Pride and Premeditation

by Steffanie Holmes

  Beside me, Heathcliff groaned. I elbowed him. “Let’s do a shot every time someone makes an obscure reference,” I whispered.

  “What, and keel over before lunchtime?” he snorted. “At least let me survive until I can pick these stockings out from my arse—”

  “Shhhh!” Lydia hissed.

  Cynthia continued. “… perhaps she even penned a few pages under this very roof. My staff and I have done everything we can to recreate a magical Regency event, complete with lectures on every aspect of Jane Austen’s world, craft workshops, a costume promenade, and of course, tomorrow night’s ball.”

  At the mention of the ball, the audience clapped. Heathcliff whispered in my ear. “We could drink every time people clap for things that aren’t worth clapping over.”

  “At this rate, we’ll be sloshed before the end of the lecture.”

  The clapping died away, and Cynthia swept her arms in a dramatic arc toward the side of the stage. “It is my pleasure to open our proceedings by inviting our honored guest to present his award-winning lecture on sex and sensuality in Austen. Please welcome to the stage Professor Julius Hathaway.”

  Lively piano music played from a band in the corner as the man I’d noticed earlier strode his way confidently on stage, escorted on one arm by David’s blonde love interest. And no wonder he could not be swayed by Lydia’s ample breasts. From the front, I could see how pretty the woman was. She had a figure made for empire-waist dresses. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an arrangement of becoming curls, and a hint of blush lipstick colored her bow-shaped lips.

  She shared the same facial structure and hair color as Professor Hathaway, who had a full head of straw-blond hair and sparkling, intelligent eye. Daughter? Niece? Weird coincidence?

  Professor Carmichael’s words ran through my head as I watched the famous historian take the stage. The professor seemed to grow in height as the applause rolled over him. By the time he reached the podium, he wore a smile so smug he could have given Morrie a run for his money.

  “Thank you,” he beamed out at the crowd. He had one of those posh Oxbridge voices, because of course he did. He ran a hand through his blond hair and shuffled his notes, and for a moment I saw why he had the power to seduce young women. Intelligence combined with haughty arrogance and a gravelly voice turned a certain kind of woman (i.e., me) to mush. It was why I kept finding myself in Morrie’s bed, even though all evidence suggested he was a bit of an emotionally-unavailable wanker. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to be here, but really the pleasure is all yours.”

  Women in the crowd tittered. Because of course they did. Heathcliff pretended to hang himself, and I stifled a laugh as a woman two rows over shot us a filthy look.

  Professor Hathaway launched into a lewd and hilarious lecture, which mostly consisted of taking dialogue from the books out of context and making suggestive remarks about the size of Jane Austen’s breasts. His delivery was such a triumph of wit and charisma that I doubted anyone in the room noticed just how little actual scholarship he expounded.

  All except one. After Professor Hathaway mentioned her name for the umpteenth time, Lydia leaned toward me. “Who does this gentleman think he is?” she whispered. “Why does he keep talking about me as though I’m some kind of rabid dog?”

  “He’s a renowned historian and Austen scholar. He believes he knows more about your habits than you do. He even wrote a book about you.”

  “But that’s preposterous, otherwise he wouldn’t have called me ‘a caterwauling strumpet’.” Lydia shrieked. “I resent it. I have a mild and agreeable voice! I have a mind to stand up right now and give him a piece of my mind.”

  Now more heads were turning to frown at us.

  Morrie threw out his hand. “You do that, and you risk exposing us all. Remember, no one can know you’re the real Lydia Bennet. Now sit back, and stay silent. Or we’ll sick Professor Hathaway on you. I heard he has quite the reputation as a lover of young women.”

  “Really?” Lydia eyed the professor with interest, her previous outrage forgotten. “He is awfully rich.”

  “Morrie, don’t even kid about that,” I snapped. “If what’s been said about that man is true, he’s abusing his power and may be sexually harassing young women. That’s not funny.”

