by Peter Archer
After everyone retired for the evening, Lizzie took me aside. “Georgiana,” she said, “I confess, I am troubled. I feel foolish speaking of this, but you know Pemberley much better than I. Is it possible—dare I ask—could Pemberley be haunted?”
I laughed despite myself. “It is possible, but I have never—why Lizzie! You are white as a sheet! What has happened?”
“Georgiana, it is awful! There is a terrible spectre! I have seen it three nights in a row, outside my rooms, wailing and howling! It says I must leave Pemberley at once!”
I frowned. “It speaks to you?”
She nodded. “I have said nothing to your brother; Fitz is such a skeptic. And yet I feel there is something truly wrong here. I am certain I am being watched, even when I am alone.”
I patted her hand. “I shall speak to Freddie of this, and we shall solve the mystery. Worry no more.”
As I climbed into bed, I told my husband of Lizzie’s fears. Despite his being fifteen years my senior, Freddie never dismissed me as frivolous, and so he concurred we must do what we could to help. We agreed to take turns listening in the night.
Much later, Freddie woke me. “A noise in the hall,” he whispered. I scurried to the door and eased it open. The corridor was dark.
We tiptoed slowly down the hall, and then I too heard a sound. As we rounded a corner, I gasped. “Miss Dinkley!”
“I heard a noise,” she said softly, “but now I cannot find my room again. You see, I’ve lost my glasses.”
There was another footfall, and Mr. Rodgers and Scoobert appeared. “What ho?” he asked. “I was looking for a midnight snack, and—”
“Hush!” I whispered. “Look!”
At the far end of the corridor, away from the shadows where we were concealed, a ghostly figure glided up to Lizzie’s door.
“Wooooooo!” it moaned. “Leeeeeeeeavvvve this hooooooouse! Woooooooo!”
“Yikes!” exclaimed Rodgers. Miss Dinkley squinted toward the sound, and Freddie and I ran down the hall at the gauzy gray spectre. Suddenly, Scoobert raced in front of me, and I tripped over his paws, toppling straight into the apparition!
Which let out a feminine squeal and some very bad words.
I reached up and pulled the filmy veil from the ghost’s head and was all astonishment.
“Caroline Bingley!” exclaimed Miss Dinkley, Mr. Rodgers, and Freddie.
“Yes,” she spat. “It is I who should be mistress of Pemberley! And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling—”
“What is the meaning of this?” my brother roared, appearing behind us. I explained all to him and Lizzie, and to the Bingleys and Collinses as well, who had awakened at the commotion. Caroline was banished to her room by a very angry Lizzie.
Miss Dinkley handed me a treat, which I passed to Scoobert. “After all,” I exclaimed, “he helped us unmask the poltergeist of Pemberley!”
Pride and Prejudice: The First Draft
GLORIA GAY
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?”
Christmas at Pemberley
DIANA L. GRANGER
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.
DID YOU KNOW?
In 1790, when Jane was just fourteen, she dedicated an ambitious burlesque of a certain type of popular writing, the so-called sentimental novel, to her cousin Eliza. Jane called it a novel, but it is little more than story length, consisting of a series of letters in which fifty-five-year-old Laura tells the story of her life to Marianne, the young daughter of a friend, purportedly as an admonitory tale. Love and Freindship (yes, Jane spelled it that way) is absolutely hilarious, and Austen fans who have read only her novels have another great (if quite short) treat awaiting them.
Austen’s early writing is very much focused on mocking the contemporary vogue for what she saw as absurdly unrealistic literature. She had an easy target in the sentimental novel, in which extreme emotional responses—both on the part of the characters and, presumably, the readers—were relentlessly manifested. Rational thought is very little in evidence and, indeed, is disdained. Austen also takes spirited delight in writing humorously about violence and the grossly immoral and illegal behavior of the characters.
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!”
Meekness and Misery; or, The Sad Love Affair of Mary Bennet
DIANE KATHERINE HOSTERMAN
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.
With Lizzy’s unfathomable declination of Mr. Collins’s proposal, Mary finally saw her chance to capture his attention. tonight she would delight Mr. Collins with several turns at the piano and flatter him by asking him to read aloud for the benefit of her mind. She didn’t feel her mind needed much more cultivation, but a man as learned as Mr. Collins would appreciate a woman listening intently and whose mind was focused more on the improvement of manners in a civilized society instead of the latest fashion in bonnets.
