by Peter Archer
“Sir,” Miss Rebeccah said, “if I may, I would like a word with you.” She paused in her request and glanced pointedly at Miss Miller. “In private.”
“Of course,” he replied and retired to his office, attributing the stuttering of his heart to Miss Rebeccah’s increasing influence over his being.
“Sir,” said Rebeccah, “I am concerned you do not view me in the way I wish to be perceived, and I feel compelled to rectify this matter immediately.”
Mr. Thompson was taken aback. Had he misinterpreted her intentions from the outset? He shook his head and apologized.
“No, sir,” she replied, “I do not desire your culpability, but rather to hear, in your own words, precisely how you see me, as an officer and, more importantly, as a woman.”
Fearing he could lose one of the most capable executive officers he’d had the pleasure of serving with if he misspoke, he couched his answer in terms of her professional qualities and stayed as far as possible from describing how her beauty and wit entranced him.
Miss Rebeccah sidled closer to the captain, frustrated by his avoidance of the more personal aspect of her request. “That is all well and good, sir, but,” she said, stepping near, so near that if she inhaled deeply, her uniform must surely brush his, “what are your views on me as a member of the opposite sex?”
Heat raced up Thompson’s neck, burning his ears and setting his cheeks aflame. How she affected him! Her eyes, such green eyes, held him captive and a slave to her will, and he, he acknowledged without regret, wished to remain imprisoned for the rest of his mortal life.
Rebeccah started as his lips pressed into hers. Her heart, skit-tering as it was with apprehension, threatened to escape her chest as the truth of his feelings for her became readily apparent. She permitted him to draw her more deeply into his embrace and fought down her own rising desire when he ceased his tender display of tonguesmanship.
“You are the most remarkable woman I have ever had the acquaintance of,” said Thompson. “My darling, you complete my soul, and I would rather be tossed out an air lock than spend another minute living without you.”
Rebeccah leaned in and kissed Thompson again.
She stepped back, heart full to bursting, when he asked, “Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”
Rebeccah, confident in the rightness of their love, replied, “Perfectly, Captain. I am exceedingly relieved we had this discussion. Now that we understand one another, I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.”
“I fear it has been some time since I last courted,” said Thompson. “You may find my efforts fail to meet your expectations.”
“I don’t need you to pitch woo, Mr. Thompson,” said she. “our love for one another, freely acknowledged here, is adequate assurance that your affections are genuine.”
Captain Thompson marveled at the woman standing before him. His life of solitary contemplation ended the moment he took her into his arms, and, like the beckoning stars beyond the viewports, he would follow both to the ends of the universe.
Pride and Predictions
KRISTINE HUDSON
Elizabeth Bennet sat at the table in complete expectancy. “My mother says that you are the very best occultist. You can see the future just as we look out the window to see the day’s weather.”
The occultist Celeste nodded her head and smiled gently. “Yes, your mother is correct. What is the question of your heart?”
“Who is the man I will marry?” Elizabeth asked. Her voice trembled slightly.
Celeste turned several tarot cards face-up. Elizabeth could not tell from her expression if the future was sunny or cloudy.
“There is a man in your life now. One with great charm,” Celeste said. She pointed to the King of Cups. The card was upside down. “My dear, this man is not true to you in his words and deeds.”
Elizabeth gasped; a hand went over her face. “Mr. Wickham is kind and decent. He is a lieutenant.”
Celeste pointed to the card next to it, the King of Swords. “There is another man, dark-haired and quite energetic. This is a man who is true to his words. I see a marriage with him motivated by love and not convenience. However, this King of Swords has said words that wounded you in the past?”
Darcy. Tears came to Elizabeth’s eyes. She shook her head vehemently. “No, you are wrong. Something is terribly wrong. I agree that the dark-haired man has been hurtful, but I have no desire to marry him. There is no desire from him as well.”