  “What is funny is how a man that old even gets stiff enough to do everything he’s accused of,” Morrie mused, his voice a little louder than I thought wise.

  “He’s not that old. Only in his fifties—”

  “Yes he is,” Morrie huffed. “He looks like he’d be just the right age for Jane Austen herself, and she’s dead.”

  “I’ve heard it on good authority he’s a fan of little blue pills,” an unfamiliar voice cut in.

  I turned to meet the piercing eyes of the Korean woman. Up close, I could see she had one of those faces with the startling symmetry and intense cheekbones that made men stop in their tracks. She clutched her phone in her hand, and the dictaphone continued to record. The pages of her open notebook were already filled with scribbles. Around her neck was her lanyard and a camera I recognized as the same model my friend Ashley used to shoot her social media selfies.

  I snorted. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “I can’t believe I have to sit here and listen to this waste of oxygen speak.” She flipped her lanyard around to show me her press credentials. Alice Yo – she was with the Custodian, an online news site famous for award-winning journalism. They’d once done an exposé into transgender models that had nearly derailed Paris Fashion Week.

  I stretched out my leg and lifted the hem of my skirt to show her my boots. “It’s not exactly my usual scene, either.” I grinned. “I’m far more comfortable in boots than bonnets. Want a sandwich?”

  I held out my purse. Alice shook her head, smiling as she showed me the pocket of her jacket, also lined with napkins and filled with a variety of food items.

  “At least the food is decent.” Alice rolled her eyes. “A good thing too, because my flat fridge is completely empty. Maybe that could be my headline – LET JANEITES EAT CAKE. My boss didn’t even have an angle for this story. He basically wants me to write a piece about these sad spinsters and virgin LARPers. I’ve been in war zones and covered international politics, but I had to take it because I need the work. That’s what happens when you’re a woman in my business. You get given the fluff stories.”

  “Are you sure it’s just because none of the male journalists know how to tie a cravat?”

  We both giggled. I liked this reporter already. From the stage, the professor shot us a filthy look, but continued to drone on.

  “My name’s Mina Wilde. I work at Nevermore Bookshop, in the village. Although I used to work in fashion, so I know a little about industry-sanctioned misogyny.”

  “I recognize your name. You’re on my table for the ball. My editor got me these expensive VIP tickets. An all-access pass, he told me. ‘It’s going to be like Woodstock, except with bonnets. You’ll love it, Alice’.” She mimicked his voice. Then she leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “He’s expecting a fluffy story about how endearingly colonial this weekend is, but I’ve got a real story for him instead.”

  “Oh, intrigue.”

  “I can’t say anything now, but there’s a scandal brewing among the Janeites, and I intend to bring it to light.”

  A woman in the row in front of Alice, sporting a rather magnificent bonnet resplendent with fabric flowers turned in her seat to shush us. Alice turned back to the front. I straightened my back and tried to pay attention to Professor Hathaway.

  “… and when Captain Wentworth lays hands on Anne Elliot for the first time following their estrangement, it’s with an act of authority that leaves her perfectly speechless and of the most disordered feelings. The man in charge left any Regency woman hot under the bodice—”

  CRASH.

  The ballroom door burst open. I jumped in my seat as a rotund man sporting an impressive goatee and a floor-leng
th black leather trench coat thundered up the aisle, followed by three women in gothic-style black dresses and corsets.

  “In the words of one of the greatest writers in the English language, Jane Austen was nothing but an accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face,” he sneered.

  Professor Hathaway’s expression remained even, but anger flashed in his eyes. “What are you doing here, Gerald? This event is for Janeites only.”

  “Not so. This event is for anyone who has a ticket.” Gerald held up his lanyard with glee. “And since I am in possession of such a ticket, the Argleton branch of the Brontë Society will enjoy the weekend as we wish.”

  The man on stage bristled. “Very well. Take a seat, for I wish to continue my lecture.”

  Gerald held up a finger. “Not so fast. We should like to correct you on one or two salient points. Namely, that your Mr. Darcy is in any way a romantic hero and a sexual being.”

