‘We are going somewhere?’
‘If it pleases you, I should like you to meet my sister, Georgiana.’
‘I should be delighted to!’ Elizabeth replied. ‘Are we to travel to meet her at finishing school?’
‘Why, she is not at finishing school, she is here, at Pemberley,’ Mr Darcy declared.
‘She has just returned?’
‘No, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy smiled. ‘She resides here.’
‘Oh!’ Elizabeth was taken by surprise. She had seen no evidence of the presence of any other persons at Pemberley, excepting the servants.
‘I keep her locked in a closet for most of the time,’ Mr Darcy explained. ‘Oh God, no, not like that …’ he hastily added, seeing the look of horror upon Elizabeth’s face. ‘No, Georgiana is a delicate little thing, too delicate for society. She is a true innocent, sweet-tempered and gentle. I lock her up to keep her safe. She is so precious to me, and I could not bear anything to happen to her.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘I confess, I can hardly wait to meet her.’
‘Then wait for me in the drawing room,’ Mr Darcy replied. ‘I shall go and fetch her at once.’
Elizabeth did not have to linger long. She heard footsteps thudding down the hall and a shriek of excitement, then Georgiana bowled into the room, her long dark hair flying behind her and her striking face lit up with a dazzling smile.
‘Lizzy!’ she exclaimed, running over to Elizabeth most indecorously and grasping her in her surprisingly strong arms. ‘Fitzwilliam has told me so much about you!’
She was a tall, handsome creature, with dark eyes and strong features very much like her brother’s.
‘Lor, I’m desperate for a cigarette,’ Georgiana cried, flinging herself down onto the chaise longue beside Elizabeth. ‘I don’t suppose you have one?’
Elizabeth was on the point of demurring, when Mr Darcy strode into the room.
‘Now, Georgiana, do not overexcite yourself!’ he cautioned. ‘You do not want to have one of your turns. She is a shy little thing,’ he explained to Elizabeth. ‘I call her my Little Mouse.’ He smiled indulgently at Georgiana.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Georgiana mumbled under her breath.
She turned to Elizabeth and surveyed her features. ‘She is quite lovely, brother,’ she exclaimed. ‘Fitzwilliam has never brought a young lady here before,’ she whispered into Elizabeth’s ear. ‘We were all convinced he was gay.’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Elizabeth’s Gaydar.
‘I don’t suppose you and Jane have a brother, Elizabeth?’ Georgiana asked, her dark eyes dancing, with tarty stilettos on. ‘Some tasty sibling that I could hook up with, so that our two families and Bingley’s will be involved in some sort of incestuous love triangle, or rather, love hexagon?’
‘No, sadly, it never works out in real life like that,’ sighed Elizabeth. ‘Only in bad novels.’
‘Oh well, worth a try,’ said Georgiana, tossing back her black locks. She eyed Mr Darcy, who had walked to the window to survey the gardens in order to give the ladies time to exchange intimacies. Seeing that he was out of earshot, she leant closer to Elizabeth.
‘Fitzwilliam tells me you know Mr Whackem,’ she whispered.
Elizabeth nodded.
‘Is he quite well?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘He is very well. He has joined the Meryton militia.’
‘How I miss Jack Whackem.’ Georgiana leant back against the couch with a smile. ‘He is the most fascinating man.’
Elizabeth glanced over at Mr Darcy, who was now toying with the curtain tie-back, thwacking it against his palm. ‘Your brother does not appear to share your affection.’
‘Oh, that’s on my account,’ Georgiana said carelessly. ‘Mr Whackem, you see, offered me a job at his publishing company, and Fitzwilliam could not bear the thought that I might want a life outside that bloody closet he keeps me in.’
So, Elizabeth was not the first young lady that Mr Whackem had approached regarding job opportunities? Despite herself, she could not help feeling affronted.
‘What manner of employment was he offering?’
‘Editorial assistant,’ Georgiana replied. ‘A bit of this and that. I would have started off making the tea, of course. But eventually, I would have learnt proofreading, and apparently there was a good chance of promotion after a year or so. I might have made editor.’
Elizabeth was deeply shocked. ‘You speak of work so casually! You must remember that it is not a suitable pastime for a young lady of your social standing.’
