though he were some kind of plague carrier!
He watched with a heart full of spite as the elegant Sir Moreover (oh yes, him with his smooth ivory skin and the long dark silky hair that all the ladies liked, the nasty bugger) put a comforting arm around the grieving heiress, as the tiny casket containing the corpse of her pet lizard "Spiceboy" was lowered into the cold embrace of the grave.
(Shortly after the services, a stout irate man was spotted out on the range shooting pumpkin after pumpkin, such gourds having [most bizarrely] long black wigs attached. Folk passing by, startled by such eccentric behavior, talked of calling the constable. But when it was discerned that the shootist was one Horatio Nicklebottom of noble birth, people simply nodded and moved on; though one or two [I am sorry to report] may have curled their lips and murmured “Nutter!”)