Celeste tipped back her head and laughed, deep and cackling. “The cards do not lie. Destiny does not lie. Fate does not tell us tall tales. This man,” Celeste pointed to the card again. “Darcy is the one you will marry. And you will desire this marriage just as deeply as he does!”
DID YOU KNOW?
Although drafts of the novels that would become Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility were written earlier, Austen does not seem to have revised Northanger Abbey much after 1803—whereas she did revise the others after moving to Chawton—and so Northanger Abbey is generally considered her earliest novel. A first draft was written between 1798 and 1799, and some have argued that it was in fact begun four or five years earlier. But we do not have to look to extrinsic evidence to suspect that this high-spirited tale was a youthful work: The style seems to link it both to an earlier period of English history and an earlier period in Austen’s development. It is closer in some ways to the juvenilia than it is to the mature novels. Finally, Austen herself asserts that it was the work of an earlier time.
Like so much of her juvenilia, Northanger Abbey satirizes contemporary taste in literature, in particular the rage for Gothic novels. It is, in a way, a novel about books. Its self-conscious “literariness” is reinforced by the frequent authorial intrusions in which the narrator discusses her “heroine” in the context of what heroines usually are and usually do. It is actually the false Isabella who imitates with precision the heroines of the novels Austen found so preposterously unreal. She proclaims to Catherine (whose brother’s fortune will be very modest), “Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice” and, we are told, “This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her acquaintance.” But there is not an ounce of sincerity in Isabella’s pronouncement of this “grand idea,” and the heroine ideal perpetuated by Gothic novels is equally—and laughably—false in Austen’s view.
Elizabeth blushed at her indecent remark. “Mr. Darcy does not … does not feel that way about me. He wouldn’t even dance with me a single time. Why, Mr. Darcy is not an honorable man,” Elizabeth finished with a sigh.
Celeste pointed to the final card. The Wheel of Fortune. “Give it time, my sweet child, give it time. This love will bloom.”
“I’m afraid you are incorrect. Mr. Darcy shows no interest in me. There will be no love blooming between the two of us,” Elizabeth retorted.
The final card was turned over. The Ten of Pentacles. “My dear, a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,” Celeste replied gently. “This man is good, true and kind, and also possesses great fortune. But you hesitate as you lack this same good fortune.”
Elizabeth met her gaze. “Mr. Darcy is none of these things that you tell me, except for possessing great fortune. However, should this fortune matter greatly, then I would prefer not to be acquainted with him, thank you very much!” Elizabeth rose to leave.
Her mother was waiting outside, tapping her foot impatiently. “Well, did she promise a betrothal?” Her mother demanded. The refusal of Mr. Collins was simply too much for her to bear.
“These occultists are foolish nonsense,” Elizabeth replied. “They will say anything for a few coins.”
Of Turbans, Partridges, and Apple Pie
THEJANITE
FITZWILLIAM DARCY to CHARLES BINGLEY
—St., London. Sunday (September 1, 1811)<
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My dear Charles,
I had the good fortune of reacquainting myself with your Sister two weeks ago & was very pleased to find little alteration had taken place in her disposition: She is still excessively proud of her Modesty and Humility. It is, however, my sad Fate having to inform you of an unhappy accident that took place mere minutes after I had asked Caroline for her hand. Her newly acquired red Turban, adorned with a vast array of peacock feathers & about as big as the neck of Miss ___ is fat, unfortunately toppled from her head as consequence of a burst of laughter & happily made the acquaintance of several partridges and an apple tart.
The ensuing mortification seemed to silence her (& I daresay she shall not ever be prevailed upon to relate both the preceding & following Tale), but she was at length forced to speak by Miss Mary Crawford—whose wit & easy manners you must surely remember from our last stay in Town—who assured her that being exposed is “all the rage in some districts of London”; she entreated us not to suspect her of a pun, but alas! the damage had been done & I fear we shall have to drop the acquaintance; pray tell me whether you can bear never to see those “fine eyes,” as you once called them, again.
I remain, &c. &c.,
FITZWILLIAM DARCY.
