Before the Wedding - Section II

    Rebekah

    The Beginning, Section II, Next Section

    Part 9

    Posted on Tuesday, 26 March 2002

    Mr. Bingley, his family, his guests and his servants scattered themselves, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, about the house, seeking costumes for their respective tableaux.

    Mrs. Hurst took Jane by the arm affectionately, and Miss Bingley hurried to her own rooms, after seeing Elizabeth settled in a dressing room on the attic staircase that currently functioned as a box room. It was home to a variety of household linens, out of season clothing, and an intriguing collection that Elizabeth could only surmise to be the fashion faux pas of the two sisters. Miss Bingley assured her, with a thin smile, that her maid would be sent to her attendance shortly, but Elizabeth politely declined, with assurances that she could manage quite well alone.

    For a few moments she stood in bewildered awe, surveying the extensive array of boxes and chests stacked around her. Opening some of them, she found bonnets and turbans, gowns and petticoats, stoles, fans, feathers and shoes - never before had she seen evidence of such extravagance.

    There was a quiet knock at the door, and opening it, she found Mr. Darcy standing before her.

    "Fitzwilliam! Should you not be changing?"

    He looked down at himself, defensively. He had removed his frockcoat, draped a dark blue cape around himself, and was carrying a flatcap, of a style that might pass for Renaissance.

    "Given your excellent understanding of my character, you cannot be suggesting that I wear tights." He shut the door behind him.

    "Do you need to find something sir? Perhaps I can assist you - I think this trunk holds gentlemen's clothing." She moved to the far side of a trunk, and opened it, revealing a repository brimming over with silk stockings, elegant nightgowns and assorted ladies' undergarments. She closed it firmly.

    Mr. Darcy retrieved a beautifully embroidered satin garter, which had dropped to the floor, and handed it to her. His attention, kindly directed away from the blushes of his companion, was caught and held by a rail of gowns, the shades of which varied around a single colour - gold, ochre, apricot, copper, peach - he shook his head pityingly.

    "In her endless quest for my approval, Miss Bingley is now clearing out her closets." He said, and explained to Elizabeth, the misunderstanding that Lady Catherine had brought to light that afternoon. "Bingley tells me that Caroline has been purposely wearing what she believed to be my preferred colour, for many years. Unfortunately for her, my Aunt has now informed her that the opposite is true - that I detest the colour."

    "I possess a gown, which in certain light, has a hint of orange in its hue - I must take care not to wear it in your company, unless of course, I wish to provoke you." laughed Elizabeth.

    "You would achieve no such effect, for my feelings for this colour, as for any other, are quite indifferent - I believe that a combination of shades can be pleasing, or not, but a single colour, in isolation, is incapable of rousing in me any such hatred."

    "So Lady Catherine was mistaken? You did not express such an opinion as a small boy?"

    Mr. Darcy regarded her in disbelief.

    "Had I known, at five years of age, that I was to be held accountable for every whim and folly which I presumed to entertain, I would have kept a journal with diligence, and striven to protect my future acquaintance from exciting my disapproval! I do not know if I made this declaration to my Aunt. I do, however, recollect many protracted visits to Rosings during my childhood, sitting, every long afternoon, as instructed, next to my Aunt, as she talked and talked and talked..."You will honour me with your attention, Fitzwilliam! You will look upon me when I address you!" she would demand with relentless regularity, thus ensnaring mind as well as body. And then, one fateful afternoon, the picture arrived."

    He rose and walked slowly to the window.

    "When I obeyed - when I looked at her - that afternoon, it was as if the world around had fallen away from me, and I was drawn, insurmountably, towards Lady Catherine and the Birds..."

    He fell silent, glassy eyed.

    "The Birds?" said Elizabeth, alarmed.

    "The birds in the picture behind her chair - you cannot have failed to notice them during your visit to Kent - some dead, some dying, all of them staring at me with savage, malevolent eyes..." seeing Elizabeth's concern, he shook off his emotion, "...perhaps she was wearing an orange gown on that fateful afternoon and my paltry childish rebellion only dared to challenge a colour, and not she who wore it! But it is of no matter - the fact remains, that Miss Bingley has purchased, and now discarded, a fortune in finery, and to no avail!"

    "Do not concern yourself - such is the fickle nature of fashion, those gowns would have been replaced soon enough even without your unwitting influence!" with gaiety Elizabeth contrived to conceal her thoughts - After such a childhood, it is little wonder he is now so reserved - I must, and shall, help him to break free from this emotional tyranny!

    "This should be sufficient for my cousin." He located another cape in the trunk next to Elizabeth's. With no further excuse to linger - behind a closed door in a remote part of the house with little possibility of interruption for (he estimated) at least five minutes - he reluctantly moved to depart. His cape detained him - it was caught on something, something that proved to be Elizabeth's hand. In her concern, she no longer desired him to leave, and giving up her modest refuge behind the trunk, she smilingly, playfully moved closer to him.

    "Before you leave, I think that we should discuss your conduct this evening, Mr. Darcy." She spoke in a low voice. "Looking at me in such a manner, and in company! I have been well accustomed to your staring at me - in fact, from the earliest days of our acquaintance, such has been your habit - but I must say, that recently, I have come to view this behaviour in an entirely new light, and must now admit to finding it strangely pleasing." She arranged his arms comfortably around herself, and smiled up at him.

    "As always, Miss Bennet, I am at your service." His hands softly expressed their agreement. "In fact, I might be prevailed upon to please you more often, if you will satisfy my curiosity on one trifling subject."

    "Of course."

    "Those pamphlets - were they illustrated or not?"

    "Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth broke away from him, startled, but then realised from the satisfaction of his countenance, that in fact, he was laughing at her.

    "Well! I see that, contrary to your own estimation, your temper is indeed yielding, and your feelings puff gaily about here and there, requiring no stimulus from me - you flit from revelations of childhood trauma, to embarrassment, to tenderness and then to impertinence with shocking rapidity!"

    Mr. Darcy sat down with a sigh and made himself comfortable.

    She continued. "Little did I comprehend your teasing nature, when I agreed to spend the rest of my days as your devoted companion."

    "Mm. Devoted." Mr. Darcy stroked his chin, considering the word, and appeared to be much pleased with it - but he recollected himself. "You forget that I am an elder brother, Elizabeth, and that elder brothers have a duty to strengthen the characters of their younger siblings through the daily ritual of teasing."

    "In that case, I can see why poor Georgiana is so timid! Did you begin, I wonder, when she was in the cradle and you were a young man of twelve or thirteen years? Or did you have the good grace to wait until she could speak? I warn you, I shall not be such an easy target!"

    The gentleman would have observed at this point that he was under no such illusion, but Elizabeth, suddenly losing all interest in verbal sparring, had decided to prove her point in actions rather than in words, and further speech for either was quite out of the question.

    A moment later, footsteps approached the door and someone knocked politely. Darcy reached out and quietly slid the latch into place, but in so doing, the shift in his balance, combined with a sudden movement from Elizabeth, caused them both to crash into a deliciously tangled heap amongst the orange gowns - accompanied by a jangling chorus of clothes hangers. The handle turned, the door jiggled impatiently, and Bingley's voice was heard.

    "For heaven's sake, Darcy! Far be it from me to criticise, but your team has not the sole rights to the costume department! Have the decency to hand me the crimson scarf, man - third drawer down in the tallboy - and I shall leave you in peace to - ahem - dress!"

    There was a pause, as Elizabeth and Darcy savoured their compromising situation with all the happiness of the innocent - it had been an accident, after all. Then Darcy, whose manners were very well bred, extricated himself without any vulgar or unnecessary fumbling, and turned his attention to the third drawer of the tallboy. Bingley's directions for once were exact; he located the required item, and opening the door a crack, wordlessly passed it through to his friend with a look of profound hauteur - it was time, he felt, to re-establish his dignity. The message was neither received nor required - Bingley beamed impudently at Darcy's left shoulder (for he had not sufficient audacity to meet his eye), and cheerfully trotted down the stairs.

    Miss Bingley completed her preparations, and dismissed Burchill, her maid. She surveyed herself in the glass with satisfaction. She was a stunning Juliet, in a red gown that she had never before had courage to wear, due to its rather daring design - and of course, its failure to possess, especially to as scrupulous an eye as Mr. Darcy's, even the slightest hint of orange. However, as of this afternoon, her wardrobe was in turmoil, her innate sense of style had been hurled into confusion, her very identity thrown into question - and it was her last chance to win her Romeo. Last chances called for extreme measures. Undoubtedly, the gown was a trifle small, but - all in a good cause. She rose from her dressing table, quitted the room, and made for the staircase, but as she lowered her foot to begin her descent, she stopped abruptly. Something had occurred to her. An idea. It was beneath her of course. But, there are times when one must be prepared to lower oneself, she mused. Radiance in the complexion, which has been oftentimes so admired, is best derived not by the vulgarities of physical exertion - a common misconception - but by the joi de vivre of which I am in ample supply. To laugh at a good joke is to be beautiful, and when one has an unconventional sense of humour, one must be prepared, on occasion, to invent one's own jokes. Besides, Burchill is always doing such things without bidding - speaking when not spoken to, having opinions, interfering with my flower arrangements - I shall have no qualms in dismissing her, the insolent girl, for what she is about to do!

    Miss Bingley turned, with a swish of her skirts, and made her way to the attic staircase.

    Part 9, Continued

    Posted on Friday, 29 March 2002

    Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy foraged for a short time - in boxes and trunks - and, since everything was exactly as described by Miss Bingley's maid, they soon located the articles required for Elizabeth's costume. There was no necessity for Mr. Darcy to leave while she dressed, since she needed only to assume a long, brown, hooded cloak, which, when fastened with a knot of rope (to be procured by one of the footmen), would have all the appearance of a friar's robe and chaperon. With the large hood pulled forward, both her gender and her identity were well concealed. Mr. Darcy regarded her in a disgruntled fashion.

    "This costume, Elizabeth, does not do justice to your charms - and I am still of the opinion that you should have been Juliet." he added sulkily.

    "I would much rather play Friar Lawrence - and Miss Bingley is without doubt, much better equipped to play the part of Juliet than I. She possesses a flair for the dramatic which I could not begin to rival - and she will much appreciate the chance to give outlet to her passion for you, Fitzwilliam."

    "What?"

    "Don't say "what", say - oh, never mind. Have you forgotten? Juliet kisses Romeo in this scene!"

    Darcy was fixed in astonishment. He dropped his cap. "I am grieved - shocked," he cried, "but is it certain, absolutely certain?"

