Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (20 page)

‘But surely that was not your decision to make?’

‘I am rarely wrong about these things,’ Mr Darcy said ruefully. ‘My own first love came to an unhappy end …’

Elizabeth bristled. ‘You refer to Lady Catherine, I suppose?’

Mr Darcy’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘No … I am talking about the first recipient of my affections, when I was but a boy.’ He sighed. ‘Mrs Pickles.’

‘The bear that you so cruelly stole from Mr Whackem?’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘You had tender feelings for her? But Mr Whackem said you treated her cruelly, and whipped her
daily!’

‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ Mr Darcy smiled sadly. ‘I loved that bear with all my heart! It is true, we indulged in mutually pleasurable spanking sessions, but I would never have hurt
her.’

‘She was Mr Whackem’s bear!’

‘Not so, she was mine, given to me by my father. Whackem stole Mrs Pickles from
me
. Whackem, as you know, is charming and erudite, and Mrs Pickles’s head was easily
turned.’

Elizabeth shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

‘I confess, I do not know what to think. This is all so confusing. All this stuff about Mrs Pickles wasn’t in
either
book.’

‘It is an awkward plot device indeed,’ Mr Darcy remarked sadly. ‘The readers will no doubt find it clunky. But it is my sincere hope that they will retain some sympathy for the
author, who is clearly making an effort.’

He reached out and caressed Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘May I boff you now?’ he asked hopefully.

Elizabeth paused. He had driven asunder his own best friend and her dear sister. He had withheld the fact from her, and shown no remorse. He was arrogant, cold and lacking in any finer
feelings.

She looked up into his
freakin’ hot
face and sighed. ‘Oh, go on, then.’

That night, Elizabeth dreamt of giant otters beating each other to death with hunks of cheese.
Holy drug-induced psychosis
! she thought as she shook herself awake.
I
must ask Mrs Jones not to put laudanum in my cocoa.

Sitting up, she wrapped her bedcover more closely about her naked body. The fire in her bedchamber had long gone out and the room was icy. And then she heard the music – a few lilting
notes of a lovely yet melancholy air, echoing mournfully through the darkness.

As if drawn by some mysterious giant magnet, Elizabeth rose from the bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. Following the sound, she made her way through the dark
corridors and deserted rooms of the house to find its source. At the drawing-room door she paused. Fitzwilliam Darcy was sitting alone on the floor, surrounded by toys. By his side was a hoop and a
stick, scuff marks betraying their frequent use; a regiment of lead soldiers lay scattered alongside them. Cross-legged and naked, illuminated only by the light of a single candle, Mr Darcy was
turning the handle of a brightly decorated music box, his expression as forlorn and as mournful as the music. In the soft light his beautiful, sculptured face had an otherworldly air,
like a
fallen angel,
thought Elizabeth. Round and round the handle turned, while Mr Darcy remained utterly absorbed in the task – round, round and round again.
He plays so beautifully,
thought Elizabeth, mesmerized by the sight of his long fingers, those same fingers that had earlier probed her deepest nooks and crannies.

Just then, the jack-in-the-box popped up with a loud metallic clang. The noise appeared to startle Mr Darcy and he let out a wail of alarm. Hot tears began to course down his beautiful face.

All Elizabeth’s compassionate instincts were awakened. Oh, poor Mr Darcy! He may have been a cold and haughty, unbearably arrogant sex pest, but, beneath all of that, he was just a
frightened little boy.

‘That was a very sad melody.’ Elizabeth spoke gently, so as not to startle him. ‘How long have you been playing?’

Mr Darcy looked up, his grey eyes still glimmering with tears. ‘About half an hour,’ he replied softly. ‘I could not sleep.’

Instinctively, Elizabeth reached out a hand to touch his bare chest. Mr Darcy flinched and shrank back.

‘Ooooh, get off!’ he shrieked, flapping his hands wildly.

Elizabeth checked herself at once. Overwhelmed by the vision of his beautiful naked body, she had entirely forgotten Mr Darcy’s strict ‘no touching’ rule.

‘Does my touch bring back painful memories from your time at Beaton?’ she asked softly.

Mr Darcy appeared nonplussed. ‘No, it’s just your hands are freezing.’

Slowly, he began to turn the handle of the music box again. Silvery notes tinkled in the air.

‘Did your mother play?’ Elizabeth enquired. She recalled seeing a portrait hanging above the staircase of a handsome-looking, dark-haired woman seated at a pianoforte.

‘I never talk about my mother!’ Mr Darcy said savagely, with such force that Elizabeth was shaken.

‘Why?’ she enquired.

Mr Darcy’s jaw twitched, and his eyes grew cold as flint.

‘Don’t ask me that, Elizabeth,’ he growled. ‘Anything but that.’

Although he looked menacing – dangerous, even – when angry, Elizabeth knew she must persist. There was so much she wanted to know, so much that would explain why Fitzwilliam Darcy
was such a fucked-up SOB.

‘She was a beauty therapist,’ Elizabeth ventured. ‘I know that much.’