CHARLES BINGLEY to CAROLINE BINGLEY
—shire. tuesday (September 3, 1811)
My dear Caroline,
How sly you and Mr. Darcy are! Engaged indeed! I fear a lack of trust must have been the cause of this duplicitous secrecy, tho’ it cd. not be kept from me for long; in what I fancy must have been a moment of carelessness he dropp’d a hint, for he told me he “asked Caroline for her hand,” and cd. not anything be more obvious? Sister, imagine my surprise that he, [scratched out: who never seem’d to pay you any compliments of the sort] who never seemed interested in Matrimony, shd. [scratched out: prefer you over any other lady of our acquaintance!] finally have engaged himself! Yet I look forward to welcoming him as my brother, tho’ I must confess it is a great disappointment that your engagement shall prevent you from keeping house for me when I take possession of Netherfield Park. I shall, however, bear this deprivation with Fortitude & wish you the utmost Joy & Felicity. Might one enquire when the Engagement is to be made Public & when the Ceremony is to take place?
I remain your affectionate brother, &c. &c.,
CHARLES BINGLEY.
CAROLINE BINGLEY to CHARLES BINGLEY
—St., London. Friday (September 6, 1811)
My dear Charles,
How I wish you would not write in the most careless way imaginable. You leave out half the words and blot all the rest; I daresay Mr. D., whose Brilliancy prevents him from writing unintelligibly, could teach you a lesson or two. Charles, you distress me by presuming I am engaged & I must assure you that nobody could be less inclined than myself to find herself in love with such a respectable, noble, amiable man with manners so fine, breeding so good & fortune so great! Nay, Charles, I positively declare it to be impossible & am all astonishment, tho’ I am quite aware where the misunderstanding must have arisen from. A fortnight ago we received an invitation to a private ball and dinner held by the odious Miss Crawford (tho’ you like her a great deal), which we gracefully & condescendingly accepted as there were no other amusements to be had; you know how dreadful it is for a single woman in possession of a good fortune to be locked up in one’s house all day long without any prospect of forming new attachments. Mr. D. & I set off for the ball & found everyone dancing the quadrille. It would have been a punishment for Mr. D. to stand up with people he is not acquainted with; therefore he secured my hand for the first few dances. Pray believe me to be sincere, as I would never lie to you. I must now leave off writing this letter & give directions to the servants to wash my new turban, which a servant—through no fault of my own—accidentally splattered with Victuals. By the bye, you must forgive me for the sorry state this letter will arrive in: Tho’ a less refined person than yourself, such as a certain Miss C., would undoubtedly concoct a witticism of sorts & say that it must have lain under a weeping willow for quite some time, I can assure you that these stains originate in nothing more serious than an accidental spillage of tea.
I remain your affectionate sister, &c. &c.,
CAROLINE BINGLEY.
DID YOU KNOW?
Jane Austen began writing a novel she called First Impressions in October 1796, when she was “not one and twenty,” as Elizabeth Bennet puts it. It was completed in August of the following year. By this time it was customary for Jane to entertain her family with her writing, and we can only imagine how she must have delighted them with this effort!
Mr. Austen, good, supportive father—and excellent reader—that he was, thought enough of Jane’s story to seek to have it published. On November 1, 1797—losing no time—he sent it to the publisher Thomas Cadell in London with a highly respectful letter asking if Cadell would consider publishing it. Mr. Austen didn’t reveal the author’s name, but simply compared the length of the manuscript with that of Fanny Burney’s 1778 novel in letters, Evelina. He even offered to risk his own money to see his daughter’s work published.
Well, Mr. Austen could not have received a faster, curter, or—as history has shown—dumber reply: “Declined by return of post.”
Luckily for the world, that wasn’t the end of First Impressions—but it would still be many years before anyone outside Austen’s inner circle would read the novel. It was not published until 1813, after it had been “lop’t and crop’t” by its author. In the meantime, in 1800, a novel also called First Impressions, written by Margaret Holford, had been published, which probably prompted Austen to change the title of her book.