  “Lord Fitzwilliam Darcy was the greatest romantic hero of all time.” Mrs. Maitland stood up, her face red with anger.

  “Darcy was a shit!” yelled a girl wearing black fishnet top over a PVC bra. “He’s an uptight, bullish snob who gets off on manipulating people, and he needs to check his privilege!”

  “He was also a monumental bore at parties,” added another girl in a black-and-white striped Beetlejuice dress of which I was deeply envious. “At least you know Heathcliff would be spiking the punch and in reckless skullduggery.”

  Heathcliff leaned forward. “Now I’m interested,” he whispered.

  “Just so you know, I’d choose you over Darcy any day,” I whispered back. “And not just because this dress is ridiculously impractical for running about the moors.”

  “As much as I admire your enthusiasm, Gerald, and as much as there are those among us who may secretly feel Emily Brontë to be the superior writer, Heathcliff was never meant to be held up as an example of a romantic hero,” Professor Carmichael said from the front of the room. “Wuthering Heights is a story of toxic obsession and bitter revenge, and of the next generation washing away the sins of the past—”

  “All Heathcliff was good for was headbutting trees and snogging skeletons,” Professor Hathaway sneered, rudely cutting off his colleague. “If you like your sexual partners twisted by jealousy and made ugly by their desire for revenge, Hannah, well, then, I can see why you chose Gerald.”

  Gerald’s face blazed. He wrenched himself from Hannah’s grip and stormed toward the stage, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The crowd surged as it became apparent a fight was about to break out. David leaped to his feet and rushed toward the stage. Two of Lydia’s graduate student admirers moved in front of the steps that accessed the stage. Gerald whirled on his heels.

  “Come down here and say that to my face, old man.” Gerald’s words dripped with menace.

  “Go home, Gerald,” Hathaway said. “I can smell the alcohol on your breath. This is not the forum to stir up dissent about our beloved Mr. Darcy.”

  “Yeah!” A Janeite in the middle of the room stood up. “Darcy is a thoroughly decent man underneath his pompous exterior, far more worthy of admiration than that vicious, dog-murdering sociopath—”

  “Ouch,” Heathcliff muttered.

  “Decent?” Hannah scoffed. “If decent gets you off, lady, then why are you all here fawning over that man?” She jabbed an accusatory finger at Professor Hathaway. “Nothing he does with graduate students could be described as decent—”

  “Careful,” warned Hathaway. “That’s an accusation against my good character that could ruin my career. If I were a less congenial man, I might consider legal repercussions for this baseless accusation—”

  “It’s hardly baseless!” Carmichael yelled. “You’ll soon find out just how little tolerance the world has for your behavior.”

  “Are you threatening me, Professor?” Hathaway’s voice sounded amused. “If this is revenge because I rejected your sexual advances, then it’s very petty, rather like Gerald’s hero Heathcliff.”

  “I resent that,” Heathcliff muttered.

  “That never happened!” Carmichael roared. “You’re lying, just like you’ve been lying to your daughter! But we’ll get you.”

  In front of me, Alice stiffened. I wondered if Carmichael’s comment had something to do with what they’d been discussing earlier. Hathaway must be the subject of Alice’s article.

  “Bring on your legal repercussions, old man!” Gerald yelled back. “I’m not afraid of you and your horde of Austen sycophants!”

  “That’s enough!” Cynthia yelled. “Gentleman, ladies, please be civilized. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to block the aisle in this fashion, as it’s a fire hazard. I see some empty seats near the back. If you and your entourage would but take a seat and be silent, we can continue with the proceedings. You’ll have plenty of time to debate the questionable merits of Heathcliff outside of the plenary sessions.”

  Gerald cast his gaze between Hathaway and Cynthia, and to the blonde girl – Hathaway’s aforementioned daughter, I guessed – cowering in David’s arms. His shoulders sagged. “Very well. But I’m watching you and your wandering hands, old man.”

