Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (4 page)

The invalid being not much improved, and dusk drawing on, Elizabeth was invited to stay overnight at Netherfield. She passed a great deal of it in Jane’s room, but was
much disturbed by Mr Bingley knocking upon the door several times during the night, obviously desirous of administering to her sister himself. Carrotslime and Looseata also called in upon them
before they made their way to bed, keen to enquire after Jane’s health and to be a pair of complete bitches.

‘Mr Darcy informed us that you have “very fine eyes”,’ the elder Miss Bingley remarked. ‘If you were not of such low social status and diminished means, I would
declare him to be in love with you!’

‘I cannot imagine Mr Darcy has any tender feelings,’ Elizabeth replied coolly. ‘He seems to be a man of large appetite and little delicacy, and unused to female
company.’

‘It is true that he shuns the company of our sex,’ complained Looseata. ‘When he is in Town, he is most often to be found at his Club, Spanky’s.’

‘A shame indeed,’ added Carrotslime, ‘that a gentleman of his fortune and position should be a confirmed bachelor. Still, when he marries – as all men must – he
will doubtless choose someone of his own standing in society. Like myself, perhaps.’

‘It would be a good match,’ Elizabeth declared, with much sincerity, for at this time she could imagine no better spouse for Mr Darcy than this vain and prattling creature.

‘And what of your own matrimonial hopes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet?’ Carrotslime continued. ‘Perhaps some impoverished clergyman might take a fancy to you, or, if you are
exceedingly fortunate, a farmer?’

‘Cow!’ hissed Elizabeth’s Subconscious. ‘I harbour no such hopes. I am content with my reading, and my country walks. Love holds little attraction for me.’

‘Indeed. No doubt that is why you pay so little attention to fashion. Your lack of interest in the opposite sex would explain your hopelessly outmoded clothes.’

Elizabeth bristled again – she really should shave her legs. ‘I am fortunate enough to have a benefactor in that regard,’ she remarked. ‘Mr Darcy has sent to Town for new
undergarments for me. In the finest silk and satin.’

Carrotslime Bingley seemed taken aback. ‘Mr Darcy? Buying gifts for you?’ Then she seemed to recover herself. ‘How like him to be generous! He has taken pity on your family, no
doubt, and your greatly reduced circumstances. He is an ample benefactor of the poor and needy.’

With that she took her leave, and with Looseata following close behind, the two Bennet sisters were presently left alone.

‘How kind-hearted Carrotslime and Looseata are,’ Jane remarked. ‘They are
such
good friends to us.’

Elizabeth could only sigh. Jane was such a dumb-ass sometimes.

The following morning, Jane’s health was much improved, and Elizabeth wrote immediately to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them during the course of
the day. Mrs Bennet’s reply, however, dashed all her hopes of an imminent return to Longbourn.

Elizabeth, who had little intention of giggling or shrieking, and was determined at all costs to avoid wobbling, urged Jane to borrow Mr Bingley’s carriage, and at length it was settled
that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be carried out.

This communication excited many professions of concern, and they were pressed to stay on at least another day. Mr Bingley, in particular, seemed keen to continue administering to Jane, declaring
that his regular massages were having many beneficial effects. To Elizabeth, however, their departure was a welcome relief. Close proximity to Mr Darcy over the past day had produced in her a
tumult of emotions, chief among them vexation that she could be so powerfully physically attracted to someone who was so evidently a twat.

After taking tea in the parlour, the sisters took their leave. Carrotslime Bingley proclaimed herself distraught over Jane’s departure, and the young ladies parted with promises to meet
very soon. To Elizabeth, who was mounting the steps of the carriage, she remarked, ‘Oh! You have something all over your face, Lizzy.’

Elizabeth reached up a hand to brush her cheek. ‘Is it cake crumbs?’ she enquired.

‘No,’ Carrotslime declared in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. ‘It’s
poverty
.’

Mr Darcy stood erect on the steps of Netherfield, his gaze fixed upon Elizabeth, running one of his long index fingers back and forth across his upper lip.

Is that just some sort of tic, like the lip quirking and head cocking, or is he trying to tell me something?
Elizabeth wondered, searching in her valise for her pocket mirror to see
whether her moustache needed bleaching. Under his scrutiny, she sensed a blush creep up her cheeks. She could feel his grey eyes burning into her, like red-hot pokers stirring the coals of her
desire. The more they poked, the higher her flames of longing rose, until the metaphor exploded in a burst of sparks and badly written prose.

Yet if Elizabeth had hopes to forget Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy and his poking eyes, it was not to be. A week after she and Jane had returned from Netherfield, the Bennets were
invited to attend a gathering at the home of Sir William Lucas and his unfortunate-looking daughter Charlotte. With a face like a King Edward potato and a figure to match, Charlotte was deemed
unlikely to catch the eye of any suitor, and destined, seemingly, to remain an old maid. Yet what she lacked in good looks, she more than made up for in liveliness of spirit.