    "Oh yes!"

    Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and this time really did understand it. Mr. Darcy, man of action, was formulating a Plan. The angry squawk of a crow outside the window startled him from his reverie.

    "There is no time to lose!" he announced. "I must speak to the Colonel immediately! He has demonstrated his full commitment to your protection from Miss Bingley - I must now persuade him to extend his beneficence to include myself!"

    In two strides he was at the door. He released the latch, and rattled it in agitation - then he stopped, and slowly turned around.

    "What is it Fitzwilliam? What is the matter?"

    "The door is locked - someone has turned the key. We are trapped, Elizabeth!"

    Pause - for author to tick off entry on aforementioned list - Romantic Plot Device No.37

    "No!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "It cannot be so! Why, this is the stuff of common novels - so I'm told - of worthless, clichéd romances, not of real life!"

    A large hatbox falls from a high shelf and hits her squarely on the head. She is stunned; a swelling forms and slowly turns purple. Darcy will of course kiss it better, when he has finished with his fatuous attempts to pick the door lock.

    Note to readers - do not fear for our heroine, for the hatbox was of a lightweight cardboard construction, and holds only a flimsy summer bonnet of the type so adored by Kitty and Lydia (only more expensive). Elizabeth will return to her usual charming, and less outspoken spirits shortly (and will think twice before belittling the Author again). Oh, and the bump is hidden by the much celebrated curls of her hair, so Miss Bingley will not see it. :-)

    The party assembled in the drawing room was growing impatient. Several minutes had passed since Miss Bingley had joined them, and they awaited only Darcy and Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley's longsuffering but devoted staff had positioned the props - behind two screens in the ballroom - and the protagonists were at the ready, concealing, where necessary, their costumes under cloaks and shawls.

    "Do you know where they are Bingley?" enquired Colonel Fitzwilliam eventually. Bingley jumped.

    "Ha! Ha ha." He cleared his throat, and shakily redirected the question at his sister. " Caroline, where did you take Elizabeth?"

    Miss Bingley, who had seated herself at a slightly apart from the others, did not answer - she was swaying slightly in her chair, her arms draped in picturesque fashion over its arms, eyes closed, face up-tilted, and lips, complete with several layers of scarlet lipstick, drawn into a lustrous, undulating pucker.

    "Caroline? Caroline! What are you doing?"

    "I am - rehearsing!" she tossed her head defensively. "I live and breathe as my character!"

    "Well, I'm glad you are not on my team - you look like you're chewing on some of that lumpy tapioca pudding Cook used to dish up for us every Friday in the nursery!"

    Miss Bingley fixed her eyes upon her brother, to exert her influence on him as she had been used to do, but to no effect - her reign was at an end. As of this afternoon, Bingley was a man liberated, lord and master of his own domicile.

    "Now, where did you take Elizabeth to dress?"

    "To one of the guest dressing rooms. I'm sure she will be ready soon, Charles - be patient!" Let her suffer a few minutes longer - I need more time to prepare myself...

    "And Darcy!" went on the Colonel. "I suppose he is painting and powdering his face to perfection?"

    "Oh yes! Darcy..." Bingley smiled, with what he fondly hoped was nonchalance, "I've sent Fossett to call him - he is in his dressing room."

    Fossett entered. "Mr. Darcy is not in his dressing room, sir."

    "Ah. Well, upon my word, what is he playing at?"

    Suddenly remembering what Darcy had most likely been playing at, on their last encounter, he began to babble nervously.

    "You are right Fitzwilliam, he will be applying his theatrical face paint, with utmost care - but apparently not in his dressing room - you know what a vain fellow he is - quite singular really, because you know, as he always says himself, "vanity is a weakness in- ""

    "I believe we've already had that joke this evening Charles." Miss Bingley interrupted, and eyed him suspiciously, a disturbing possibility suggesting itself. Where is Mr. Darcy? She rose suddenly.

    "I shall go to ascertain how Miss Eliza does - perhaps you might seek out Mr. Darcy, Charles."

    "I shall assist you Bingley!" Colonel Fitzwilliam jumped to his feet, smiling broadly at Miss Bingley, as if to facilitate the inspection of his wisdom teeth.

    They climbed the stairs, and Miss Bingley made for the attic staircase, leaving Colonel Fitzwilliam standing, sentry-like, at the bottom.

    "We will wait here for you, Caroline," said Bingley, expectantly - he had perfect confidence in Darcy's judgment - he would have left Elizabeth long ago!

    His sister approached the locked door, unknowing whether triumph or horror awaited her, behind it. Half an hour's confinement should certainly be enough to subdue those infernal Bennet spirits, but - where was Mr. Darcy? She approached the door cautiously, and listened, but not a sound was to be heard. Was Miss Eliza asleep? Or - No! Please, no! She pressed her ear to the door. Nothing. She knocked loudly. No response. She turned the key, and slowly opened the door, to reveal - no one.

    The room was empty.

    "What do you mean, it was empty? Are you sure?" Bingley frowned, then brightened. "I have it! Behind the curtains! Did you look there?"

    "Charles, we are not playing Hide-and-Seek!" his sister growled.

    They continued along the lower landing. Colonel Fitzwilliam bringing up the rear. As they passed his room, a hand shot out from the doorway, gripped his arm, and pulled him into the room.

    "Good heavens!" exclaimed Bingley, a moment later, "Don't tell me we have now had the carelessness to lose Fitzwilliam!"

    The pitch of Bingley's voice was rising steadily, along with his feelings of panic - he suspected that it was generally held to be discourteous behaviour in a host, to lose a guest, indeed several guests, in the course of one evening.

    Muffled words, and possibly expletives, were heard from behind Fitzwilliam's door; "What the devil...nearly dislocated my damned shoulder...&c, &c"

    The Colonel's head then popped out into the hallway.

    "Pray, excuse me, just one moment Bingley - I have a pressing matter of business to attend to!"

    His head disappeared again.

    "Business to attend to!" Bingley glowered. "Why is it that every fellow in the world perpetually has business to attend to? Can't they conduct their affairs at a more sociable hour of the day? Or is this a figure of speech with which to hoodwink the incompetent host? And a figure of speech for what, I might ask? What delights have been concealed from me, by such treachery?"

    He marched off down the stairs to elicit some sympathy from his elder sister and his fiancé, but found them absorbed in conversation with - Elizabeth.

    "Nobody thought to inform the search party of this development, I presume?" Bingley enquired, with studied civility.

    "Oh, I am sorry Charles!" Mrs. Hurst did not look at all sorry. "I was just recounting to Jane and Elizabeth a few little anecdotes from my wedding day - you know - how you caught my bouquet without thinking, and knocked Miss Eustacia Bowes-Lyon clear off her feet!" The ladies laughed merrily. "And I was also imparting some of my wisdom in the field of husband management, was I not, girls?" The unmarried ladies, whatever their confidence in their tutor might be, were mindful of etiquette, and smiled politely.

    Bingley turned, slowly, to face Mr. Hurst. He was feeling an inexplicable - and hitherto unknown - wave of affection for his dozing brother-in-law, and after regarding him gravely for a moment, he sat down next to him and poured himself a glass of port.

    "She did what?" Colonel Fitzwilliam was incredulous. "Good God, Darcy, the woman has lost her marbles! Deranged! Unhinged! And for you? I cannot understand it! But how did you escape?"

    "I simply dislodged the key from the lock with a hat pin, onto a sheet of lining paper from the chest of drawers, and pulled both back under the door."

    "Darcy, your ingenuity never ceases to amaze me!" cried the Colonel, "But I will not prostrate myself at your feet unless you can tell me with what fragrance the lining paper was scented!"

    "Lavender. But, please, do not embarrass yourself - Fitzwilliam, get up! - And you know, this would not have happened if you had been watching Miss Bingley!"

    "Well what would you have me do? She was dressing! Did you expect me to conceal myself in her closet? Or dress up as her maid perhaps?"

    "Given the disconcerting tales I have heard of life in the barracks, this might not be an unreasonable expectation!"

    "Only once, in six years of service!" cried the Colonel.

    Darcy stared at him in alarm.

    "Well Darcy, your behaviour this evening has been far from saint like, my exalted cousin - what is your defense on that matter, I beg to ask? The manner in which you looked at your lady earlier brought me to mind of Hunsford, when I was first introduced to Miss Bennet. Her question, "Can you tell me Colonel Fitzwilliam, why Mr. Darcy keeps staring at me?" might prove difficult to answer! Ha! "What do you think offends him?" Oh, now let me think...absolutely nothing! Nothing at all, I assure you!"

    Darcy glared at him, but to no avail.

    "Attack is the best form of defense, Darcy!" laughed the Colonel, "If you will criticise my dedication to guard duty...!"

    But he had said too much - Darcy had recalled another point for discussion.

    "Your attentions to Miss Bingley - overshooting the target by several leagues, are you not? Do you think you could perform your overtures with little more refinement?"

    Colonel Fitzwilliam showed no signs of comprehending.

    "Sound a retreat?" suggested Darcy hopefully.

    "Ah! I see what you mean, cousin! But you see, love is in the air! With all this romance around, I've half a mind to procure myself a wife at last, but I mean to have a final season of frolicking before I surrender! I'm just warming up to my mission Darcy!"

    Darcy looked his cousin up and down in concern. In recent months Colonel Fitzwilliam had celebrated his thirty-first birthday, and the belief that he was no longer in the prime of his youth had clearly affected him, but Darcy had never before seen him in such ebullient spirits. However, his speech was distinct, his gait controlled - in short, he did not appear to be intoxicated.

    "What are you wearing?" he exclaimed, as the Colonel pulled aside his cloak to admire his costume in the mirror. Fitzwilliam followed the direction of Darcy's startled gaze.

    "Tights! Tradition, Darcy! All Renaissance actors wear them! Where are yours?"

    Darcy merely raised an eyebrow.

    "Ha!" cried Fitzwilliam, again. "I declare Darcy, you have improved immeasurably under Miss Bennet's care! A few months ago you would have answered me, and your answer would have been this; "Tights are hardly apparel befitting a man of my stature, Fitzwilliam."! Not that there's anything wrong with your stature, I hasten to add - fine figure of a man, just like myself!"

    His cousin could not conceal his skepticism on the last point, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was crestfallen.

    "Don't you think?"

    "I think," said Darcy, "that we had best discuss our business, and then rejoin the others!"

    "Pray continue."