It is interesting to ask, along with Juliet, “What’s in a name?” Would Pride and Prejudice—a book with that most famous of titles—be any different if we knew it instead as First Impressions?
Foolishness and Folly
PATTI WIGINGTON
Though in general he was a terrible gambler and had lost nearly everything he owned, and many things that he didn’t, George Wickham had found himself on a lucky streak lately, and his brand new barouche, formerly the property of a Mr. Willoughby of Devonshire, had become Wickham’s with the play of just a few discreetly hidden cards. Willoughby was quite low about the loss, but had tempered his poor luck with the knowledge that he would soon marry an as-yet-virginal young lady with £60,000.
Wickham stood outside the regimental headquarters in his fine red coat, the morning sun blazing upon his handsome dark curls, and rubbed a door panel with a soft bit of chamois. Seeing his own dashing reflection, he preened, but his attention was caught by a flash of lavender in his peripheral vision. Miss Lydia Bennet and her sister Kitty approached, taking their morning constitutional through Meryton so that they might enjoy the view of handsome soldiers in fine regimentals.
“Well, Mr. Wickham, whose fine barouche are you polishing?”Lydia exclaimed.
Wickham shrugged with some degree of feigned indifference. “This old thing? A gentleman practically begged me to take it. He had promised to donate a few pounds to a kitten rescue agency, you see, and found himself short. I had to think of the kittens, Miss Bennet.”
Lydia clasped her hands to her breast. “Dear generous Wick-ham, the kittens! You are too good!”
Wickham slowly ran the chamois down the length of the barouche, rubbing it in slow, languorous circles. Was it possible that Lydia’s breath had quickened just a bit?
Kitty scowled. “We have no use for kittens. Everyone knows we are quite mad about puppies. It is for puppies that we go simply wild. Kittens, indeed!”
“Never listen to Kitty, dear Wickham,” Lydia cried. “Indeed, I always say there is nothing quite so handsome as a man with a collection of kittens in a fine gleaming barouche!”
“You say no such thing, and I shall tell Mama you are being vulgar,” Kitty hissed. She stuck her tongue out at Lydia and retreated to the milliner’s shop.
“Miss Lydia,” said Wickham, sl
iding his fingers gracefully along the barouche’s leather upholstery, “I have it from your sister Elizabeth that soon you shall be removed to Brighton as a guest of Mrs. Foster’s. Is this mere rumor, or dare I hope to see you at the Assembly Rooms of that fine town?”
Lydia noticed his hand softly caressing the bright red seats of the barouche and felt her pulse begin to pound. Surely, all this talk of kittens and barouches could not be distracting her so! Why, just recently Lydia had actually taken the time to read a book—well, perhaps not really read, but skim over—and had found herself having to loosen her stays while perusing the description of a carriage being plundered by highwaymen. Why, just the memory of the word plunder made Lydia catch her breath a bit and feel somewhat tingly in parts of her body of which a lady never spoke.
Recollecting where she was, Lydia blushed prettily and regained her composure. “If my sister Lizzie tells you I am to go to Brighton, then it must be true, Mr. Wickham. I will indeed be in Brighton very soon.”
Wickham stepped back, noticing a tiny speck of dust on the side of the barouche, marring the vehicle’s perfect appearance. “Oh dear. A spot. It cannot be borne, Miss Lydia. Do excuse me a moment.” He leaned in close to the side of the barouche, opened his mouth, and exhaled warmly onto the speck. The gleaming wood, polished within an inch of its life, fogged at the heat of his breath, and when Wickham pressed his thumb to the warm spot and rubbed it gently, Lydia thought that she might faint right there on the street.
“Wickham,” she gasped, a catch in her throat. “Will you come find me in Brighton?”
He glanced up at her, licking his lips gently. “Would you like that, Miss Bennet?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “We could perhaps take a ride in your barouche.”
