Kitty and Lydia shared their mother’s concerns, and advised Jane on the gown-slippage techniques that ensured they remained popular among the officers of the Meryton militia.
Only Mary was disinterested. ‘Please, do not discuss affairs of the heart in front of me,’ she declared. ‘I have little interest in such matters. If most young ladies occupied themselves with books and music, as I do, the world would doubtless be a happier, less discordant place.’
Her younger sisters scorned her, but Mary paid little heed, and threw herself more vigorously into her music lessons with Mr Fiddler. There was no denying that under his tutelage her fingering had improved exponentially, and he himself evidently took pleasure in teaching her, and frequently left the house quite flushed with satisfaction.
While Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy were absent, Mr Whackem was a more frequent visitor to Longbourn. His easy charm and beguiling good looks made a favourable impression upon Mrs Bennet, who declared him the most amiable young man of their acquaintance. Her husband was most appreciative of the many freebies Mr Whackem was wont to bring along from his publishing company: indeed, he spent many happy hours poring over Steamy Pumping Action: Piston Engines of Industrial England. Meanwhile, Lydia and Kitty professed themselves delighted by Mr Whackem’s gifts of Rockin’ those Stockings! and Bootylicious Bonnets.
Whackem singled out Elizabeth at every occasion, and the pair made it their habit to take a turn about the formal garden while discussing their many topics of mutual interest. Mr Darcy was occasionally the subject of their discourse, in particular, his insufferable arrogance and insatiable sex mania.
On one bracing January morning, Elizabeth and Whackem were partaking of their usual perambulation, when Mr Whackem raised the issue of Mr Bingley’s intentions towards Jane.
‘It is a delicate issue, I know,’ he declared, ‘but I cannot help but wonder whether Mr Darcy has had something to do with Mr Bingley’s apparent coolness towards your sister.’
‘Mr Darcy?’ cried Elizabeth, plunging her hands deeper into her muff, in order to ward off the cold. ‘What ever would it have to do with him?’
‘He is, as you know, a cold and unfeeling creature,’ Whackem replied. ‘He hates to see happiness in others, and especially in those who value finer feelings such as love, honour and trust, and do not share his dark predilections.’
‘You are too harsh, I think. Mr Darcy has his faults – indeed, they are myriad – but to wilfully separate Jane from Mr Bingley? Even he would not sink so low.’
‘Then what lies behind Bingley’s current indifference?’ Whackem asked. ‘You tell me he has corresponded with Jane but once this past fortnight.’
Elizabeth was silent for a few moments while she weighed up Mr Whackem’s words. She was loath to believe so badly of Mr Darcy, even though she was still not yet recovered from the blow he had landed on her reticule.
‘I believe Carrotslime Bingley is at fault,’ she declared. ‘Her intention is for Mr Bingley to marry Mr Darcy’s sister, thus hoping that with their two families so entwined, Mr Darcy will marry her.’
‘And what of you, Miss Bennet?’ Mr Whackem asked, looking at her askance through ginger eyelashes.
‘Me, Mr Whackem?’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘Why, I do not think of matrimony at all!’
‘You can think of no one who you would wish to marry?’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘Did you just say “who you would wish to marry? It should be “whom”.’
Far from being abashed by her perspicacity, Mr Whackem appeared delighted.
‘You are correct, Miss Bennet!’ he exclaimed. ‘I threw in that little grammatical error to see whether you would pick up on it, and I am gratified that it did not pass your notice.’
‘You are testing my grammar, Mr Whackem?’
‘You seem to have an aptitude for it, Miss Bennet. I would bet ten guineas that you would be able to distinguish the proper use of the colon and the semicolon.’
‘Surely most young ladies would know that?’ Elizabeth said, shivering a little in the frosty air. Mr Whackem appeared not to notice. How unlike Mr Darcy, Elizabeth thought. He would have seen to it that I was smothered in muffs by now.
‘You would be surprised, Miss Bennet,’ Whackem sighed. ‘Most young ladies are wantonly ill-educated. It is most vexing trying to find copy-editors with the necessary skills.’
Was he about to propose work again? Elizabeth remained silent, conscious that any response might serve to give him encouragement.
Whackem appeared to sense her reticence, and, walking at a brisk pace back towards the house, they soon began discussing the many benefits of outdoor exercise. Lydia was waiting for them at the door.
