Bad Austen (7 page)

G
LORIA
G
AY

A want of discretion propelled Mrs. Bennet to Netherfield Park through inclement weather. Mrs. Bennet surmised she would be ensconced at the Hall during the cold she would catch and Jane would visit, establishing an occasion for Jane to bring Mr. Bingley up to scratch. Mrs. Bennet took not even her Abigail with her, for she was certain her married status protected her from bad taste and even worse manners.

It was a locally acknowledged truth that there were few bachelors in the vicinity and even fewer eligible ones. But a maiden such as the beauteous Jane, who had a maternal parent such as Mrs. Bennet, had a definite advantage, for Mrs. Bennet had a tendency to count the chickens before the hen had even glanced at the rooster.

Mr. Darcy had made it apparent at the Netherfield Ball that no access to his friend, Mr. Bingley, and his fortune was forthcoming. This was to Mrs. Bennet the opening volley in a battle of wits, which she had no intention of losing, no matter that her nerves were, as usual, in poor condition.

The door was opened by Mr. Darcy, of whom Mrs. Bennet had heard ill reports. A shiver of apprehension ran through her with such dizzying force she swooned toward him, and had not Mr. Darcy, who had in his hand a volume he had been of late perusing, stopped her fall, she would have toppled him to the floor.

“Madam,” said Mr. Darcy coldly, “comport yourself.”

“I have been accosted by inclement weather on my way to Netherfield to call on Mr. Bingley and caught cold,” said Mrs. Bennet as she fell on a nearby couch in a studied pose.

“Mr. Bingley is from home,” said Mr. Darcy, his voice dripping icicles, which was rather upsetting to Mrs. Bennet, especially since, as she was prone on the couch, Mr. Darcy was forced to look down on her even more than he had looked down at her at the assembly ball.

“I am unable to return by the same way,” said Mrs. Bennet, sneezing loudly. “I must apply to Miss Bingley to attend to me. Please fetch her, Mr. Darcy.”

Miss Bingley had for some time held a pose in a tableau of her own design in the library, but Mr. Darcy had not come by to enjoy it, so she had gone about the house looking for him. Then Miss Bingley heard the commotion in the front hall and headed quickly toward it. She shook her head in disgust.

“What is this, an invasion of Barrets, Mr. Darcy?”

Miss Bingley was dressed in a shade of green as unbecoming as her complexion, which was of a puce tint that spread throughout her face, even under her abnormally small ears.

“Miss Bingley,” said Mrs. Bennet, “I must appeal to you. Having been caught in the rain, I am unable to leave for at least a fortnight, while I allow you good people to nurse me through la grippe.”

“Mama!” Lizzy had just been allowed in by the butler of Netherfield Hall and stood aghast as she gazed at her mother, prone on the couch.

“Lizzy! What are you doing here, child? It is Jane I told the maid to send to me. You are not needed here.”

“Mr. Darcy!” Lizzy glanced at Mr. Darcy in alarm.

Mr. Darcy noticed that Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s complexion had altered to a vivid red, which was not altogether to his disgust.

He remembered that at the Netherfield Ball the night before he had disdained dancing with her, so he hurried to make amends.

“I would as soon allow you the privilege of dancing with me than not, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy assured her.

“I would as soon you didn’t than did, Mr. Darcy,” said Lizzy firmly. “I overheard you tell Mr. Bingley that my sister’s prospects and even less pedigree would be demeaning to him,” she added.

“I was merely stating the obvious,” said Mr. Darcy, instantly regretting his words as he perused her reaction to them. Mr. Darcy tried to remove Miss Bingley’s long fingers from his arm as he spoke. “I was certain my treatment of Wickham was what most upset you, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I cannot easily forget that either, Mr. Darcy,” said Lizzy.

“Miss Elizabeth, Wickham’s primary concern in life is the improvement of his bank account, which he would attain by marriage.”

“Perchance you would wed me yourself, Mr. Darcy?” asked Lizzy. “Well, this is what I say to that: I would rather kiss a frog and marry it than walk down the aisle with you!”

“Do you mean to say, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy, quite dazed, “that you have considered marriage to me?”