    "It regards Miss Bingley and our performance this evening."

    Part 9...A Bit More

    Posted on Monday, 15 April 2002, at 8:23 a.m.

    Mr Darcy and the Colonel eventually joined the others.

    "My apologies Bingley." said Darcy. "We had a -"

    "-pressing matter of business, yes, yes!" grumbled Bingley, swallowing his second glass of port, in perfect synchrony with Mr Hurst.

    "I was going to say," continued Mr Darcy, "that while assisting Elizabeth in assembling her costume-"

    "Humph."

    "-we had an unfortunate mishap. Perhaps, Miss Bingley, you have an overly conscientious member of staff, for someone locked us in."

    "Together?" queried Colonel Fitzwilliam solemnly.

    "Yes."

    "Perhaps we have a prankster in our midst!" Fitzwilliam beamed at his hostess.

    "Who? -Where? -How?" bleated a quivering Miss Bingley, her head spinning with conjectures on the current mode of etiquette for lovers behind locked doors.

    "It was Miss X - in the dressing room - with a key!" Fitzwilliam cried, and then relapsed into glum silence on finding that his remark was not, after all, a witty allusion to popular culture, and made no sense whatsoever to anyone present, least of all himself.

    "Well, shall we begin?" said Bingley.

    They made their way to the ballroom, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy trailing behind.

    "Moriturus te salutat." the gladiator whispered to his emperor, before marching bravely forward.

    "Bingley, we have created a monster," muttered Darcy.

    "Sounds to me like a capital idea for a story - why not write a book about it Darcy - it will be a huge success! I shall not read it, for it will be chock-full of four syllable words, will take you half a century to write, and someone will forestall you - but I promise you, it will have pride of place in my library!"

    * * * *

    A breathless silence fell in the ballroom, a remote and solitary candle casting its unsteady light across the floor. Through the gloom, eerie, flickering shapes could be distinguished - sombre blocks of stone, each one anointed with a crudely painted cross. A graveyard.

    No musicians occupied the platform beyond - it was enshrouded with dismal sheets of grey cloth, and within lay the body of a woman, her scarlet gown as vivid in the shadows as the embers of a fire; Miss Bingley, elegance enduring, in death as in life.

    A tall cloaked figure, his identity obscured by darkness, enters the graveyard carrying flowers. He kneels by the crypt in silent prayer. Then, with a weary sigh, he rises and begins to strew the flowers around it.

    Footsteps approach; he retires to the shadows. Another visitor advances, bearing a mattock and wrenching iron, and begins to work his tools on the crypt entrance. Confrontation follows, swords are drawn, and the two gentlemen fight. The bearer of flowers is spiritless, passive in the face of death - indeed he seems almost to desire it, as a man desires release from oppression - until the zeal of the newcomer causes him to stumble and strike an appendage most grievously upon a gravestone. He retaliates with unexpected vigour, swiftly overcoming his startled opponent and pinning him helplessly to the sideboard, accompanied by the ominous rattling of crockery. Vehement whispering is heard, a cold silence follows, and then, inexplicably, the victor falls at the entrance of the crypt as if mortally wounded, cast down amongst his own flowers, red silk trailing across his breast to signify the shedding of his lifeblood. With a final plea, he motions weakly to the crypt, before collapsing with a heavy, protracted sigh - a sigh which speaks not so much of the agonies of death, as of deliverance from adversity.

    The survivor heaves the body, as requested, towards the sepulchre and attempts to pull it up the step. However, the limp form, with all the proficiency of a sleeping child, has assumed double its weight and more; he hauls in vain. Another whisper, and the corpse, which is not yet quite dead, performs a final, definitive paroxysm of death, thereby hoisting itself upwards. They are now inside the crypt, and with a last burst of panting exertion, the woe-begone survivor consigns the body to its grave with a crash. A disturbing sound is emitted from the corpse, as if its spirit threatens to return from the netherworld to wreak a most fastidious vengeance upon its slayer.

    The gentleman now places a supportive hand upon his lower back and turns stiffly towards the woman's body, regarding her with a mournful air. He embraces her in a modest and respectful fashion, which, aside from questions of propriety, negates the need for any further load bearing. He kisses her cheek, and then, pouring the contents of a phial into a cup, he slowly drinks, bestowing a final chaste kiss on his lady before falling, with a resounding groan, beside her.

    A friar enters the churchyard, bearing a crowbar and spade. Seeing the abandoned swords at the crypt entrance he enters cautiously.

    The lady awakes; they take in the tragic scene before them. The friar, after staring oddly back and forth between the two bodies, begs her to leave - but to no avail; he flees. She finds the cup in the hand of the gentleman next to her and moves as if to drink, but not a drop of poison remains. She tosses the cup aside, and then, with several deep, resolute intakes of breath, as if preparing to enter an unknown and possibly unsanitary environment, devoid of air, she kisses his lips, cautiously at first, and then with all the force of passion she can summon, her hands clutching at him as if reclaiming ownership from an unseen presence.

    A sound is heard at a distance.

    A muffled squeal emits from the dead gentleman, as his arms flap helplessly up and down under the weight of onslaught.

    A sound is heard, louder this time, insistent in fact, at close proximity, and uncomfortably close to the ears of the unfortunate audience.

    The lady, coming up to breathe, responds to her cue - she finds a dagger in the gentleman's cloak, unsheathes it, sets it down to allow the re-pinning of a dishevelled section of her hair, retrieves it, and then takes her own life, sinking gracefully onto the gentleman's body, her arms about his neck.

    The friar appears, in very evident confusion, and releases the draped curtains to fall across this tragic scene.

    Fine.

    "Bravo!" boomed Mr Hurst, who had seen nothing of the performance, but in his seat near the candle, had been much cheered by playing himself at Vingt-Un and emerging from the game victorious.

    "This was the tableau of the whole, was it not?" enquired Bingley hopefully, as the other candles were lit, and the sullen footmen began the onerous task of clearing away the gravestones and rebuilding the garden wall by lantern light.

    "Yes, it was." replied Mr Darcy with an air of finality, as he discarded his costume. "What is the matter Bingley? Mrs Hurst?" He observed the bewildered faces around him and turned to the stage.

    Miss Bingley was rising from her position, her downcast eyes and fidgeting movements betraying a disordered state of mind. When she did look up, it was to smile, both defiantly and defensively, at her sister. Suddenly conscious of the perspiration on her brow, she raised her handkerchief in distaste to banish it, but catching sight of Elizabeth she paused and then, in scornful challenge, she threw down the handkerchief. Then she saw Mr Darcy.

    He was in front of her. Moreover, he was not behind her. Someone was behind her, the someone at whom she had thrown herself in courageous testimony that she, Miss Caroline Bingley, could and would - where absolutely necessary, where called for in an artistic sense, and where handled in a tasteful and delicate fashion - be passionate. But the man beside her lay so still - was he reluctant to move away? She turned, and there, apparently incapable of rising, was Colonel Fitzwilliam, prostrate upon his theatrical deathbed, grey of complexion, infused to the very marrow of his being with deepest shock.

    Miss Bingley froze.

    "O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?" said Mrs Hurst.

    Miss Bingley regarded her in utter confusion.

    "The solution to your charade?" Mrs Hurst smiled at her kindly. "It was Romeo and Juliet, I think."

    "Indeed it was!" said Elizabeth.

    "Well, I have no need to finish reading it then!" said Bingley. "I was almost halfway through the First Act last summer, and now you have quite ruined the ending for me - could you not have forewarned me that your tableau included spoilers?"

    "Forgive me, I am unwell!" Miss Bingley whispered, and quietly left the room.

    "It must have been something she ate." said her sister sympathetically.

    "I think not." mused Bingley. " It strikes me that "I am unwell!" might very well be the female rendition of "I have a pressing matter of business!""

    Mrs Hurst then left them to go after her sister, retrieving from her own apartments a small pouch of medicinal laudanum reserved for visits to certain relatives of her husband. If administered sparingly, she calculated that there would be a sufficient quantity to pacify her sister until after the ceremony on Saturday.

    Meanwhile, assistance, in the form of a glass of brandy, was hastened to the Colonel. Now that the immediate danger was over, he proved his valour by allowing no unmanly displays of weakness to escape him, nodding amiably at everyone present except, notably, his cousin, and sitting down quietly to await the next performance. If he felt any inclination to burst into tears, he did not show it.

    Chapter 9

    Posted on Thursday, 18 April 2002, at 5:49 p.m.

    Note - scarabée (French), beetle
    Acknowledgement - the wonderful online English-French dictionary

    * * * *

    The hour was late. The Bennet family had retired to bed and Longbourn was quiet, its fires languishing, its lights extinguished - all, that is, but one.

    A stump of candle was still burning in Mary's room, its nervous glow embraced by shafts of moonlight, reaching spectre-like through the open shutters. It was the Witching Hour.

    Mary sat huddled in a blanket next to the fireplace, where the coals gave out a meagre warmth. She was sewing, her fingers, almost numb with cold, working busily at something partly concealed within the folds of her blanket.

    She paused only from time to time to reseat her spectacles on her nose - their subsidence due to superfluous application of night cream unearthed from the bottom of her closet. The aroma of this ointment was somewhat pungent, and on more than one occasion had caused her to glance about the room, wondering if something had died and was festering beneath the floorboards.

    At length, she completed the last few stitches and began to stuff the oddly shaped pouch with small scraps of cloth, before drawing the hole shut and fastening it tightly. It was a doll.

    Setting it aside, she referred to a piece of paper that she had found within the pages of her father's book; covered with almost indecipherable handwriting, it had provided her with the information she needed. The book itself had been of little use, expostulating in no uncertain terms that Voodoo was a religion unconnected with simplified and inaccurate tales of putting hexes on adversaries, and provided a life philosophy relating to the natural and supernatural forces of the universe.

    Well, this was all very well and good, thought Mary, but it was really of little practical value to a young lady in her current predicament. Something must be done about Kitty, and done at once! She was teetering on the brink, her feminine virtue in gravest peril, in making her advances to yet another young man. She, Mary, must exert all her spiritual strength, evoking the forces of evil and wielding them like a mighty sword for the Greater Good, to defend her poor sister. And to clear her own path to Henry Allen.

    Fortunately, the pieces of paper enclosed in the book had been much more enlightening, and although she knew not whose scribbled words of wisdom she was reading, or with what substance the paper was so liberally bespattered, she nevertheless felt encouraged to proceed. Indeed, one set of instructions, which she would save for later, appeared to be a recipe for banana cake. Although, on reflection, it might be necessary to substitute walnuts for scarabées, whatever those might be.