‘I do declare, this party totally sucks,’ Charlotte complained to Elizabeth and Jane as they took a turn about the parlour together. ‘Father can be such a lame-ass. I
don’t suppose either of you have any drugs?’

Both sisters shook their heads in bewilderment.

‘Then at least we should have some music,’ said Charlotte determinedly, beckoning Elizabeth towards the pianoforte. ‘Come, Elizabeth, let us have “Willy Is Everything To
Me”.’

Elizabeth demurred. ‘My talents upon the pianoforte are meagre, as you know,’ she said modestly. ‘I would rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing
only the very best performers.’

‘Oh, but Elizabeth, if you do not play, I shall have to start self-harming,’ entreated Charlotte.

With great reluctance, Elizabeth arranged herself upon the piano stool, and fingered the keys gingerly.

‘I did not know that you liked to
play
, Miss Bennet.’

Holy stalker! Where did he come from?
Looming over the pianoforte, his flint-grey eyes boring into hers as though trying to tunnel right through her eye sockets, down her neck and through
her stomach and intestines to her vagina, was none other than Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

‘I like to
play
, too.’ His tongue caressed the words. Elizabeth was suddenly thankful she was sitting on the piano stool, as her legs seemed to have turned to water.

‘Would you care to play together, Miss Bennet?’ Mr Darcy stroked his bottom lip with a long index finger. Jeez, it was long – it must have been nearly ten inches. Her huge blue
eyes widened to the size of saucers.

‘D’you think he’s huge all over?’ her Inner Slapper asked slyly. ‘Go on, take a look at his feet. You know what they say …’

Elizabeth glanced down. How could she not have noticed it before? Fitzwilliam Darcy’s feet were the largest and the thickest in girth of any she’d seen in her life. She swallowed
nervously.

‘It was my intention to play “Good Morning, Pretty Maid.” Are you familiar with the lyrics, Mr Darcy?’

Mr Darcy’s lips quirked up into a smile. ‘Oh, I am
bound
by many things, Miss Bennet, but never by convention,’ he murmured. ‘I shall sing my own lyrics.
Begin!’

With trembling fingers, Elizabeth began to sound out the first notes of the familiar air.

Mr Darcy’s voice was disconcertingly low and sensual. He had moved behind her now, to the back of the piano stool, and she could feel his hot breath caressing her
neck.

It was at this point in the proceedings that Elizabeth felt her body begin to sway.

‘Take care, Sir, she faints!’ shouted Sir William.

In an instant, Mr Darcy had swooped down and gripped Elizabeth’s slender frame tightly in his attractive arms.

‘Fetch some smelling salts!’ Charlotte called out.

‘Forget the smelling salts,’ Mr Darcy growled, his eyes, blazing with concern, locked on to Elizabeth’s. ‘What this young lady needs is sausages – lots of them. And
maybe some eggs and pancakes with maple syrup on the side.’

The servants at once rushed hither and thither and Mr Darcy, hooking his freakishly long index fingers under Elizabeth’s armpits –
holy sweat glands, why hadn’t someone
invented deodorant yet!
– lifted her gently onto a nearby chaise longue.

‘Let us give Miss Bennet time to recover,’ he commanded, waving away the crowds of anxious friends and acquaintances, and the hordes of officers who had gathered in the hope of
catching a glimpse of her knickers.

‘You gave us quite a scare, Miss Bennet,’ he whispered, brushing a tendril of her hair gently behind her ear.

‘Oh my! I have no idea what came over me,’ Elizabeth murmured. Mr Darcy was gazing at her so intently, she found it impossible to meet his eye.

‘If I had known my song would shock you so, I would not have performed it,’ continued Mr Darcy, tucking another tendril of hair behind her other ear.

‘No, Sir, please do not think your song offended me. It was a most … unusual ditty.’

‘Oh, it was just a little something I wrote when I was but a boy at Beaton.’

‘You attended Beaton?’ asked Elizabeth, wide-eyed. But of course! Now it all became clear why Mr Darcy was the way he was. In the English Public Schools Annual League Table, Beaton
came top every year in Flogging, Fagging, Ruggering
and
Buggering. That kind of education had to have an effect upon a child. Suddenly she could picture Fitzwilliam Darcy as a young,
innocent boy, being forced to listen to endless dirty jokes and to fag for the senior boys, trying not to cry as the housemaster thwacked him again and again with his yardstick …

‘Indeed. My parents would have engaged a tutor, but my mother’s friend, Lady Catherine de Burgh, who had great influence over her, insisted upon my attending.’ Mr Darcy looped
both tendrils of Lizzy’s hair together at the back of her head, worked them into a French plait, and sat back to admire his handiwork.

‘You are a beguiling woman, Miss Bennet,’ he murmured. ‘I find you most intriguing.’

Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her now beautifully coiffed hair. ‘Um,
hello
?’ her Gaydar interjected. ‘Is no one else thinking what
I’m
thinking?’