‘Oh, screw that!’ Georgina’s dark eyes flashed. She leant even further in towards Elizabeth. ‘Don’t you ever think that there might be more to life than playing the sodding piano and the occasional game of quoits?’
Elizabeth had to confess, she had oftimes thought the same. But no! It was a disgrace to even countenance it. A young lady’s place was in the parlour or the bedchamber. Whackem had clearly put wicked ideas into Georgiana’s head. No wonder Mr Darcy held him in such contempt.
‘What happened in the end?’ Elizabeth enquired in a low voice. ‘Did you accept the job?’
‘I made the mistake of leaving the contract on my bureau. Fitzwilliam found it and was furious. He forbade me to see Mr Whackem again, and bid me put all thoughts of going to New York one day and working on the Features desk at Marie Claire out of my head.’ She sighed, and her lovely mouth quirked downwards. How like Mr Darcy she looked!
‘It was for the best,’ Elizabeth counselled. ‘Your brother saved you from certain disgrace. To become a working girl …’ She gave an involuntary shudder. Georgiana still looked downcast, and Elizabeth took her hand.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked. ‘Will Fitzwilliam arrange a suitable match for you?’
Georgiana rolled her eyes. ‘Carrotslime Bingley wishes me to marry her brother,’ she declared. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘But he’s a bit dim, don’t you think? He was going to marry some other girl – some lower-class type, according to Carrotslime – so I thought I was safe. But Fitzwilliam told him to forget all about her and go travelling instead.’
‘Your brother encouraged Mr Bingley to leave Netherfield?’
‘Yes, he was not in favour of the match.’
Oh, poor Jane! This was too much to bear! Mr Darcy had been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister! What a bastard!
Just then, Mr Darcy happened to look away from the window, and turned his gaze in Elizabeth’s direction. He was looking at her with longing, his grey eyes like wire cutters, snipping away her layers of resistance. How could he do this?
‘Maybe what he said is true,’ her Subconscious cut in. ‘Maybe he has no real feelings.’ God, she could be a bitch sometimes.
There was no denying that whenever they had had occasion to speak of Jane, nothing in Mr Darcy’s demeanour or manner betrayed any feelings of remorse. Elizabeth struggled to keep her composure. She did not want Georgiana to sense anything amiss. With her brother, though, she knew it would be harder to dissemble.
‘Fifty shades?’ her Subconscious piped up. ‘Forty-nine of them seem to be “w**ker”.’
In retrospect, Elizabeth knew not how she was able to sit through a morning of conversation, and a tour of Georgiana’s closet, while her spirits were so dejected. She passed judgement on Georgiana’s latest gowns from London when requested to do so, marvelled at the sliding mechanism of the closet door, commented politely on the decorating potential of the six foot by four foot space. Yet, all the while, her thoughts were fixated upon Jane, and how Mr Darcy had so cruelly dashed her sister’s hopes. No motive could excuse his unjust and ungenerous actions. To divide a loving couple in such a manner was a torment for Mr Bingley, too; having seen him with Jane, and knowing his tender regard for her, Elizabeth could only guess at the extent of his misery and despair.
She could barely eat luncheon – despite Mr Darcy’s efforts to tempt her with a Pot Noodle �
�� and shortly afterwards excused herself and returned to her room, claiming that the excitement of meeting Georgiana had caused her to develop a headache. After barely a few minutes, Mr Darcy knocked upon the door with his sexy hands.
‘Elizabeth, are you ill?’ he asked, concern evident in his voice.
‘Pray, leave me alone,’ she exclaimed. ‘I do not wish to speak to you.’
‘Open this door, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy said huskily. His ire was now raised, and Elizabeth could picture his glowering countenance.
‘I shall not!’ Holy heck, she was defying Mr Darcy! He would no doubt want to put her over his knee for this.
‘Taylor?’ Mr Darcy called.
Taylor climbed out of Elizabeth’s laundry basket and, with an embarrassed glance in Elizabeth’s direction, made his way across to the door, unlocking it from the inside. ‘Just doing my job, Miss,’ he said apologetically.