    Regardless, it was clear that she would have to improvise, especially where the instructions proved to be illegible. She anticipated no difficulties arising from an occasional modification, just as in baking it did not much signify how many eggs one put into a cake. For example, there could be no possible necessity for the blood of a rooster. Clearly there had been a transcription error. She had of course given the matter serious consideration, and with that purpose in mind, had found an opportunity for a brief walk after dinner to the henhouse. It had been excessively dark and scary.

    There, the rooster of Longbourn, who in deference to his title should have been roosting at such an hour, had introduced himself by strutting towards her in a very businesslike fashion, and leaving a series of little beak marks in the toe of her boot. He had been quite undeterred by the hovering of a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica above his head (for she could not bear to slay the creature with her bare hands), and the chanting, as advised, of a binding spell (or the parts she remembered at least), had been answered only with a contemptuous cluck.

    However, it was of little matter, for she was concerned that the killing of roosters by young ladies would be frowned upon by the Church of England. Perhaps a hen would be an acceptable and less nerve-wracking compromise. As far as she was aware, it was doctrinally sound to eat them. Dr Fordyce had been peculiarly unhelpful, although he expressed his opinion so eloquently on most subjects. Yes, far be it from her to criticise, but she would dare to entertain the thought that he had been quite remiss on the subject of poultry!

    She had settled at last for a few feathers, along with an egg stolen from the pantry, and since the directions were obscured by a brown smear, she elected at last to place them, carefully of course, inside the doll. This unfortunately necessitated the unpicking of two-dozen stitches, which, at half past midnight on a cold night with very gusty winds rattling at the windows, would have tried the patience of a saint.

    "Bother!" said Mary.

    She soothed her irritated feelings by positioning the egg where Kitty's stomach should be, thus portraying her sister in a very unflattering light. Next she retrieved Kitty's locket - it was important to include a possession of the intended recipient of goodwill - and wound it loosely around the doll's neck. The strand of Kitty's hair, collected from a hairbrush, she snipped into shorter lengths and pinned carefully to the doll's head.

    An incantation was now called for. It was written in a strange language, possibly French. Mary pronounced the words as best she could; shivering slightly, for the wind was now announcing its presence with an ominous howling and a bone chilling draught. Mary began to feel like the twenty one year old, raven haired, green-eyed young woman in Lydia's favourite ghost story to which she had refused to listen - if such stories were to be believed, thunder and lightning were due to follow shortly. And, in addition, Mary noted, there was a surprising amount of creaking in the house at night, particularly from the staircase, as if it were being climbed by...

    "No!" she dropped her instructions in horror. Scrabbling about on the floor, she quickly retrieved them and squinted again at the spidery writing.

    "Pierce the idol with a pin in the desired location," it said.

    No, No! This was not what she had intended at all! She realised with dismay that she had already affixed Kitty doll's hair by sticking a pin through her head. She whisked it out, but unfortunately, in her haste, she pulled the chain of the locket tightly around the doll's neck. In panic she fumbled at the clasp, but could not see to undo it - the candle was almost burnt out. Snatching up a letter opener from the table, she snapped the chain. Oh, what blessed relief! Then Kitty doll's head fell off.

    "What have I done?" Mary wailed, pushing the head back into place frantically, and thereby sticking the point of the letter opener clean through the doll's middle. Egg yolk dripped down Mary's nightgown and ran between her toes.

    A horrific screeching broke out, and Mary dropped everything, knocked over her candle and stood in the darkness, paralysed, racked with fear.

    It was two foxes fighting in the garden.

    She sank onto her bed. How stupid she was being!

    She went to the washstand to splash her face and calm herself - and also to remove the cream, the odour of which was now unbearable. Strangely, it seemed to be intensifying. She washed her face again. She had obviously got some up her nose. Tired, cold, frightened, and covered in egg, Mary wished to say a rude word, but knew not how.

    She opened her diary, and made a note next to her reflections on Henry Allen, to learn some rude words. Her father was sure to have a helpful book in his library, and thus edified, she would be much better equipped to face such trials in the future. She followed this entry with a note to purchase some face cream that was not several years past its best.

    Mary cleared her throat and then coughed - something was catching in her throat and - oh, horror of horrors! Smoke was rising from the floor near to where the doll lay - what fiendish magick was this? What devilish powers had she called into being? She crept towards the malevolent apparition, trembling uncontrollably, casting aside her spectacles the better to not see it with. She was met with a sight that would plague her dreams every night till the day she died - but followed by the aforementioned soothing dreams re Mr Darcy. There, before her, in the murkiest corner of the room...the curtain was on fire!

    Mary flapped at it with her diary, puffing the flames up a few inches higher. Dear, dear, fanning was bad, very, very bad... she hurled the contents of her wash-bowl at it, followed by the half-full jug - forgetting to let go of the handle.

    Water, soap and shattered china subdued the blaze substantially, but the room continued to fill with smoke. She threw open the window for air, the wind blasted in like an evil spirit and whipped the flames into frenzy - there was no alternative - she tugged wildly at the curtain and with a crash the brass curtain rail came down on top of her. She tossed the entire conflagration out of the window.

    "Mary, what is that noise? Are you alright?" came her father's voice through the locked door.

    "Yes, Papa. I...I upset something, that is all. Goodnight," whimpered Mary, collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion, utterly wretched. Something in the shadows touched her foot - it was the doll, headless, mutilated, charred around the edges - and lightly stuffed with fried egg.

    "Oh Kitty!" Mary whispered, and Kitty's insides fell out.

    * * * *

    Notes to readers - Important!

    1 - Please do not try this at home - the characters involved are neither trained nor professional, but are in fact fictitious (yes, I'm afraid so!) and therefore immune to pain.

    2 - Disclaimer - no animals were harmed in either the writing of, or the extensive research undertaken for this work of literature.

    3 - It does matter, very much, how many eggs one puts into a cake. The author will not be held accountable for baking disasters resulting from this story.

    Part 10 ~ Something About Mary

    Posted on Friday, 26 April 2002, at 6:23 a.m.

    In which -

    Mary reflects on Life
    Mary draws a complete blank
    Mary has a dreadful shock
    Mary has taken over my story - help me!

    The next morning, Mary was rather late for breakfast. After a fitful night's sleep, she had eventually risen only to spend almost an hour restoring her bedroom to order. A great deal of scrubbing had eliminated most of the egg from the rug, but the bar of soap that she had accidentally tossed into the inferno had spent the night soaking in a puddle of water, and her efforts resulted, therefore, in a rippling pattern of froth which refused to be suppressed. The overall effect was that of a figurative drawing of a planet and its lunar orbits: a circular body - where the foam had peaked - surrounded by concentric ellipses in a dark blue sky. A constellation of bright patches, where dye was leaching from its wool, had resulted from Mary's imprudent use of caustic soda on stubborn stains.

    Laborious rearrangement of furniture had eventually concealed all, and after crawling around on hands and knees for a prolonged period, picking up little pieces of shattered porcelain - the remnants of her wash jug - her work was almost done. She opened the window to air the room, and disposed of the sorry remains of the doll. In the clarity of daylight, it did not resemble a conduit for the forces of evil, and Mary blushed at the slipshod nature of her stitching.

    Now she had only to concern herself with the explanation she would give for that which she could not conceal - firstly, today was washday, her nightgown was yellow with egg yolk, and the maids would talk. Being talked about was not conducive to inner tranquillity, and made her feel peevish. Secondly, the presence of her curtains, complete with cotton linings, valance and ornamental brass rail, on the gravel walk beneath her window.

    She was certainly not in the habit of setting fire to her curtains. Such unexpected tests of fortitude could be sent to any mortal at any time - not just those who were awake at one o'clock in the morning practising witchcraft - and as such they should be received with gratitude. The burning curtains had been a sign, a gentle admonishment from her Maker. To eject this gentle admonishment, once ablaze, from the window had been without question a very sensible precaution. In fact, it was evidence of an admirable presence of mind. However, to then go back to sleep without telling anyone a word about the incident, might be considered somewhat remiss. Perhaps even eccentric.

    Of course, it could be the case that inhalation of smoke had caused her to faint, thus preventing such communication, but Mary was hardly adept in the timeless art of telling falsehoods, and it appeared that, yet again, she was the object of Divine Surveillance. To pull wool over the eyes of the Omniscient One would require impertinence of Wickham-like proportions. It was all very upsetting, and she wished to think of something wise and philosophical, but she knew not how. God was someone that one read about in books and sang about in Church - He did not come into one's bedroom and set fire to the curtains. The situation seemed to have deteriorated, for reasons that eluded her, and she now found that she had somehow wandered from the straight and narrow path onto the road to ruin. To put it plainly, she was behaving wildly out of character.

    Nevertheless, it was unlikely that the curtains had been ablaze for long, since shortly after their exit from the room it had begun to rain heavily. It was a great comfort to know that they would likely be quite serviceable still, provided that she chopped off a foot or two here and there - waste not, want not. It mattered little if they were a few inches too short for the window. In summer the morning sunshine would gently awaken her, and she would arise, the proverbial early bird, to catch worms by the bushel and elude the viper-infested pitfalls of Sloth, the seventh Deadly Sin. Or was it the sixth? Regardless, such killing of two birds with one stone was most gratifying.

    With a fresh surge of hope, Mary knelt for her morning devotions, to petition for the well being of her curtains, for their deliverance from the antique rosebushes, and impalement thereupon. For although a stitch in time saves nine, it is quite inadequate against twenty or thirty, or three hundred and fifty-seven, and so many perforations would be sure to fray.

    When she entered the breakfast room at last, her eyes cast downwards, she was pleasantly surprised. The conversation that was currently under way paused only briefly to allow for the usual morning greetings, and she took her place at the table without any unwanted attention being paid to her. It seemed that no one, as yet, had ventured outside.

    She resolved to say nothing. For one must always put off till tomorrow what one cannot do today. And one must also stop thinking constantly in the proverbial when one is nervous.

    "Pass the milk please Kitty," she said, her attention arrested by a dish of sliced hard-boiled eggs. The yolks were of a loathsome yellow, tinted around their perimeter with putrid green, for Hill had overcooked them.

    "Oh Mary, do pay attention for heaven's sake!" cried her mother. "Kitty is not here - have you heard nothing of what has been said? She is very ill indeed! She is confined to her bed by such achings of the head and raspings of the throat and pains of the stomach - I am quite beside myself with worry - if her fever does not come down soon, we shall all be in fear for her life!"

    Mrs Bennet continued in this vein for quite some time, nervously spooning dollops of blackberry jam onto her bread and off again. Having successfully organised the futures of three of her daughters, Kitty was soon to be her priority, and to her mind, a robust constitution was paramount in securing a good fortune through marriage. She was very much afraid it would be necessary to purchase a bottle of the local apothecary's tonic, which was said to be a powerful elixir, but caused the hair to fall out.

    Mary listened in silence, absently chopping her food into pieces until her shaking fork slipped across the plate with an excruciating screech, and everyone winced.

    "Sorry," she whispered.

    Cold fingers of dread clutched at the pit of her stomach. What had she done? What was to become of Kitty? Would her head fall off? And what of her insides? The spell could not be reversed, for the instructions had been incinerated. She swallowed two mouthfuls of something, and dispersed the rest of her breakfast around the plate. She had achieved her objectives, but at what price? Kitty would not be pursuing Henry, but a few pimples and a greasy scalp would have done the trick. Death seemed rather extreme.

    Once or twice Mary fancied there was movement under the table, and scrutinized Kitty's chair, half expecting her to suddenly pop up from hiding and stick out her tongue at her. After all, it might be a trick. She swung her leg out hopefully, but unprotected by her kid slippers, she only stubbed her toe rather hard on the table leg. The entire table shook, Mrs Bennet stopped talking, and five cups of tea slopped into five matching saucers. They were all staring at her - her family, not the cups. Staring. And waiting.

    "Mama, Papa," she whispered, "I have something to tell you. About last night."

    Her father raised an eyebrow sceptically, but prepared to be amused.

    Mary rose from her seat and stood up straight, for greater height gave her greater confidence. She cleared her throat, and addressing the teapot, she began thus,

    "It has often been said, to err is human..." she turned to her father, encountered his eye, and reverted to the teapot.

    "To forgive...is divine?"

    Part 11

    Posted on Wednesday, 1 May 2002, at 11:40 a.m.

    In which... - We investigate Kitty's mysterious illness
    - We meet Henry, who is not a mere plaything for the amusement of Wicked Mary, but a living, thinking, feeling person. Or so he thinks...
    - Mary and Mr Bennet have a serious talk.

    Kitty lay, unmoving, in her bed, her breathing irregular, her cheeks flushed. Then, inclining her head to the door, she listened carefully. No one was coming. She eagerly turned the page of her book, the sequel to the volume she had recently finished, and once again lay still. This tale was even more thrilling than the first, and her mother had a further dozen in the same style.

    For a few moments her mind was transported to another world, where each day was blessed with the rosy glow of romance, where gentlemen duelled for a lady's hand, and where all that was needed to win one's sweetheart was a pair of violet eyes and a timely swoon.

    But Kitty's eyes were not violet, or cerulean blue, or emerald green or cinnamon brown. They were grey, pale grey, and although she had tried and tried, during the militia's encampment at Meryton, she had never yet been able to swoon.

    In reality, life was not so interesting. It was of course delightful to hear so much talk of the wedding plans, to dream about the day when she herself would be wed - she had already sketched the gown she would wear - and it was pleasing to think of Lydia's thrilling new life, although news came but seldom - Lydia was still too busy to write. Still, there were times when Kitty could not trim a bonnet to her liking, when she looked in the mirror and felt plain, and times when Maria Lucas was stupid and boring and giggled too much.

    The story of Sveinsson, the handsome but devilish Viking, was now her main concern, and a few days in bed would give her ample time to follow his tale to its glorious conclusion. And if anyone wished to visit her, or carry up her meals on a tray, then that would be perfectly agreeable.

    For now, those pale grey eyes moved slowly, painstakingly back and forth, left and right, and from top to bottom of the page. They then returned to the top and started all over again, for in order to remember anything or follow the story, Kitty had to read each page twice.

    When she had progressed in this way through five or six pages, she felt quite exhausted, and rejoicing in the convenience of reading in bed, she concealed the book beneath her pillow, lay back and closed her eyes.

    She coughed and sniffed only occasionally, for she did in fact have a slight cold. Her head ached a little from time to time and she suspected that like Mary, she needed spectacles for reading, but she refused to breathe a word to anyone. The severity of her illness had been exaggerated greatly; her apparent fever the result of the excessive number of blankets that her mother had insisted on heaping upon her bed. Her stomach did not ache, but Mrs Bennet was convinced that it did, and Kitty saw no reason to object.

    A short time later, Mrs Bennet came to see how her daughter was faring, bringing with her a cup of honeyed linctus with which to soothe the ailing throat. It was the third dose of the day, and although the first two had delighted Kitty's sweet tooth, they had left her feeling somewhat off colour. For this reason she had not touched her breakfast.

    "Oh, my poor child, you have not touched your breakfast!" wailed Mrs Bennet, "But I expect it's for the best! Although - perhaps you should eat something!"

    She was at her wit's end, in unfamiliar territory, where feed a cold, starve a fever, her tenet in times of illness, was of little use, for to her horror Kitty suffered from both.

    She mopped her daughter's brow with a cloth soaked in cold water, and Kitty shivered.

    "Oh my poor child, you shiver so!"

    She fetched yet another blanket and tucked it in snugly.

    "Oh Kitty, how hot your hand is! How your fever burns!"

    Kitty began to feel vaguely uncomfortable; it was always alarming to see her mother in a state, whatever the reason, and she decided that her fever would break, sooner rather than later. Of course, she would still stay in bed for a day or two, because - well, because she saw no reason to do otherwise.

    "I shall go without delay to see Mr O'Donnell and get whatever remedies he recommends," her mother was saying, and with this purpose in mind she rose at once, and bustled from the room shaking her head in vexation. To be incapacitated in the home of a rich and handsome bachelor was a fortuitous cause for celebration, but the confinement of an unmarried daughter in her own home achieved less than nothing and was exceedingly tiresome.

    As soon as it was safe, the invalid vacated her bed and discarded the unnecessary bedclothes - so much for her fever. She decided to reserve judgement on her remaining afflictions until her mother's return, when she could choose for herself which of the apothecary's potions were the most palatable. Being prone to dry, ticklish coughs of the kind that so tried her mother's patience, she was well acquainted with Mr O'Donnell's sugared cough syrup, and she hoped very much that her mother would acquire a copious supply.

    She climbed back into bed and resumed where she had left off, Chapter Two, The Return of the Villainous Viking.

    * * * *

    Henry Allen was a quiet, good-natured young man, slightly eccentric but by no means lacking in intelligence. He was not handsome, with a round but pleasant face and a pair of ears that protruded slightly from each side of his head. No great ambitions shaped his life, and he lived happily with his parents until his mid twenties, holding a modest position as a clerk to Mr Phillips. Neither romance nor fortune could dazzle him - his one passion was music, for which he possessed a startling talent in both appreciation and performance, often spending his hard earned wages travelling to London to attend the concert halls.

    His family had little fortune, for although his grandfather had been relatively wealthy, financial misfortune had befallen him and he had lost almost all of his money. What little remained had been bequeathed to Henry's brothers, but to Henry himself, being his grandfather's favourite nephew, a small property had been left, a humble but comfortable house on the outskirts of Meryton which was to be made available to Henry upon either his marriage, or his thirtieth birthday, whichever came first. At present it was let out, thus providing the family with a small additional income. The old man had also left to Henry his pianoforte; an instrument of such quality as would grace the music room of the noblest of homes. It was Henry's most treasured possession, and he would rise early every morning and sit up late every night to play on it.

    It was a great distress to him therefore, when the neighbours of the Allen family, who had not been long residing in Meryton, complained of the disturbance to their sleep that resulted from Henry's music. Unpleasantness ensued, which he could not bear, he was forced to change his habits, and for the first time in his life he was unhappy. His thoughts turned with increasing frequency to the little house, where he would be free to play whenever he wished.

    The fact that he had no wife, however, and no prospects of obtaining a wife, was an impediment to any such improvement in his situation, and although for the sake of his music he was prepared to endure the inconvenience of marriage with affability - for he had no other motive for marrying - no suitable young lady had presented herself.

    There were, to be sure, many young unmarried ladies in the neighbourhood, all of whom possessed at least some of those qualities that are generally favoured by young men; wit, good humour, beauty, fortune - but Henry desired none of these. He wanted a wife who was utterly bereft of all these qualities, a woman who was otherwise doomed to spinsterhood, who would desire little by way of attention or affection, and who would not become discontented by her situation. He was aware that his requirements for domestic felicity might be considered peculiar, but nevertheless he was determined to find and marry such a young lady and in so doing, provide her with security, save her family from the burden of supporting her, and return to his former state of contentment.

    In desperation he had asked Miss Catherine Bennet to dance with him at the next assembly, but had regretted his invitation almost immediately - not only was she too pretty for his liking, but she also had a propensity for chasing lively young men, which suggested that a quiet life as his wife might not be to her liking. No, she would not do at all - his search was fruitless, the woman of his dreams did not exist. He was utterly devoid of hope.

    * * * *

    Mary left the house for her morning constitutional, but she did not stroll around the gardens with her nose in a book, as was her custom; instead, she hurried from the grounds. She had no particular destination in mind; she wished only to be somewhere else, and to stay there as long as possible.

    She had to allow that, given the circumstances, she had so far escaped relatively unscathed, but she had not revealed all to her parents, and the burden of secrecy weighed heavily upon her. She must tell someone that she had engaged the powers of black magic to put a hex on her sister thus threatening her life with a terrible wasting disease - but in whom could she confide?

    Her family had of course been rather surprised to hear that she had been up during the night smashing wash jugs and setting fire to her curtains, and her conclusion, that it was through the mercy of God that the house had not been burned to the ground and they had not all been incinerated in their beds, had obviously made quite an impression. Precisely what manner of impression, she could not be sure.

    They had neglected to follow her suggestion that they should unite in a prayer of thanksgiving - could it be that they had not believed her story?

    Her father's response had been, as usual, quite baffling. After declaring once more to his wife his pride on "producing two of the silliest girls in the country" - she could never fathom why he would be proud of such a thing - and ignoring his wife's outraged "How can you speak so of our girls, Mr Bennet! They are not silly at all - why, Lydia is married, and Kitty is very ill indeed!" he had inquired - and this was the substance if not the exact wording - "Can it be, Mrs Bennet, that our third daughter has surpassed her younger sisters? D'you know, I believe she has - Lizzy, Jane, be so good as to pay homage to Mary, for she has attained the standard of excellence required for entrance to an institution!"