C
hristmas at
P
emberley

D
IANA
L. G
RANGER

The Darcys greeted the Bennets dutifully as they arrived to spend Christmas at Pemberley. Not to extend familial hospitality would show a want of breeding.

Mrs. Bennet clasped Elizabeth in a fond embrace. “Darling Lizzie, how good to see you and how fine you look.” She continued on, barely acknowledging Mr. Darcy, the source of that felicitous fortune.

Following in the wake of Mrs. Bennet were Mr. Bennet and daughter Mary. Mary lacked the charms so admired by the young bucks of society. Alas, even Mrs. Bennet was reconciled to this daughter remaining a spinster.

Mary retired to her chamber after learning that tea would be served at four. Later there would be Christmas eve services in the private family chapel.

After freshening up, Mary sought out the famous Pemberley library. She entered the spacious book-lined room. As she stood there, awestruck, a young man asked politely, “May I help you, miss?”

“A muse has surely directed my steps hither to this repository of wisdom. I’m Mary Bennet, sister of Mrs. Darcy,” Mary announced. “I’m here for Christmas.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet. I’m Raymond Atherton, and I’m cataloguing the Pemberley library. I would be most gratified to show you its marvels,” the young bespectacled man said brightly. Compared with the patrician good looks of Mr. Darcy, Raymond Atherton seemed unremarkable. His nose was too pointed and his legs too thin. When he spoke, his Adam’s apple coursed up and down his neck; however, he had the kindest smile Mary had ever seen.

“To misquote Shakespeare,” Mary intoned, “knowing you loved his books, he furnished you from his own library with volumes—”

“—that I prize above his kingdom.” Mr. Atherton completed the altered phrase from
The Tempest
and laughed appreciatively.

Mary had never felt as comfortable with any new acquaintance as with this affable young man who seemed so delighted with her companionship. Too soon the gong sounded, calling guests to tea.

“I fear I must defer the pleasure of discovering the treasures herein housed.” Disappointment infused her words.

“Likely, I’ll see you at services tonight. Father is rector here,” Mr. Atherton called out.

At tea, Mrs. Bennet ate happily of the delicacies before her and used the opportunity to decry the state of public transportation. Mary was unusually quiet, and Elizabeth wondered why.

Later the family processed to the Darcy chapel. The rector entered, accompanied by Raymond bearing the gilded Darcy Bible. Raymond beamed when he saw Mary, and she in return smiled radiantly back at him. Both mother and sister noted this exchange.

Early Christmas morning, Elizabeth wrote a missive to Mrs. Atherton to request their company at the Darcy table.

At breakfast Mr. Darcy assured Mrs. Bennet that the Athertons were persons of quality. “Young Raymond graduated from Cambridge and has excellent prospects. He loves our library, so for now he has the cataloguing responsibility.”

Dinner conversation was not about French politics, grouse shooting, or epicurean delights, but was rather a duel of doting mothers. Both matriarchs described paragons of virtue.

After dinner the two who were being extolled slipped away, roaming through the fabulous halls of Pemberley, ending up in the library. Mary addressed Raymond passionately, “I would love to aid you in your cataloguing.”

Raymond responded, “How transfixed with pleasure I would be with you copying beside me.”

“My handwriting is rather good,” Mary asserted. Raymond took her hand and kissed it. “Sweet hand that writes so well. I think in its palm I’ll find my destiny.”

So the Darcys now had two cataloguers scribbling away happily.

As the Bennets were leaving, Mrs. Bennet approached Mr. Darcy warmly. “Thank you for this Christmas. You have given me the best gift a mother can receive, a suitable matrimonial candidate for her spinster daughter!”

M
eekness and
M
isery; or,
T
he
S
ad
L
ove
A
ffair of
M
ary
B
ennet

D
IANE
K
ATHERINE
H
OSTERMAN

Mary Bennet gazed into the reflecting mirror; her thin, wispy hair had been tortured into a pile of wan curls on her head. The effect led her to one conclusion: Not only was she not a greek goddess, she was—as was whispered behind fans in various assemblies around the neighborhood—“not the equal in beauty to any of her sisters.” She had heard it all her life and had decided that a quickness of wit and other womanly accomplishments were her gifts and highly prized by society. At least that’s what she continued to tell herself every time she saw evidence to the contrary.