‘Lizzy, you have had Mr Whackem to yourself for quite long enough,’ she complained. ‘Mary is studying, Kitty is at her toilette, and I long for conversation.’ She seized Whackem’s arm. ‘Let us walk along the path towards the rose garden,’ she said brightly, ‘and you can tell me all about how you came to be a lieutenant.’
Whackem appeared momentarily disappointed to leave Elizabeth’s side, but his handsome countenance soon recovered its usual attentive guise, and he allowed himself to be led away by a chattering Lydia. Elizabeth watched them round the corner to the orchard, and heard Whackem’s voice cut through the frosty air. ‘Pray tell, Lydia, how do you suppose you spell “lieutenant”?’
February took Elizabeth to Hunsford, to visit Charlotte and Phil Collins. The plan had been laid some weeks before, and Elizabeth had not at first thought very seriously of going thither, but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on her presence.
Avoiding Mr Darcy was now Elizabeth’s main intent, and a stay at Hunsford would be exactly what was needed to distract her. Besides, absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and she found herself looking favourably upon the scheme.
The journey, some twenty-four miles, passed pleasantly enough, and when the carriage left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, Elizabeth was eager to gain sight of the Parsonage. Soon there behoved into view, at the end of a long gravel path, a small yet elegant building of pale stone, with windows and a door and some fancy eighteenth-century features that the author didn’t have sufficient architectural knowledge to describe.
The inhabitants of the house had all emerged to mark her arrival.
‘Lizzy! I said you’d come!’ smiled Charlotte. ‘Mr Collins declared that it was Against All Odds, but I did not agree.’
Charlotte did not appear diminished from having to have sex with Phil Collins every night; indeed, she seemed to glow with inner happiness.
‘How well you look!’ commented Elizabeth, as the two friends walked arm in arm into the lobby. ‘Marriage seems to suit you very well, Charlotte. I trust you find Mr Collins an agreeable husband?’
Charlotte grimaced. ‘He is out in his stu-stu-studio every night, playing the drums,’ she said quietly, so as not to be overheard. ‘But thankfully, that gives me time for a little liaison of my own, with Mellors the gardener.’
‘Mellors?’
‘Yes, he is a man from the village – a very rough type – who comes over whenever my box needs to be trimmed. Oh, Lizzy, I think he is in love with me, and I with him! He is such a wonderful listener, and I have so much I want to say to him.’ She gave a girlish laugh. ‘He calls me Lady Chattery.’
‘No, this will not do!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, vexed beyond all measure. ‘Two books colliding is enough! It is too, too confusing. I beg you, Charlotte, do not mention Mellors again.’
Charlotte was taken aback by the vigour of Elizabeth’s protestations. ‘You are tired from your journey, perhaps?’ she suggested. ‘Come, let me show you to your room, and then perhaps you will tell me your impressions of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Lord knows we hear of little else from Lady Catherine.’
When Elizabeth had rested awhile, Mr Collins invited her to take a stroll in the gardens. They were large and well laid out, and more than once she was required to stop and adm
ire his peonies. He spoke at length of the affability of the Hunsford populace, the pleasing aspects of the surrounding countryside, and especially the many estimable qualities of his neighbour, Lady Catherine de Burgh of Rosings Park.
‘You will have the honour of meeting Lady Catherine tomorrow night,’ Mr Collins informed her, ‘when we are all invited to dine at Rosings.’
‘Lady Catherine was a great friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s mother, was she not?’
‘That is true, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Collins replied, clearly delighted in her interest, feigned or otherwise. ‘They were both beauty therapists originally, I believe. Lady Catherine owns a chain of beauty spas, which have brought her great wealth. And of course, she married exceedingly well.’
‘Ah yes,’ mused Elizabeth, ‘to international MOR star Chris de Burgh. If only we could all be so fortunate.’
In truth, she had little desire to meet Lady Catherine. After all, it was under her influence that Fitzwilliam Darcy had grown into the smirking sex pervert he was today. And yet her curiosity was roused. Lady Catherine was by all accounts a powerful woman, and a handsome one, and Elizabeth had many unanswered questions. Chief among them, which of them did have the bigger bubbies?
Mr Collins could talk of little else all day but their forthcoming visit to Rosings Park that evening. When the time arrived for Charlotte and Elizabeth to attend to their toilette, he came to their rooms several times, ostensibly to advise them not to keep Lady Catherine waiting, but in actuality to try to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth’s undergarments.
‘I beg you to excuse my husband’s sex-pestery,’ Charlotte said apologetically when Mr Collins had finally gone downstairs to await the carriage. ‘I’m afraid the prospect of an evening in Lady Catherine’s company invariably has a stimulating effect upon his natural urges.’
‘In that respect he is not alone,’ replied Elizabeth, thinking of Mr Darcy’s unwillingness to defy his godmother. ‘She appears to exert a powerful hold over men.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘It’s true, she is a beauty. You will see for yourself soon enough. But she is also a total bitch.’
‘Really?’
‘Try not to anger her; she has a wicked temper. I said something she didn’t like last time we were there, and she nearly twisted my nipples off.’
Presently the carriage arrived and the party set out from the Parsonage, up the long, winding driveway that cut through Rosings Park and led to the house itself. It was a grand, imposing building of the old style, with some windows, some walls and a door blah di blah. Ascending the steps, they followed the servants into the lobby, and from thence to the room where Lady Catherine was waiting for them.
Elizabeth’s heart was in her mouth. She swallowed, hard, and it slipped back down. It was the last thing she needed, she thought anxiously, on the back of her kidney/bladder problem, which still hadn’t quite righted itself.
Standing in the centre of the room, one spike-heeled boot pressing down on an unfortunate footman’s head, was a tall, shapely woman in a full leather gimp suit, brandishing a long leather whip. She turned to glare at the party. ‘Did I say you could come in?’ she snarled.
Mr Collins cringed. ‘N… no, no, your ladyship,’ he stammered. ‘Please accept our humble apologies. Should we, um, go back out again?’
Lady Catherine took her boot off her servant’s head. ‘You may go now, Saunders,’ she said coldly. ‘Let me not catch you whistling again, or it’s the thumbscrews for you.’ The servant scrabbled to his feet and backed hurriedly out of the room, muttering apologies all the way.
Lady Catherine turned her attention to the newcomers. ‘Well, do not just stand there! Come forward!’ she demanded. As the party tentatively advanced, she pulled off her gimp mask, and a cascade of pale-blonde hair tumbled down past her shoulders. She was a magnificent-looking woman, despite her advanced years, and her bubbies, Elizabeth noted sourly, were indeed far larger than her own.
‘You!’ Lady Catherine exclaimed, pointing the whip directly at Elizabeth. ‘What is your name?’
Elizabeth gave a brief curtsey. ‘Elizabeth Bennet, your ladyship.’
‘And where do you reside?’
‘At Longbourn, in Hertfordshire.’
Lady Catherine wrinkled her exquisite nose. ‘Hmmm, you are sorely in need of a makeover. Let me see…’ She stepped forward and grasped Elizabeth’s chin, hard, turning it this way and that with her leather-clad hand. ‘Eyebrow threading. Upper-lip bleach. And for pity’s sake, do something about those open pores.’
Abruptly, she let go, leaving Elizabeth feeling bruised and humiliated, and turned to Mr Collins.
‘And what time, pray, do you call this? You are three and a half minutes late.’
Mr Collins blanched. ‘Forgive us, Lady Catherine, the ladies and their toilette…’
‘Be silent!’ commanded Lady Catherine. ‘You are a very naughty boy! What are you?’
‘A very naughty boy?’ Mr Collins said in a small voice, visibly cringing.
‘That’s right. And what do I do to very naughty boys?’
‘Punish them?’ squeaked Mr Collins.
‘That is correct. Go over to my armoire, Mr Collins, and select from within it the largest butt plug you can find. You shall sit upon it while we dine, until I am satisfied you have learnt your lesson.’
Elizabeth gasped. Charlotte lowered her eyes in mortification. But Mr Collins’s expression, perversely, was bright-eyed, even eager.
‘Thank you, Lady Catherine, it is an honour,’ he said, bowing low.
‘Come, ladies, we shall take our repast,’ announced Lady Catherine. ‘Join us, Mr Collins, when you have arranged yourself.’
She strode off towards a door in the corner of the room, her gimp suit creaking and her spike heels clicking on the wooden floorboards.
‘We must follow at once,’ hissed Charlotte, ‘or risk displeasing her.’
‘What a bitch troll she is,’ Elizabeth hissed back. ‘I don’t care whether she does own a string of top beauty salons, I’m going to tell her what I think of her.’
‘Pray don’t, Lizzy,’ Charlotte begged. ‘We have asked for her permission to hold a music festival, Philstock, on her land, and if she refuses, we will lose a considerable investment.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘Then for the sake of our friendship, I must hold my tongue. But it will not be easy.’
‘Where are you, lazy trollops?’ Lady Catherine’s voice boomed from the next room. ‘Bestir yourselves!’
Elizabeth followed Charlotte into the dining room and immediately her jaw dropped in astonishment. What kinky fuckery was this? Several chairs were laid out in the centre of the room, and before each was a servant, kneeling on all fours. Lady Catherine was seated in the grandest chair, and had rested her wine glass upon a buxom serving girl’s buttocks.
‘Mrs Jenkinson!’ Lady Catherine called, and from a side door there emerged a frail-looking maidservant, almost bent double with age, wearing a leather harness and bridle. A pony’s tail was attached to the back of her gown.
‘Yes, Mistress?’ she enquired, the metal bit grinding audibly against her teeth.
‘Bring the soup!’
Mrs Jenkinson shuffled off, her tail swinging limply behind her.
Holy crap, what was this place? Elizabeth could only shudder that Fitzwilliam Darcy had fallen into Lady Catherine’s clutches at such a tender age; there was no humiliation, no degradation that was not on display here. Tentatively, she took a seat in front of a young footman, who was wearing nothing but leather trousers and nipple clamps. Mrs Jenkinson laid a bowl of soup and a spoon upon the footman’s hairy back.
‘Well, eat up,’ Lady Catherine barked. ‘This will soon go cold.’ She slurped her soup loudly.
‘Do you play, Miss Bennet?’ she suddenly asked. ‘A young lady should most definitely play the pianoforte.’
‘A little,’ Elizabeth replied, ‘although I confess I have not much natural talent.’
‘That i
s most displeasing!’ Lady Catherine declared, her icy blue eyes narrowing. ‘You shall play for me later, and if I judge your performance to be lacking in skill, I shall have to chastise you.’
Elizabeth felt her skin prickling. How dare she?
‘With respect, Lady Catherine, how do you intend to do that?’
‘With ten lashes upon your derriere, of course.’
‘And if I am resistant to the idea of punishment?’
Lady Catherine eyed her appraisingly. ‘You are defiant, Miss Bennet. Perhaps, in your case, ten lashes will not suffice. Perhaps I shall have to leash you to my pony trap beside Jenkinson, and have you pull me about the grounds.’
‘Go fu…’ Elizabeth began, but at that very moment, there emerged in the doorway a very uncomfortable-looking Mr Collins.
‘I do so hope I have not kept you all waiting,’ he said obsequiously, shuffling gingerly across the room like a man three times his age. He lowered himself into a seat, wincing. Jenkinson laid out a bowl of soup on the servant in front of him.
‘None for me, please.’
‘You are full, Mr Collins?’ Lady Catherine asked, her cold eyes glinting with malice.
‘Painfully so, Lady Catherine.’
‘I insist that you partake of the next course. It is roast goose,’ she commanded. ‘Although on this occasion, given the circumstances, I shall allow you to forgo the stuffing.’
The first fortnight of Elizabeth’s visit soon passed away. She and the Collinses dined four more times at Rosings, each occasion being more deplorable than the last. Lady Catherine appeared in various guises: sometimes in her gimp suit, sometimes in a red leather corset, and, on the fourth evening, sporting an eyewateringly huge strap-on dildo – a sight that caused Mr Collins almost to fall into a faint. At that particular dinner, Lady Catherine announced that they were soon to be graced with a visit from her godson, Mr Darcy, a prospect that gave her great joy. Mr Darcy, she pointed out, could never do enough to please her.
Hearing the news, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. The prospect of being in such close proximity to Fitzwilliam Darcy alarmed her. And yet undeniably, he thrilled her in a way that her usual pleasures such as tinkling her harpsichord could never do. Would he launch another assault on her reticule? Her Inner Slapper certainly hoped that he would.
Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody Page 6