    Mary remembered it all very well, for during her parents' ensuing debate, she had taken note of the salient points in her pocket book - her preferred method of committing anything to memory was to write it down - but having studied her notes at some length, she was forced to concede defeat. She could make neither head nor tail of them. She was unable to follow the logic of her mother's remark - but she had long suspected that her mother was not a sensible woman. And what sort of an institution? One of superior standards, apparently - she wished to be flattered, but was only instilled with a vague uncertainty.

    The discussion had ended on the entrance of Hill, bearing Mrs Bennet's smelling salts, to request the presence of her master and mistress in the hall. There they had found the gardener, looking very cross, and holding the charred remains of Mary's window dressings. It was uncanny, thought Mary, that Hill had the smelling salts in her possession just then, for they were wanted almost immediately.

    During the commotion that followed, Mary found time for further quiet reflection. She observed that despite her prayers, the curtains had indeed engaged in hostilities with the rosebush, and had lost the dispute. Their salvation was clearly not part of God's Plan, but He had, in His wisdom, preserved a small area of fabric. Perhaps He was trying to tell her that He would prefer a nice cushion cover.

    She had then been summoned to her father's library, where a brief but incisive inquisition had been conducted. She remembered it clearly. There had been no need to write it down.

    The facts had been established, and the conclusion of her father's heated address had been that she, Mary, had been Very Irresponsible. She had hung her head in shame. Sentencing was carried out, the substance of which being that she would never again be permitted to have a candle or any other flammable object in her room apart from the minimum requirements for heating, that the number of coals in her fire would be strictly rationed, and that she would henceforth go to bed immediately after supper, so that her family would have the reassurance of knowing, as they retired to their own beds, that Mary was sound asleep and not prancing about the house setting fire to things.

    "Yes, Papa," she said mournfully, and turned to go. Her father appeared to soften slightly.

    "Just one moment, Mary please,"

    "Yes, Papa?"

    "What was it that you were sewing, in the small hours of the morning, before you committed your act of arson?"

    "A doll."

    "Ah. I see," he had opened his book at its mark, and was settling himself in his chair.

    "And what were you reading -a treatise on Pyromania? Or, Danté's Inferno, perhaps?"

    Mary's heart was beating like a tribal drum. She could not lie. But she could dissemble.

    "West African Tribal Practises." It was, after all, the title of the book.

    "Oh, you were, were you?" Mr Bennet was not surprised. Surprise was something he felt at reaching middle age to find himself with a very silly wife and three equally silly daughters; behaviour befitting such a person was wholly to be expected.

    "And from which chapter were you reading?" he angled his book to the light and began to read.

    Now Mary was trapped. She knew nothing of any of the chapters in the book but for one, and she could only speak the truth.

    "Chapter XIII," she answered, recollecting that in Mediaeval times, suspected witches had been tied up and plunged into rivers - drowning had been considered as proof of innocence, but floating indicated guilt, and they were then burned at the stake. She wondered if this was still the practise in Hertfordshire, and stepped backwards, towards the door.

    "On what subject?" he turned a page.

    The beating of drums grew louder, with all the brooding menace of imminent war...

    "Dahomean Voodou," whispered Mary.

    There was silence for a moment, and then Mr Bennet chuckled delightedly into his book.

    "Mmm. Yes, well, very good! Now run along with you!" he waved his hand dismissively without looking up. As Mary closed the door he chuckled again. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a biting satire, but when none were to be had, a farce was always agreeable.

    Part 12

    Posted on Thursday, 9 May 2002, at 12:14 p.m.

    In which -

    - Mary reaffirms her purpose in life
    - A dark shadow falls over Henry's life
    - Mary gets her love thing on...

    Acknowledgements
    - "Slough of Despond", John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress.
    - "Let Mary get her love thing on", DanielleL, Derbyshire Writers Guild.
    - "What's done is done", William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 2.

    * * * *

    Mary trudged onwards, lost in thought, her boots squelching deep into the muddy ground. She felt herself to be in a hitherto unknown state of misery, submerged to her neck in the murky Slough of Despond, but given her despicable behaviour of late and the self-deception which had been at its root, her situation was wholly deserved. It would be a fitting penance to dress in sackcloth and sprinkle herself with ashes -Longbourn's herbaceous border was strewn with those she had prepared earlier. But her mother had no sympathy for such acts of contrition, having in the past met all such schemes with a lamentably unsupportive attitude. It was a sad observation indeed, but her own mother was a Philistine.

    In any case, at the present time it might be selfish to provoke any further wrath in her parents. She rejoiced that her father had not been paying her his undivided attention this morning, and it was a great relief that he had not upset himself over her choice of reading matter - not on her own account of course, but because all thoughts must now be turned to Kitty. If Kitty should die, it might then be appropriate for Mr Bennet to lay down guidelines for users of the Black Arts in Longbourn. She, Mary, would be happy to comply, even if he felt called upon to send her to bed every night before supper.

    Weary both of mind and of body, Mary sank onto a tree stump and wiped her eyes. She would not cry, for she disapproved of such frivolity, and as the Shadow of Death loomed over her sister, to abandon herself to the excesses of self-pity would be an abomination.

    "These things are sent to try us," she informed a tiny green caterpillar that had appeared on her knee. "When troubles beset us on all sides we must turn over a new leaf and start with a clean slate." She felt a surge of affection for this insignificant creature, a bonding in the universal scheme of things, and leaned forward, half expecting it to whisper words of wisdom into her ear. But on closer inspection it revealed itself to be not after all, a caterpillar, but a fleck of one of those sticky tentacle-like plants that Lydia delighted in affixing to her nether regions on the way home from church. She flicked it off thoughtfully. There was a moral to be found, in this tale of mistaken identity, if she could only make it out. But where did caterpillars go in December? She could not recall ever seeing one in winter. Did they migrate?

    Mary rose from her seat and walked on sadly. She felt like a caterpillar herself - humble, ugly, and ignored for months at a time. Did they die of frostbite? It was of no doctrinal import, but a creature with so many feet must be sadly prone to such an ailment. Perhaps they spent the winter as eggs, or awaited the coming of spring in the darkness of a chrysalis? And there it was - her moral!

    Mary marched on with a new sense of purpose. What's done is done, she told herself. She was, or had been, a caterpillar, her only purpose in life to feed (her mind), grow (in spirit) but now the time had come to transform, through a period of darkness and isolation, into a butterfly! It had not yet been specified exactly how a young lady could be related to a such an insect, but all would be revealed, and meanwhile, she would begin a new life, of vibrant colour and unshackled flight! She, Mary, would be a beautiful butterfly!

    * * * *

    Henry sat slumped in a bench outside the bakery, gloomily eating a roll of bread and surveying the all too familiar folk of Meryton as they went about their business. A melody was playing in his head, and he began to hum it quietly, breaking up the remains of the bread into crumbs, and scattering them on the ground for the birds. A plump robin hopped down to partake of this feast, and peeped at him now and then, as if forming an opinion on his tune. Its red breast swelled as it satisfied its hunger, and it trilled along with him for a few bars by way of a thank-you.

    Henry was imagining himself at his instrument, which he was no longer able to play in the morning before he started work. He could almost feel the cool smoothness of the keys beneath his fingers, but not quite. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he stopped abruptly, ashamed. It was then that something caught his eye in the distance - the figure of a woman, walking alongside the road towards the village. He could not ascertain her identity, but all at once the melody in his head returned, but lifted in key, in tempo and in spirit - his heart leapt, for he somehow believed that this lady was to save him, and he rose eagerly to his feet and began to walk towards her. He did not notice, but the sky darkened, the robin ceased its merry song and flew, far, far away.

    * * * *

    Mary marched on towards Meryton and spied the figure of a man approaching her, at some distance. It was Henry Allen. Such timing! Exhausted from the horrors of the night and the toil of the morning, in a matter of hours she had single-handedly resisted the powers of darkness, suppressed a raging fire, spring cleaned her room until her arms ached from scrubbing, endured her mother's hysterics and braved her father's fury. She had lacked the strength to perform her new and improved toilette, and from her hair was wafting intermittently on the breeze the delicate scent of burnt egg. It was on this very morning that God, in His Supreme Wisdom, saw fit to cross her path with the only man on earth whose good opinion she courted. Oh, sweet, sweet justice! Mary's heart swelled with awe at this Divine solicitude. It was a joy to see that when punishment was meted out from On High, it was done judiciously and thoroughly. A certain minor imperfection troubled her - that she was not wearing her ugliest dress, the brown one with the high neck that accentuated the slight drooping of her cheeks. Was this finishing touch beyond the boundaries of Omnipotence, or was it - could it be interpreted as encouragement? Was it the sign she needed, the direction her new self must take? She straightened herself, pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin proudly. She would continue in her endeavours, attain her final accomplishment, and take possession of a husband. She would burst forth from her chrysalis in all her glory - she would arise, like a phoenix from the flames!

    * * * *

    Henry recognised the woman at last, and for a moment his resolve swayed and he almost struck off onto another path. Miss Mary Bennet had not been included on his list of undesirable young ladies because he did not consider her to be doomed to spinsterhood; rather that she had been born a spinster and was therefore, by definition, exempt. In any case, to persuade even an undesirable woman into wedlock, it was necessary to win her consent, and he could not conceive of any means by which this particular lady's interest in a person of the opposite sex could be excited. For that matter, if such means existed he had absolutely no desire to hear of them. And even less desire to observe their effects. He was not in the habit of flattering himself - to put it simply, he was not man enough for the job. She - the real Mary - seemed to him to reside within a bewildering and impenetrable fortress, a pitiful creature lost somewhere in its labyrinthine interior, unable and perhaps unwilling to escape. After brief observation he had concluded that to release this creature might be likened to releasing a Minotaur - exceedingly rash and exposing one to very grave peril.

    Lost in these thoughts, Henry missed his opportunity for escape. She had closed in on him faster than anticipated and he could no longer avoid her without appearing to be rude - a meeting was inevitable.

    "Good day, Miss Bennet." She had stepped in front of him, preventing his departure.

    "Good day...Mr Allen," she smiled up at him, from under her lashes, and adopted her most enticing tone.

    "What fine weather we are having today! I hope you are well?" Her face was strangely contorted. Her voice sounded most peculiar.

    "I am exceedingly well, I thank you." She inclined her head invitingly and continued smiling.