Mr Darcy gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘A beauty therapist! That was not all she was.’

‘Why can’t you tell me more?’

Abruptly, Mr Darcy stood up, his enormous penis swinging like a pendulum.

‘Because I hated her!’ he shouted. Elizabeth started. He sounded so vehement, so full of loathing.

‘She met my father – the best of men, the kindest, the most honourable – in her salon in London, when he went for a full-body wax,’ he snarled. ‘Except this was no
ordinary salon.’

Elizabeth was silent, watching him. He paced up and down, his eyes fixed upon the floorboards, as if the memories were threatening to overwhelm him.

She prompted gently: ‘They offered extras?’

Mr Darcy nodded grimly. ‘Indeed. So my mother was … was …’

‘A back, sack and crack whore,’ Elizabeth murmured.

‘That is correct.’ Mr Darcy’s shoulders shook and for a moment Elizabeth wondered whether he might begin to cry again. Instead, he picked up the jack-in-the-box and held it
close to his chest. Elizabeth felt a wave of tenderness overwhelm her.

‘But surely …’ she said tentatively, ‘you cannot know what circumstances led your mother to that fate? You cannot blame her entirely. You, who have worked so tirelessly
with fallen women yourself, must have some sympathy for her plight.’

Mr Darcy sighed. ‘If only that were all, Elizabeth,’ he murmured. ‘But you see, my mother never loved me. She was neglectful, cold and distant. When she left the salon to marry
my father, she developed other interests.’

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

‘She became obsessed with ornithology,’ Mr Darcy continued, ‘with studying the birds that lived in the lakes and grounds of Pemberley. Nothing else mattered, it was all she
talked of. Her specialism was ducks.’

Elizabeth had a terrible feeling she knew where this was going.

‘So she was … a quack bore?’

‘She was, for many years, then mammals became her hobby. When she opened her yak store …’

‘Pray, stop now. I have heard enough,’ Elizabeth exclaimed.

‘Now can you see why I resent her so?’ Mr Darcy burst out. ‘She was never a true mother to me. If it hadn’t been for her best friend, Lady Catherine, taking an interest
in me, I would be lost.’

Elizabeth bridled. ‘Some would say that Lady Catherine’s interest in you was malign. That had she not exerted her influence over you, your character would have been less inclined
towards darkness.’

‘That is not true.’ He smiled lasciviously, and the other Fitzwilliam, the sex-crazed one, was back. ‘She made me what I am today. Which means you must get back to bed, Miss
Bennet. I want you well rested and ready for more rumpy pumpy tomorrow.’

Rumpy pumpy? That sounded so …
hot
. Elizabeth felt her secret parts clench in excitement.

‘I wondered whether, before the
rumpy pumpy
’ – Elizabeth flushed just saying the words – ‘we might perhaps take the chaise into the hills and picnic there? I
hear there are most excellent views all the way to Yorkshire.’

Mr Darcy gave a sardonic smile. ‘I am not the picnicking kind, Miss Bennet. I do not do dainty cakes and pastries and polite conversation. Although I
did
once have a memorable al
fresco experience with a veal-and-ham pie …’ Mr Darcy appeared lost in thought for a moment. ‘No, Elizabeth, my tastes extend only to darker things.’

‘So, you have
never
enjoyed innocent pastimes with a woman, only lewd acts?’ Elizabeth asked, aghast. ‘Have you never played cribbage, or discussed poetry with a
paramour?’

‘Never, Miss Bennet.’

‘You have never enjoyed a turn about a formal garden, or played croquet or ringtoss on the lawn?’

‘No. Well, maybe the last one.’

Elizabeth could find no comfort in his honesty. Although he had, from the outset, made it clear what she could expect from a life of sexual slavery at Pemberley, she inexplicably found herself
wishing for more. An orgasm, for instance, would be nice.

Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not receiving any letters from Jane since her arrival at Pemberley, but eventually her repining was over, as two letters arrived
at once. One was clearly marked that it had been mis-sent elsewhere, a fact that Elizabeth found unsurprising, given that it was marked, simply, ‘Elizabeth @ The Sex Dungeon’.

She opened the mis-sent letter first. It contained news of Longbourn and her family’s parties and engagements, but the latter half, evidently written in haste, gave more important
intelligence.

‘Something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature,’ Jane wrote. ‘What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. A message came at midnight last night, from the
barracks, to inform us that she was gone off to the BookExpo in New York with Mr Whackem. It seems, unbeknownst to any of us, that Mr Whackem and Lydia had lately been in discussion about –
forgive my indelicacy, Lizzy –
work
, and Lydia’s head was quite turned by thoughts of a career; you know how vain and headstrong she is. It seems Mr Whackem has somehow enticed
her to join his publishing house, with promises of a salary and future advancement. Lydia left a few lines for us, informing us of their intentions to visit a number of trade fairs in the US. But
as yet we know no more. Be assured, Lizzy, I shall write again when we have more news.’

Without allowing herself time for consideration, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other. It had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first, and read as
follows: