Posted on Friday, 22 September 2000

Oh, so you are there, are you? Wondering what possible quarrel the decidedly un-quarrelsome, extra-timid 'weenie', Edward Ferrars, could have with Mrs. Elton, that epitome of elegance (well, she doesn't say so, but her friends do). Look, does not the title indicate that this narrative will be a natural (oh, all right, highly contrived, and rendered quite dense by this tendency to parenthesize) unfolding of those events? Must I FUP you?

It began at an assembly of clergymen and their wives at the parsonage in Highbury, a social event really, but ostensibly formed to introduce a tract for the conduct of 'Married Ladies blessed in Marital Union with Highly Respected Clergymen' devised by Mrs. Augusta Elton herself, and envisaged as the first in a series of bi-monthly meetings of the sort. (She had given up the idea of a musical club - a mere local affair, my dear Selena! - for this loftier design.)

It really began at a not-so-gentle comment of Mrs. Elton's pertaining to the gown of Elinor Dashwood. 'My dear ! Did not your caro sposo tell you? There is to be a dinner after... and you really can't be thinking to grace... (and grace was a dubious descriptive word, according to Mrs. Elton's admirably dexterous facial expression)...grace my drawing room in that! I do not pretend to be an expert in the field of fashion but... really my dear.'

On Elinor's informing her of her calm resolution to do just that, as well as her ironic bemusement at her hostesses choice of an 'Autumn theme' centerpiece which proclaimed a passion for dead leaves, Mrs. Elton raised a sharper protest, more of an attack, really, against the dowdy wives of country parsons who made a pretense of being knowing & satirical but had no idea of proper decorum.

It really began when Edward joined the fray. Edward may be backward, but he felt all the insult to his wife with which the comment was loaded, and having only two passions, his happy existence as a country parson and his dearest Elinor, staked his honour to defend her to the death against all such scurrilous attacks. Then - on the stuttering pronouncement of the D-word - a mysterious stranger proposes a 'deathmatch', procures Edward's word of honour - and we know how highly he carries his notions of honour - so the rest, as they say, is history, a history, gentle reader, which I will now unfold for your amazement. We enter the scene at the point where the action is just beginning... so soak up the ambiance, dear reader, as we set the scene...

This unlikely Deathmatch had attracted crowds from far & wide, so Tortilla sales were booming (and clichés flowing like the proverbial water). The Darcy's and Bingleys, seasoned Deathmatch-goers, took their places beside the residents of the novels in question. Although many dismissed him as a weenie, Edward had himself quite a following. As well as Elinor's family, and his own closer but less congenial relations - who nevertheless wished to see him distinguished in the entertainment at hand (particularly Mrs. Ferrars) - he also had on his side all those who prefer a sympathetic character to an annoying anti-heroine. Besides the supporters from his own novel, many Highbury residents were also visibly backing Edward: ostentatiously sporting 'Ferrars is our fellar' jerseys. Mr. Knightley & Emma, while not making this concession to high fashion, compassionated him as someone sunk from what he was born to and currently in Reduced Circumstances. It was true that 'The Edward falls over show'(see previous fan fic) had been highly successful, but he had since been ripped off by his agent, one mercenary Mr. John Thorpe (the one from the NA movie), and he had not a farthing to show for it.

Many expected Mrs. Elton's frequently mentioned friends to put in an appearance, but they were no where to be seen: however, Mr. E. industriously circulated the report that Selena & Mr. Suckling were indeed expected in the barouche, any time now. Any time now.

To complete the set there was also a sprinkling of characters from the other novels - the Crawfords, for instance, who had been away in London & had only just caught on to this racy form of entertainment, and Mr. Yates, whose hair diverted some of the attention from Miss Bingley's latest burnt orange ensemble, and of which Frank Churchill was heard to say he had never seen anything so outré. (This remark was addressed to John Willoughby, fabulously attired in blue satin, with whom he was scandalously sharing a private box.)

Some may not consider this set complete due to the absence of a certain Colonel whose name I will not mention for fear of being mobbed - the very fear which kept him from the entertainment and stationed instead in some remote part of Mauritius. Doing their best to compensate for this sad omission his nearest relations, the Darcys, had in the meantime set up a chant to amuse themselves, as they were wont to do at these sorts of gatherings. Increased in rowdiness, they were now baying for blood, joined in the fearsome chorus by many other spectators.

