Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (12 page)

Waxed? Exfoliated? Elizabeth had never heard those terms before, but they sounded distinctly uncomfortable. But then this whole scheme was madness! That she should submit to the whims of a
debauched rakehell such as Mr Darcy, allow him to use her ill and then, no doubt, cast her aside … And yet, there was something in his offer that tempted her.

Taking up her quill, and a sheet of hotpressed paper from her bureau, she hastily wrote:

‘I shall send this at once,’ she decided. ‘Where is Lapptop?’ A ring of the bell duly summoned the aged manservant, and Elizabeth instructed him to hasten to Rosings Park
and deliver the note personally to Mr Darcy.

She had to wait less than an hour for his reply:

All over? Elizabeth felt a pull deep in her belly. She took another sheet of writing paper from her bureau, and penned:

After luncheon, Darcy’s reply was brought back by a weary Lapptop.

By now Lapptop was wheezing and on the verge of collapse, and Elizabeth, concerned for the elderly servant’s wellbeing, decided it was in his best interests not to reply. She spent the
remainder of the evening playing whist with Charlotte, and had just excused herself and gone up to her bedchamber when there was a tap upon the door. It was Charlotte, with a note for
Elizabeth.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Lizzy, but this just arrived from Rosings. Mrs Blackberry brought it over.’

So Mr Darcy now had Lady Catherine’s staff delivering messages! ‘Thank you, Charlotte,’ said she. ‘I will attend to it in the morning.’

Charlotte hesitated. ‘Mrs Blackberry is still downstairs, awaiting your reply.’

‘Oh, Charlotte, I am far too tired to write any more this evening. Please be so good as to tell her to go back.’

Charlotte retreated, and Elizabeth, unable to contain her curiosity, opened the letter with eager fingers.

How frustrating! Raindrops had smudged some of Mr Darcy’s words. She could only guess at his intentions. She would, she determined, sleep on the matter, and consider it afresh the next
day. She had not realized how much the tumult of her emotions had exhausted her, and it took only moments for her to fall into an uneasy slumber.

She was dreaming of fluffy kittens wearing nipple clamps when something started her out of sleep. The fire was dwindling in the grate, its embers sending out an eerie glow. In the half-light,
Elizabeth discerned a shape, looming menacingly in the corner of the room by the window.
Oh my! There was someone in her bedchamber!

Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped out of the shadows.

‘Why did you not reply to my note, Miss Bennet?’ he asked huskily.

‘My goodness! Mr Darcy! How are you here, at Hunsford?’ Elizabeth clutched the counterpane tightly; her heart was pounding and her breath came in shallow gasps.
What the holy hell
was he doing in her room?

‘Oh, I came in the carriage,’ he said in a low murmur, his eyes burning with intensity. ‘And then I got out, cleaned myself up and walked over here.’

He ran his hands repeatedly through his copper locks, an anguished look upon his face. ‘Scabies,’ he explained.

Suddenly, he flung himself towards the bed and gripped Elizabeth by the shoulders. ‘When I did not hear from you, I knew I
had
to see you. I cannot stop thinking about you, Miss
Bennet. You. Are. So. Sweet.’ His grey eyes were like pile drivers, hammering shards of intensity into her soul. Briefly, a look of uncertainty flashed across his face. ‘Am I being
passionate, or is this a bit creepy?’ he asked in a low voice.

Elizabeth pondered the question. ‘Many young ladies would undoubtedly call the night watchmen,’ she conceded. ‘But having no previous experience of courtship, I find myself
flattered by your attentions.’

Mr Darcy seemed to relax. Cupping her chin in one hand, and her breast in the other, he said softly, ‘Promise me, Elizabeth, that you will consider the terms of the contract. It would mean
everything to me to have you as my kinky-sex slave.’

Elizabeth could feel her resistance melting away. ‘Fitzwilliam …’ she breathed, lifting her face to his, longing to feel his lips upon hers.

‘Urrrgh, yucky!’ Mr Darcy cried, starting back in horror. ‘No kissing!’

Elizabeth’s blue eyes pricked with tears. ‘You never kiss?’

‘Bleurgh! No way. It’s soppy.’

Elizabeth was crestfallen. It was as she had first thought. Fitzwilliam Darcy had no tender feelings. He was nothing but a machine. A sex machine. Get up, get on up. Get up, get on up, stay on
the scene, like a …

‘Elizabeth, are you unwell?’ Mr Darcy was staring at her intensely, his brow furrowed with concern.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You were singing,’ he explained.