Mr Darcy stood in the doorway, his arms braced against the doorjamb as if he had been ready to kick his way in. His face was a mask of passion. Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a familiar pull way down in her deepest, most secret parts.
In one stride – it was a small room – Mr Darcy was at her bedside, and had seized her prone form in his hunky arms. ‘If I wish to speak to you, you will speak, Miss Bennet,’ he breathed. ‘I am your Master, and you are my slave.’ His chiselled lips were quivering with emotion and desire. Waves of cheap body wash washed over Elizabeth, making her feel heady and slightly queasy.
‘I am not your slave. If you recall, I never signed your contract,’ retorted Elizabeth.
Mr Darcy’s grey eyes widened in surprise, then turned dark and stormy. His brow creased and his mouth twisted. It was clear he was having some internal struggle, fighting against some inner turmoil. All of a sudden, his beautiful mouth opened and let out a guttural, ear-splitting belch.
‘You’re not supposed to do that!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘You’re a romantic hero!’
Mr Darcy looked abashed. ‘My apologies,’ he said, ‘it must have been the pickled onions I had for lunch.’
Seeing the horrified look on Elizabeth’s face, he murmured, ‘Look, you were going to discover sooner or later.’ He gently traced the line of her jaw with one of his sexy index fingers. ‘I fart as well.’
‘No, no, no!’ cried Elizabeth, covering her ears with her hands. ‘Do not puncture my fantasy! You are not like other men!’
Mr Darcy looked apologetic. ‘Should I resume my glowering?’
‘Pray, do that.’
Mr Darcy resumed his glowering.
‘What is wrong, Elizabeth?’ he rasped. ‘I cannot bear to see you unhappy. You must always be honest and open with me, or I shall have to spank the living daylights out of you.’
Elizabeth’s jaw set firm. ‘You have wounded me deeply, although these past few weeks I did not know it.’
‘I do not comprehend you.’
‘Can you deny that it was you who came between Jane and Mr Bingley? Who condemned her for the inferiority of her connections, and convinced Mr Bingley that a match with someone so decidedly beneath his station in life would be nothing but disadvantageous?’
‘There is no denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, and indeed, I rejoice in my success.’
‘How so? Jane will never recover from this great disappointment, and as for Mr Bingley, if you think he will be happy with Georgiana, you are mistaken.’
‘Georgiana?’ Mr Darcy exclaimed. ‘What has she to do with it? She will never marry,’ he continued. ‘She has no interest in matters of the heart.’
‘Then why, why did you encourage Mr Bingley to quit Netherfield?’
Mr Darcy stood up abruptly, and began to pace about the room. ‘I believed, at the time, that my designs were for the benefit of all,’ he said stiffly. ‘Mr Bingley is a simple soul. You must have noticed he is not the brightest button in the sewing box.’
‘And how does this relate to Jane?’ asked Elizabeth indignantly.
‘I feared she would soon tire of his boundless puppy-like enthusiasm, his general ignorance of world affairs, and especially his catchphrase, “Laters, Baby”, which is frankly irritating beyond words.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘A fair point well made, Mr Darcy.’
‘It seemed inevitable that she should soon turn from him, and transfer her affections to someone less dim. I wished to save Mr Bingley before he had fallen too deeply in love, and I did so by convincing him that on a Hawaiian surfing holiday packed with hot young Spring Breakers, he might find someone with bigger breasts.’
‘But surely that was not your decision to make?’
‘I am rarely wrong about these things,’ Mr Darcy said ruefully. ‘My own first love came to an unhappy end …’
Elizabeth bristled. ‘You refer to Lady Catherine, I suppose?’
Mr Darcy’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘No … I am talking about the first recipient of my affections, when I was but a boy.’ He sighed. ‘Mrs Pickles.’
‘The bear that you so cruelly stole from Mr Whackem?’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘You had tender feelings for her? But Mr Whackem said you treated her cruelly, and whipped her daily!’
‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy smiled sadly. ‘I loved that bear with all my heart! It is true, we indulged in mutually pleasurable spanking sessions, but I would never have hurt her.’
‘She was Mr Whackem’s bear!’
‘Not so, she was mine, given to me by my father. Whackem stole Mrs Pickles from me. Whackem, as you know, is charming and erudite, and Mrs Pickles’s head was easily turned.’