Mary considered the satisfaction she would feel when she married first; when she was finally treated as the heroine she was; when she—plain, insignificant, overlooked Mary Bennet—saved Longbourn from being entailed away. oh, she could see the envious and grateful looks of her sisters as she marched down the aisle, on her way to becoming Mrs. Collins. How they would fawn over her for saving them from destitution. How her mother would dote over her. Then she would become her mother’s favorite instead of that vapid Lydia.
She rose from her dressing table and picked up a half-finished floral pillow cover to use as a substitute bouquet. With her head held high, her bedroom became a church; the window seat, a pew. There was Jane, beautiful, ethereal Jane. The look of gratitude on her sister’s face made up for all the dances Jane was asked for that Mary was not. She acknowledged her sister with a nod of her head. And there, sitting next to Jane was elizabeth. Yes, that’s right, Elizabeth. You turned him down; now watch me marry the only man who will ever propose to you.
Elizabeth was looking down, holding her handkerchief to her eyes. Was she crying? Or was she laughing? Poor Lizzy, this could have been her wedding day and now she regretted her decision. Madness would be her lifelong companion. Mary pitied her and glanced at her with worry.
In Kitty’s eyes she saw … boredom? Poor kitty, her attention had never been captured by anything for long. She smiled condescendingly at her. Lydia looked at her mischievously; perhaps she was imagining her future walk down the aisle. Mary smiled at her simple sister; after all, she wasn’t a horrid person, just flighty. She could hear her mother weeping with joy.
Mary’s reverie was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. She threw the embroidery back to its workspace as the maid announced supper. Her heart quickened at the thought of the proximity she would soon have to her beloved Mr. Collins, but she managed a dignified walk down the stairs to her appointed seat at the table. She sat down with an interior excitement that no one at the table suspected—then with horror noticed that her Mr. Collins was not there.
The tenseness at the table was disturbed by Mrs. Bennet’s occasional exclamations of “Charlotte Lucas! Charlotte Lucas!” Mr. Bennet did not even try to calm or comfort her. Mary was confounded by her mother’s behavior until Kitty whispered to her that Mr. Collins had become engaged to Charlotte Lucas that afternoon and was dining at Lucas Lodge that evening.
Alas, she did not whisper softly enough, and that set Mrs. Bennet off on another round of exclamations and up to her room with a headache. Mr. B
ennet continued to enjoy his dinner, and his daughters managed to uphold a pleasant, if not exactly lively, conversation.
Mary was lost in the indignity of it all. How could they just go on? Did they not know she had just lost the love of her life? The outrage! The stunning outrage! Just a few moments ago, she was on her way to being the savior of her sisters, and now she was back to being ignored; certainly no one at the supper table had noticed her agitation. No one at the supper table noticed her at all.
John & Rebeccah: A Tale of Love Midst the Stars
CHERYL ANGST
It should be noted that John Thompson, formerly a lecturer of distinction and more recently a captain in the fleet, being a widower these many years and having become exceedingly set in his solitary ways, placed little stock in the attentions of the fairer sex. Thus, it came as quite a shock to his disposition to discover not one, but two women vying for his affections—however atrophied and unpractised those affections might now be.
Miss Rebeccah Santiago, whose skill with the written word made angelic melodies of the driest ration cutlery reports, possessed the most remarkable green eyes, and Mr. Thompson experienced the stirrings of emotions long buried whenever she turned her sparkling orbs on him. And, to his great surprise, she seemed to regard his slate ones with similar interest.
Miss Miller, the other young woman pursuing the esteemed captain, while demonstrating many outward signs of being well-bred and a desirable helpmeet for any man fortunate enough to attract her eye, was, in fact, mean in both thought and action, regarding her fellow officers as trappings to be used and discarded as necessary. And from Miss Miller’s perspective, Mr. Thompson represented the Sunday-best bonnet in the wardrobe of her life.
Despite Miss Miller’s brash attempts to entice the captain, Mr. Thompson’s burgeoning feelings of warmth and desire were firmly directed at Miss Rebeccah. However, Miss Rebeccah had yet to discern Mr. Thompson’s mind in the matter of his heart, and she fretted, although, as the second in command, she would deny such actions most vehemently and conspired to determine the true nature of Mr. Thompson’s regard once and for all.