Elizabeth shook herself. ‘Oh, forgive me, I got carried away.’ She gazed up into his grey eyes: they seemed cold, fathomless – perhaps, after all, he was beyond her reach?

Perhaps he could not be saved?

‘I am leaving Hunsford in a matter of days,’ she said firmly. ‘I think it best if we do not see each other again until then. I shall consider your offer while I am at Longbourn
and send word to you.’

Mr Darcy looked pained.

‘I have hurt your feelings,’ Elizabeth said gently.

‘No. Well, yes, but I’ve got terrible indigestion today. Too many pickled eggs.’

He stood up abruptly. ‘If that is what you wish, Miss Bennet,’ he said coolly. ‘I shall not trouble you further. Unless you have any Gaviscon?’

Elizabeth shook her head, tears beginning to spill over her dark lashes. Mr Darcy leapt out of the window with one athletic bound, and a second later she heard a crunch and a muffled,
‘Bloody hell!’ as he landed in a rose bush below. Burying her face in her pillow, she let her tears flow. He was gone – the only man she had ever desired. The only man she had
ever loved. Gone, gone with the wind.

Elizabeth’s absence from Longbourn had long been mourned by Jane, and upon the former’s return, the two sisters greeted each other with much cordiality.
Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with all that had occurred could not be overcome, and as soon as she was able, she related to her the chief of the encounters between Mr Darcy and
herself.

‘Are you at all tempted by his offer, Lizzy?’ Jane asked.

Elizabeth coloured. ‘I confess I am, just a little,’ she replied in a hushed voice.

Jane pondered for a moment. ‘I suppose I can see why. I imagine Mr Darcy would be most appealing as a lover, if his size fourteen feet are anything to go by.’

‘And what of Mr Bingley?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Is he as much in love with you as ever?’

Jane sighed. ‘I have heard nothing, Lizzy. He has not written to me at all, nor has he visited.’

Her sister’s surprising news tainted Elizabeth’s own joy at her return. Mrs Bennet, however, was determined to celebrate Elizabeth’s homecoming and to spread word about the
neighbourhood of her daughter’s imminent deflowering. ‘My Lizzy! A sex slave!’ she exclaimed in delight. ‘Who would have thought it! I can hold my head up in society at
last. And with Lydia now a firm favourite among the officers, she is sure to be rogered before Easter!’

Day after day passed without bringing any word of Bingley other than the news, which prevailed in Meryton, that he intended not to spend Easter at Netherfield, but to go surfing in Maui instead.
Unwilling as Elizabeth was to admit the inconstancy of Mr Bingley, and all that might imply about his close friend Mr Darcy’s own character, she could not help but believe that the
attractions of South Sea island beauties clad in string micro-bikinis could only weaken his attachment to her sister.

At last a letter arrived that brought an end to uncertainty. With trembling fingers, Jane tore open the seal and read in silence.

Hope was over, entirely over, and Jane could find nothing in Bingley’s missive to give her any comfort. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the contents of the letter, heard it
all in silent indignation.
The curly haired fuckstick!
Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment towards Mr Bingley. That he was truly fond of Jane, she doubted no
more than she had ever done, and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger that he was prepared to sacrifice his own chance of marital happiness to the
caprice of a pathetic adolescent desire to go backpacking.

‘Whatever did you do to drive him away, you silly girl?’ chided Mrs Bennet. ‘Or, more importantly, what did you
not
do? Lord, do not tell me you introduced a “no
touching beneath the bodice” rule?’

‘Please desist, Mother!’ complained Jane. ‘You have no idea of the pain you give me with your continual reflections on Mr Bingley. Let us leave the matter,’ she continued
sadly. ‘He will soon be forgot, and we shall be as we were before.’

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulity.

‘Dear Jane, you are too good! I wish I had half your sweetness of temper. He is a commitment-phobic twat, and if I ever see him again, I shall certainly tell him so.’

‘Oh Lizzy, I beg you not to!’

‘No, how dare he lead you to believe his attachment to you was genuine, if he was intending all the time to bugger off to Hawaii?’

Jane smiled sadly. ‘Please, Lizzy, you have nothing to reproach him with. If there was a misunderstanding, I assure you, it was all on my part. Pray, let us not speak of him
again.’

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish, and from that point on, Mr Bingley’s name was scarcely mentioned by either of them. Mrs Bennet, however, still mourned Mr Bingley’s leaving
Netherfield, and was convinced that he would return after his Pacific-island sojourn, and if Jane would only put out this time, she might engage his interest once more.