But the audience were hushed and had their attention riveted to the ring when Mrs. Elton strutted into her corner, resplendent in leprechaun green. She wore a 'killing' ensemble in a look best described as 'sporty shepherdess'.

'Well, Mr. Ferrars,' she sneered exaggeratedly, (clearly in her element at the centre of the attention which she'd always craved - while Edward, in contrast, timidly edged into the ring, his hair much disheveled from the time he had spent pulling at it in the dressing room) 'It's obvious that the only person dowdier in Devonshire than your wife - and I could barely countenance her shocking lack of lace - is YOURSELF. You are awkward, your garments of a fit too small, and your hair is - most ungenteel . You are a disgrace to the profession MY caro sposo adorns!' Edward took a step back, and even her would-be detractors admitted she was in Capital ranting form.

In response to a poke from the sideline Edward was soon understood to say:

'My stuttering puts me at a disadvantage in all verbal sparring -I warn you I shall soon have to resort to physical violence if you continue to abuse me in this manner, madam...'

Augusta began to taunt him: 'Let's get physical! I cower in my fashionably sported nankin boots...hah! a man who can be beaten in hand to hand combat by a twelve year old girl! (Here, some of the crowd groaned at this 'low blow') InDEED!'

'That's Captain Margaret Dashwood to you,' interjected Margaret, who, bearing down on Augusta looked as though she would come to Edward's assistance with the cutlass that she wielded. Here the Referee (previously strangely silent) intervened, invoking the rules of the deathmatch: 'This is a one-on-one match. NO accomplices'. He glared at Margaret who ARRRed back at him. He started nervously, but regained his composure and his Colgate grin. "However some grave accusations have been flung here tonight, folks, and I expect to see a bloody fight to the DEATH,' He intoned dramatically (and this somewhat compensated for the absence of Stan and Dan at this impromptu, un-compered event.) Margaret resumed her seat, and it soon became apparent that in carrying the point of his honour Edward would need no assistance.

Edward Ferrars produced some cutlery (causing Fanny D. to whine that the Stanhill silver had always been a great deal handsomer than that belonging to Norland) and calmly proceeded to devour Augusta to the protestation of her Caro Sposo - and indeed herself. She screamed Bloody Murder, although it was difficult to ascertain that these were her exact words, and if they sounded more like a phrase which should never issue from the lips of a lady, or be addressed to a clergyman, our candour should put it down to the incomprehensibility of her Bristol accent.

In any case, Edward was undeterred and appeared resolute in finishing what he had begun. (Indeed he had no choice, as Elinor, on their wedding night had with wifely presence of mind extracted a promise from him that he would always finish his meals. She knew once she had engaged his honour to do so that he must & would at all costs. So, Edward determinedly chewed his way through muslin and lace).

A great silence descended on the crowd - never had such a spectacle been witnessed at a Deathmatch, although many attributed the silence to the fact that Edward had just polished off her vocal box, having been beaten to her mouth by one of Macbeth's witches, who swooped in, enthusing that they would do very well as Tartar's lips for some sort of stew dish she was going to boil up. 'You are mistaken! Do not you mean Cream of Tartar?!' cried Serle, whose culinary expertise was often endorsed by Mr. Woodhouse. (Due to his excessive hypochondria Mr. Woodhouse unfortunately had not been able to make the Deathmatch himself and had sent his compliments & pork to Mrs. Elton, as I forgot to mention before). But the enigmatic hag had vanished, leaving Henry Crawford to admire the theatricality of such an exit.

As the kerfuffle surrounding these distractions subsided, Edward was discovered to have finished his course. All that remained of Mrs. Elton was a preposterous bonnet. (It was, of course, that green one.) Edward turned away from the ghastly sight, and made his way back to Elinor, having vindicated his wife and her right to wear sackcloth to church soirees.

Some claimed that his actions were not doctrinally sound, but Col. Brandon showed no signs of disapproval, and the living of Delaford continued his, where all went on as ponderously as before until the next time a DWG Writer invoked Ms Austen's characters in a Death Match.