  As the group slid into the seats opposite us, I noticed Alice frantically scribbling. I leaned over her chair and tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you know what just happened?” I asked Alice.

  “I should think you’d recognize Gerald Bromley,” she replied. “He’s a bit of a local character. He’s president of the local Brontë Society. Those gothic beauties are his executive committee and they hang off every word he says. Apparently, he used to be one of Hathaway’s graduate students, before they had some kind of falling out and Gerald was dismissed from his graduate program. He works locally as a consultant for English Heritage properties and grand estates, helping them run events and tours with historical accuracy. Cynthia offered him a handsome sum to be on the committee for this event, but when he heard Hathaway was the guest of honor, he threw a big stink and quit.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  She shrugged. “Janeites and Brontians have a famous rivalry, but I suspect it’s personal. Gerald’s probably here just to rattle Professor Hathaway.”

  If that was Gerald’s intention, he succeeded. Hathaway stumbled through the rest of his speech without his previous joy de vivre. On two occasions, David even had to point to his place in his notes.

  The audience remained subdued after Gerald’s outburst, not clapping and laughing at every Austen reference. Gerald and his three gothic maidens whispered amongst themselves throughout the lecture, passing around a hip flash between them.

  I didn’t speak to Alice for the rest of the lecture and lost her in the crowd when it was over. I hoped we’d see her again – she seemed like my kind of person.

  After the plenary, we had a choice of lectures on various aspects of Austen’s world or a fencing demonstration on the back lawn. I had no intention of going outside in the freezing weather, but Cynthia swept past us on the stairs and informed me that as VIPs we were welcome to watch from the covered balcony in her first-floor office. Eager to explore more of the house and watch men swing swords around, I dragged Heathcliff after her. Morrie and Lydia followed us, leading a trail of Lydia’s admirers.

  A roof over the balcony kept out the worst of the snow. I gravitated toward the large brazier at one end, where a man in period costume handed out small cups of hot chocolate. I collected two for myself and leaned over the side to view the fencers below while listening to the commentary on Regency fencing techniques. In the open courtyard below us, Lydia’s friend David parried with another gent in period attire. He deflected a thrust and lunged at his opponent, touching the point of his sword to the man’s heart. They bowed to each other and resumed another match.

  After several more rounds, it was clear the mousy graduate student was no amateur with a blade. Again and again he deprived his opponent of his weapon, and twice knocked him on his arse. He didn’t utter a
word of mockery, and even apologized and disqualified himself from a win for an imagined infraction. What a gentleman. He’d be swoon-worthy if he didn’t study coins for a living.

  After twenty minutes of fighting, David removed his fencing mask to take a drink of water. Hathaway’s blonde daughter rushed over to him, offering him an embroidered handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “What do you think of the fighting?” Heathcliff asked.

  “It’s exciting, but rather vicious,” I remarked.

  “Please,” Morrie quipped. “I could take them all down with my middle finger.”

  “You fence, do you?” I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Please. I was champion of my college at Oxford. Although, I did always prefer dueling with a cane. It makes a satisfying sound when it splits a man’s skull.”

  Beside him, Lydia shivered with delight. “Lord Moriarty, you say such wicked things!”

  “What about you?” I asked Heathcliff. “You’ve got a sword hanging off your belt. Do you know how to use it?”

  “I’m not schooled in that fancy sort of fencing with flimsy foils,” he muttered. “But I’ve slit a man open with a blade, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I shivered. Unlike Lydia, it wasn’t from delight. “When did you do that?”

  “There were blades enough lying around in the North, and I’m an angry man who picked a lot of fights,” he replied. “I’m not proud of it, but you must never forget that I am Heathcliff. What did that woman call me just before – a vicious, dog-murdering sociopath.”

  “I know that’s not who you are.”

  Heathcliff turned his head away. I placed my hand on his, and he shrugged it off. I hadn’t realized that this weekend might be difficult for him in this way – being confronted with the legacy of the actions he took inside the pages of a book.