Elizabeth shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.
‘I confess, I do not know what to think. This is all so confusing. All this stuff about Mrs Pickles wasn’t in either book.’
‘It is an awkward plot device indeed,’ Mr Darcy remarked sadly. ‘The readers will no doubt find it clunky. But it is my sincere hope that they will retain some sympathy for the author, who is clearly making an effort.’
He reached out and caressed Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘May I boff you now?’ he asked hopefully.
Elizabeth paused. He had driven asunder his own best friend and her dear sister. He had withheld the fact from her, and shown no remorse. He was arrogant, cold and lacking in any finer feelings.
She looked up into his freakin’ hot face and sighed. ‘Oh, go on, then.’
That night, Elizabeth dreamt of giant otters beating each other to death with hunks of cheese. Holy drug-induced psychosis! she thought as she shook herself awake. I must ask Mrs Jones not to put laudanum in my cocoa.
Sitting up, she wrapped her bedcover more closely about her naked body. The fire in her bedchamber had long gone out and the room was icy. And then she heard the music – a few lilting notes of a lovely yet melancholy air, echoing mournfully through the darkness.
As if drawn by some mysterious giant magnet, Elizabeth rose from the bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. Following the sound, she made her way through the dark corridors and deserted rooms of the house to find its source. At the drawing-room door she paused. Fitzwilliam Darcy was sitting alone on the floor, surrounded by toys. By his side was a hoop and a stick, scuff marks betraying their frequent use; a regiment of lead soldiers lay scattered alongside them. Cross-legged and naked, illuminated only by the light of a single candle, Mr Darcy was turning the handle of a brightly decorated music box, his expression as forlorn and as mournful as the music. In the soft light his beautiful, sculptured face had an otherworldly air, like a fallen angel, thought Elizabeth. Round and round the handle turned, while Mr Darcy remained utterly absorbed in the task – round, round and round again. He plays so beautifully, thought Elizabeth, mesmerized by the sight of his long fingers, those same fingers that had earlier probed her deepest nooks and crannies.
Just then, the jack-in-the-box popped up with a loud metallic clang. The noise appeared to startle Mr Darcy and he let out a wail of alarm.
Hot tears began to course down his beautiful face.
All Elizabeth’s compassionate instincts were awakened. Oh, poor Mr Darcy! He may have been a cold and haughty, unbearably arrogant sex pest, but, beneath all of that, he was just a frightened little boy.
‘That was a very sad melody.’ Elizabeth spoke gently, so as not to startle him. ‘How long have you been playing?’
Mr Darcy looked up, his grey eyes still glimmering with tears. ‘About half an hour,’ he replied softly. ‘I could not sleep.’
Instinctively, Elizabeth reached out a hand to touch his bare chest. Mr Darcy flinched and shrank back.
‘Ooooh, get off!’ he shrieked, flapping his hands wildly.
Elizabeth checked herself at once. Overwhelmed by the vision of his beautiful naked body, she had entirely forgotten Mr Darcy’s strict ‘no touching’ rule.
‘Does my touch bring back painful memories from your time at Beaton?’ she asked softly.
Mr Darcy appeared nonplussed. ‘No, it’s just your hands are freezing.’
Slowly, he began to turn the handle of the music box again. Silvery notes tinkled in the air.
‘Did your mother play?’ Elizabeth enquired. She recalled seeing a portrait hanging above the staircase of a handsome-looking, dark-haired woman seated at a pianoforte.
‘I never talk about my mother!’ Mr Darcy said savagely, with such force that Elizabeth was shaken.
‘Why?’ she enquired.
Mr Darcy’s jaw twitched, and his eyes grew cold as flint.
‘Don’t ask me that, Elizabeth,’ he growled. ‘Anything but that.’
Although he looked menacing – dangerous, even – when angry, Elizabeth knew she must persist. There was so much she wanted to know, so much that would explain why Fitzwilliam Darcy was such a fucked-up SOB.
‘She was a beauty therapist,’ Elizabeth ventured. ‘I know that much.’
Mr Darcy gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘A beauty therapist! That was not all she was.’
‘Why can’t you tell me more?’
Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody Page 13