    "Good! Very glad to hear it!" he wished she would stop doing whatever she was doing with her face, "And your family are all well too, I hope? -Glad to hear it! Now, if you will excuse me I must -"

    "Mr Allen!" she moved closer to him, gracefully. "I hope I will see you at the assembly next week?"

    "Er, yes - yes of course! Will you be attending?" he edged backwards.

    "Yes, I shall. I am looking forward to it very much. I love to dance you know." She swayed her hips, as artlessly as possible, "And I have been practising something, something that I hope will bring you great pleasure, Mr Allen."

    Henry felt light-headed. She had gyrated her hips at him - rhythmically. Her interest in persons of the opposite sex appeared to have been excited. The culprit - the irresponsible scoundrel - was unknown. The victim... he glanced up and down the path, hoping that someone - anyone - was coming - but alas, they were quite, quite alone.

    "I am sure it will be delightful! I will...see you there! Good-"

    "Don't you know want to know what it is, that I have been preparing for you?" she employed one of the affectations which she had been perfecting in her mirror - a slightly furrowed brow signifying vulnerability, followed by the teasing elevation of one eyebrow.

    "Of course!" she looked a trifle wounded, and Henry feared lest she become violent.

    "I was listening to you, last summer, when you discussed your favourite aria with Mr Taylor. I thought that perhaps while the players take their refreshment and the neighbourhood ladies are exhibiting, I would play and sing it for you."

    She had licked her lips at him - he was quite certain.

    "Mr Allen?"

    He could not find words to answer; only a croak emerged from his parched throat.

    "Mr Allen! Are you unwell?"

    Henry's stomach churned and convulsed. He clutched wildly at her arm.

    "Miss Bennet!" he cried with passion, "I have something else to ask of you, something that completely, unarguably, irrevocably prevents you from playing this piece of music to me!"

    Mary was rather frightened, and muttered something to herself about a phoenix, but Henry did not notice - he cared for one thing alone.

    "I beg you, Miss Bennet, to save me from torment, from misery which might drive me into the realms of madness! Please, please I entreat you most fervently to dance with me, after I have finished with your sister, and allow me the pleasure of your company, for...for...for the rest of the evening!"

    "Why - of course, Mr Allen!" she blushed, relieved, and smiled again. "I would be honoured to be your partner - for the evening!"

    Silence followed, as they regarded each other, wracked with emotion. Then, after making their polite farewells, they separated, Mary floating home, having at long last tasted from the sweet nectar of romance, and Henry propelling himself in whichever direction was opposite.

    He found before long that he was not breathing, and on correcting this oversight that he had begun to chuckle, and then to laugh in a manner that might be described as hysterical. It was not fashionable for men to be hysterical, or for that matter to be afraid (very afraid) of young ladies, so he drew several long intakes of breath and began to review the situation calmly and manfully. He chastised himself for his weakness, attributing it to his current unhappiness and several nights of disturbed sleep. He had been an utter fool. He had misjudged Miss Mary Bennet - that odd flicker of light in her eyes had been a figment of his weary imagination. She was exactly what he was looking for, and her apparent preference for him would work most advantageously to his own end.

    To be sure, her penchant for plinkety-plonking on the pianoforte and caterwauling to the heavens would be troublesome at times, but his instrument had a lock, and keys could be hidden or lost in times of emergency. Her practising, if confined to his working hours would be tolerable. Yes, it was settled. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her in the distance, walking with such a spring in her step as to be almost skipping - Mary Bennet, the woman of his dreams.

    Chapter 13

    Posted on Tuesday, 21 May 2002, at 8:45 a.m.

    In which -

    - Strangeness is afoot in Netherfield
    - Mr Darcy is rather irresponsible with a poker
    - Mr Bingley considers issues of masculinity
    - The Colonel is under attack

    At around the time that Mary and Henry were bringing their charming exchange to an end, the Netherfield party were sitting down to breakfast. They had all arisen later than was customary, having suffered a night of disturbed sleep and mysterious occurrences.

    In the small hours they had been awakened by muffled cries; cries of terror, those of a man who confronts the gaping jaws of death. Three figures had hurtled from their rooms, and with some awkward fumbling, located each other in the darkness. The cries ceased, Darcy extricated his hand from Bingley's grasp, and they stood in silent confusion, waiting. Mr Hurst, who had been ejected forcefully from his room by his wife, merely scowled, for his preferred night time excursion was to the Land of Nod, and in his opinion all other activities during the hours of darkness were insufferable - although one might be induced to suffer them by one's spouse.

    "What is it?" hissed Mrs Hurst, from behind the door of her husband's room.

    "Why are you in my room?" he grumbled.

    "Fossett!" Bingley bellowed down the stairs with more than his usual vigour, for en route to the landing he had stubbed his toe on his bedpost and it was beginning to throb. "Bring a light, man! And be quick about it!"

    Scuffling below stairs was heard, and possible cursing, for at such times Fossett was of the same mind as Mr Hurst. Then the cries started up again, silenced almost at once by a resounding crash. Mrs Hurst retreated, closing and locking the door behind her.

    "My room, my bed..." said a petulant voice.

    The gentlemen began to feel their way towards the Colonel's room, their eyes gradually growing accustomed to the darkness. As they passed a window, Bingley pulled the curtains aside, and the moonlight revealed a sorry sight - the Netherfield offensive forces would hardly evoke fear and trembling in the aspiring burglar, murderer, or savage beast. Bingley, clad in a voluminous striped nightgown, was brandishing, bizarrely, an empty coalscuttle. Darcy was bolstering his nerve by meditating on a recurring dream of Elizabeth that had been proceeding well past all previous developments when he was awakened. He was sporting a look of childish anticipation, and waving a poker inattentively. Mr Hurst was avoiding the poker, and muttering oaths under his breath.

    "Fitzwilliam! Are you quite alright?" enquired the master of the household, knocking loudly on the Colonel's door. No answer came. With a deep breath, and raising his coalscuttle in readiness, Bingley entered the room, closely followed by his companions. There on the floor before them lay the Colonel's inert form, a gun at his side, his bedclothes twisted tightly about his body.

    "Colonel Fitzwilliam!" exclaimed Bingley, dropping to his knees next to his guest, the very same guest who earlier in the evening had been carelessly misplaced and then on retrieval, mauled quite shockingly. Now, as if he had not already suffered enough, he had apparently been assassinated. Bingley berated himself severely for his ineptitude as a host, and turned to his friend for guidance. "Darcy?" He looked up, only to catch the silhouette of a raised poker in the moonlight, before it came hurtling down towards him.

    Clang! The poker reverberated off the coalscuttle leaving a dent in its wake and throwing up a puff of soot into Bingley's face. The blackened mouth coughed and spluttered, the white and incredulous eyes almost popped from their sockets, but no violent rejoinder was made, for Bingley knew that if Darcy wished to kill him, there must be a very good reason. First of all, however, he must ascertain which woman was shrieking while under his roof, and to what purpose.

    "Do be quiet Mrs Hurst," said her husband. "Infernal racket - give a fellow a hellish pain in the head." He wandered off, for he was clearly not required for the walloping of intruders, and if the Colonel was in need of resuscitation, he had much rather it be done by someone else.

    Fossett arrived at last, to shed some candlelight on the situation.

    It emerged that Darcy had not, after all, suffered a psychotic episode, but had been surprised by the sudden appearance from the shadows of Mrs Hurst, whose curiosity had outweighed her fears and drawn her from her refuge. Realising his error, Darcy had been unable to abort his swing entirely, but had misdirected it at the nearest inanimate object. He apologised with grave sincerity to Mrs Hurst, and if he was embarrassed, he did not show it.

    The Colonel was found to be not dead, merely sleeping heavily, perhaps having consumed rather too much restorative brandy before retiring for the night. His stupor had survived the fall from his bed and the invasion of Netherfield's armed guard, but Mrs Hurst's cries had penetrated - he sat up abruptly, and reached for his rifle.

    "Steady on Fitzwilliam!" Bingley backed off nervously, his sooty face receding into the shadows. "Are you alright? You were making terrible noises - we thought..."

    "Nonsense! It takes more than that to rattle me!" The Colonel was glancing about oddly, and repeatedly fixing his eyes on a closed door on the far side of the room.

    "More than what?"

    "What is behind that door Bingley?"

    "Oh, it leads to another bedroom, a vacant one. It is locked at the moment." Bingley reached for the handle to demonstrate. It squeaked as he turned it - and the door swung open. "Ah," he said. "It is not locked. And the key appears to have disappeared."

    "The handle turned, a while ago - I heard it."

    "Do you always sleep with your rifle by your bed?" Darcy eyed his cousin in concern.

    "No, I do not, but perhaps it pays to be prepared. One never knows when one's very existence may be shamelessly violated, or when one may be duped by one's own flesh and blood!" Fitzwilliam glared at him, "And do you, Darcy, always wander about the house at night with your robe hanging half open?"

    Darcy adjusted the belt of his dressing gown and said no more, Mrs Hurst glared at the Colonel resentfully, and Bingley began to rethink his choice of night attire. Judging from his sister's reaction to a mere glimpse of Darcy's chest, and assuming that she was representative of her sex, the husband-to-be, with aspirations of a certain nature, should consider dispensing with the wearing of flannel in bed. For his dearest Jane he would of course do anything, but he was exceedingly fond of wearing flannel, and the last time he had checked, not a single manly hair had graced his chest. The very idea of discarding his familiar comforts brought on an attack of fidgeting and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but would Jane, even with her angelic, forgiving disposition, still think well of him if he did not? He would have to ask Darcy in the morning.

    "What was that noise?" exclaimed the Colonel suddenly. They looked at him blankly. Then they all heard it - a laugh, coming from another part of the house, low and strangely mirthless; whether from man or from woman they could not determine.

    "Where is Caroline?" said Bingley.

    They hurried to her room and the gentlemen waited outside as Mrs Hurst entered, reappearing a moment later. "She is sound asleep. In any case, I gave her something earlier - medicinal assistance - to help her sleep. I watched her take it - she should be incapable of awakening. Unless..."

    "Unless what?" said the Colonel impatiently.

    "She used to sleepwalk on occasion as a girl, particularly during times of illness or distress. So it is possible...- Charles, whatever is the matter with you?"

    Bingley was staring blankly into his coalscuttle.

    "When I took possession of this coalscuttle," he said, "it was full of coal... - and I've just remembered where I emptied it."

    He turned, and slowly wandered towards his room.

    "Hodgson will kill me!" he was heard to whisper.

    "Who is Hodgson?" Fitzwilliam enquired of Mrs Hurst.

    "Charles's chamber maid. She has buried six husbands and produced nineteen children in as many years, and has never once been seen to smile. Apparently no employer has ever had the courage to discharge her, although she is appallingly bad at her station. Charles is petrified of her."

    Mrs Hurst entered her brother's room without knocking, and the others did not hesitate to follow. It transpired upon further investigation that Bingley, only partially awake and believing Netherfield to be under siege, had availed himself of the full coalscuttle, found it to be a rather unwieldy aid in the fight against crime, and had tossed its contents in no particular direction without thought of the consequences. Lumps of coal were dispersed randomly about the room, the majority scattered evenly over the freshly laundered, starched white sheets of his bed.

    "This is your fault Fitzwilliam," he whimpered, "isn't it Darcy?"

    "Mm," said Darcy, diplomatically.

    "Louisa! You must help me! We must change the bedclothes - Hodgson must never know!"

    "Don't give me that pitiful look, Charles! It didn't work when you were a boy and it certainly won't work now - you know I'm much too selfish! In any case, how should I know the whereabouts of the linen closet? That's what the servants are for! You will have to sleep on your couch. Now, I shall go and see what Mr Hurst is doing."

    "Doing? Mr Hurst?" the Colonel bit his tongue.

    "He'll be asleep Louisa, as you very well know," said Bingley, arranging cushions on the couch and looking decidedly grumpy. "And I believe he locked his door."

    "I have the spare key. Good night."

    They all retired, Colonel Fitzwilliam locking the entrance door to his room and heaving a chest of drawers in front of the second door before getting into bed. As he began to drift off to sleep, he thought he heard a low chuckle. He gripped his rifle tightly, and began to count sheep.

    Part 14 ~ The Undress Rehearsal

    Posted on Friday, 24 May 2002, at 11:30 a.m.

    Author's note - This installment has some mildly naughty bits - I don't know if they would rate as PG13, but proceed with caution!

    The Undress Rehearsal

    In which -

    - Netherfield recovers from the Night of Horrors
    - Mr Darcy has a daydream
    - The Prowler is revealed (well, sort of)
    - Serious marital issues are pondered on, by the grooms-to-be

    Breakfast was a quiet but peculiar meal, on the morning after this night of horrors. Mr Bingley was recovering from his early morning confrontation with an irate Hodgson, which had resulted in that formidable woman informing him (and spitting on his face as she did so) that he was no longer fit to employ her, and then storming out of the house. Bingley feared for the safety of her husband, but was so relieved to be rid of her that he was beaming euphorically at everyone and talking utter nonsense. Colonel Fitzwilliam had barely slept a wink for the rest of the night, and so for once, was in a most disagreeable temper. He refused to divulge the nature of the dream that had so affected him, and even the most tentative enquiries were met with strained civility and a swift change of subject. Miss Bingley had slept well past her usual hour of awakening and had not yet joined them, and Darcy, whose pleasant dream had not returned to him by morning, was constructing a pleasing continuation according to his own preferences and studiously ignoring everyone. Mr and Mrs Hurst appeared to have had a disagreement. The former was scowling darkly and soothing his wounded feelings with a plateful of sausages; the latter was smirking in triumph.

    The door opened, Miss Bingley entered and quietly bid them good morning.

    "Fitzwilliam! What is it!" cried Bingley, for the Colonel had jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so.

    "Forgive me," he said, " I am unw-...er... I have a pressing..." he gazed helplessly at his host, who had sceptically cocked an eyebrow.

    "I have a pressing...." the Colonel stuttered and caught Miss Bingley's eye, "...call of nature!" He rushed from the room.

    "Well bless me, he really is unwell!" said Bingley in astonishment, opening the door and poking his head out into the hall. "And it's a very good thing that I dismissed Hodgson this morning, for he's made an appalling mess on the stairs!"

    He disappeared for a few moments, to see to his guest.

    "Is something the matter, Mr Darcy?" said Mrs Hurst. "I hope you are not also coming down with something?"

    Mr Darcy had emerged from his trance with a disturbed look on his face, and the contents of his teacup were dripping onto his breakfast.

    "Nothing," he said, cautiously, "Nothing is the matter, thank you." He glanced fleetingly towards Mrs Hurst's bosom, and leaving the table, evaded further attention by walking to the window and staring out of it.

    "Hm," he murmured to himself, and frowned. He began to mentally re-enact Scene I of his dream (Scene II and the Finale he had not yet begun). He flattered himself that things had been progressing very nicely to begin with. Elizabeth had been, as far as he could ascertain, extremely happy with proceedings, even though he had rumpled her hair beyond all recovery. Indeed, he was quite pleased with the dexterity he had shown in removing her hairpins with one hand, without so much as a tweak. Likewise, he had single-handedly removed his cravat, thus sparing her from any embarrassment - they were confounded things to get off in a hurry - and thereby avoiding any awkward pauses. Her gown he had dealt with via a certain amount of fumbling, but well within acceptable limits, although he must remember on the day itself not to trample on her wedding gown while still wearing his shoes. It was at this critical moment that he had encountered an unforeseen hitch - her stay.

    Now gentlemen of his standing did not have ample opportunity for honing their skills in this area, and although he had seen pictures of lady's undergarments - rather more than he would care to admit - both with and without a lady within, those pictures had not been supplied with instructions on their speedy removal. Lost in his pleasant daydream, a frightening array of laces and hooks had suddenly presented itself, and left him with a feeling of extreme apprehension. Which fastenings needed to be undone, and in what order? He estimated that it would take him the best part of a quarter of an hour to unwrap his bride and gain access to the delights concealed within her corsetry. He did not wish to ruin his long, long awaited wedding night with incompetent unpicking of knots. He would have to investigate the issue, somehow.

    Bingley reappeared bearing good tidings. The missing key to Colonel Fitzwilliam's door had been found, lying on the floor of the vacant bedroom, and the Colonel, much cheered by the discovery, had gone to bed to catch up on his sleep.

    "Now I must stir my stumps, for I have a pressing matter of business of my own this morning!" announced Bingley importantly. His hair was in desperate need of a trim with the wedding only three days away, and the barber would be calling at any moment.

    * * *

    Later on, the Bingley sisters found themselves alone together in the drawing room. The gentlemen had retired to play billiards on the suggestion of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was in high spirits after his nap, and secure in the knowledge that his errant key was safely hidden in his sock drawer.

    Since neither of the ladies could bear billiards, a game in which they could play no part, and since Miss Bingley had no desire for the company of Mr Darcy or the Colonel, they had nothing else to do but talk to each other.

    "Louisa," Miss Bingley spoke at last, after a long silence, "I want to thank you - for your kindness to me last night. I know I did not deserve it, after making such a spectacle of myself - it pains me to remember - but without your reassurances, I don't think I would have slept at all."

    "You have not been yourself of late Caroline, but last night I believe you learnt your lesson. It will all be forgot in a day or two. Mr Darcy and Charles will be wed on Saturday, and although undoubtedly they are lowering themselves, they do seem to be happy - perhaps it is not always ill advised to sacrifice money and fashion for love. But it now falls to us to think of ourselves, and to salvage whatever happiness we can from our own situations. You must find a man who is worthy of you, not just in fortune and appearance, but also in judgement, and I...well, I have hopes of my own."

    Mrs Hurst was poised to elaborate on her own hopes, but Miss Bingley had followed her sister's advice somewhat prematurely and was already thinking of herself.

    "I will find someone - I have wasted too many years. In a few days I will be going to Rosings - perhaps through Lady Catherine I will be thrown into the path of other rich men. Until then I must wait, and bide my time."

    She rose and walked to the door with great dignity.

    "Oh, Louisa! Don't ever give me laudanum again. It gave me the strangest dreams!"

    "Really?" said Mrs Hurst vaguely, lost in her own thoughts.

    "About -" Miss Bingley checked that the door to the billiard room was firmly shut. "...About Colonel Fitzwilliam! I dreamt that I was lying in wait for him, stalking him as a tigress stalks her prey, preparing to spring! Oh, it was the funniest thing Louisa! How I would have laughed, had I not been asleep!"

    They laughed harmoniously, Mrs Hurst having little idea exactly what they were laughing at, for she had heard almost nothing of what her sister had been saying. She seemed to have been dreaming about tigers, which was rather peculiar, and a most ill bred topic of conversation - clearly she had been too long in the country - but it was hardly cause for alarm. All would be well, Caroline was recovering, and she, Louisa, could begin to think of herself - and of her husband.

    * * *

    The gentlemen's game was progressing rapidly, since Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, who were partners, were too preoccupied to apply themselves. Bingley had decided that three opinions were better than one, and was trying to steer the conversation towards gentlemen's fashions in nightwear, or lack thereof, and Darcy was attempting to respond sensibly while continuing to fret about corset lacings.

    The idea of "acquiring" the undergarments of one of the ladies of the household had occurred to Mr Darcy - but such a plan would require a godlike degree of subterfuge, and the consequences if caught would be grievous in the extreme. To suffer mild embarrassment on one's wedding night was of course undesirable, but to be caught several days before it in possession of ladies undergarments - and those of a lady who was not one's betrothed - would be a sickening humiliation for all concerned. In any case, it would be foolhardy to risk rekindling Miss Bingley's ardour, and Mrs Hurst was a married woman - he could not therefore have any dealings with her under things. It would be impolite.

    "Your turn Darcy," said Fitzwilliam, who had almost cleared the table, leaving his cousin to play an outrageously difficult shot.

    "Impossible," muttered Darcy.

    "Oh cheer up, there's always a way - and there's a lot to be said for brute force!"

    Darcy looked at him blankly. "How..." he began - before understanding dawned. "Perhaps you're right," he said, and after brief reflection on the pros and cons of bodice ripping, he struck the cue ball forcefully, and potted the not so unobtainable red.

    "Hurrah!" cried Bingley, who had finally decided, all by himself, in favour of flannel nightgowns. He would discard those which had been purchased seven or eight years ago by his mother - for he had, in any case, quite outgrown them - and together with his smart haircut, he now felt quite prepared for whatever difficulties marriage might throw at him.

    "You're doomed!" muttered Mr Hurst darkly, to the grooms-to-be.

    "What?" said Darcy and Bingley, together, and Darcy missed his shot.

    "Told you!" said Hurst, and shaking hands with his partner, he went on to clear the table.

    Continued in the next section

    © 2002 Copyright held by the author.