Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (6 page)

‘One of my girls, having it off with Phil Collins!’ cried Mrs Bennet. ‘What a thought! Lady Lucas will be beside herself with envy! But come now, read out his letter, that we
might all hear what he has to say.’

Mr Bennet duly obliged:

‘He seems most conscientious and polite,’ commented Mrs Bennet. ‘You could do worse, girls, than hook up with a Grammy-award-winning rock god.’

‘Nonetheless, there is something rather pompous in his style,’ observed Elizabeth. ‘The way he has managed to work in some of his song lyrics. And his obsequiousness regarding
Lady Catherine. I wonder what kind of man he truly is?’

Elizabeth did not have to wait long for her answer. Mr Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. He was a small, balding man of about three
score years, with a grave and formal manner, and little beady eyes. He had not long been seated before he complimented Mrs Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters. He found it impossible, he
confessed, to choose between them, given that each clearly had her own merits.

‘My Jane is easily the prettiest of them all,’ remarked Mrs Bennet. ‘Such fine strawberry-blonde locks! Such a magnificent rack! But alas! She is all but engaged to Mr Elliot
Bingley, of Netherfield.’

‘What of that one, with the slightly too-limpid eyes?’ Mr Collins enquired, indicating Elizabeth, who was rolling about on the floor beside the fireplace, trying to force her unruly
hair into a bonnet.

Mrs Bennet, who held her second-born the least dear of all her children, could not hide her delight. ‘Now
there
is a suitable match, Mr Collins! My Lizzy will not mind that you have
been married three times before, nor that it is rumoured you consider marriage to be a difficult proposition,’ she said earnestly.

‘I would need to ensure that Lady Catherine de Burgh, of course, approved of my choice,’ said Mr Collins. ‘As it happens, she is not well predisposed to romantic
affiliations.’

‘Why ever not, Mr Collins?’ asked Mrs Bennet, who imagined all widows to be sex-starved nymphomaniacs.

‘After the late Lord Chris de Burgh had a dalliance with the children’s governess, she turned against romance. I know that she is adamant that her godson, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy,
should never marry.’

‘Happily, he appears to be of the same mind,’ broke in Elizabeth, who had caught the last few words of their discourse. ‘Love does not appear to be one of his
predilections.’

‘Then he is very unlike me,’ Lydia piped up, settling herself down upon Mr Collins’s knee. ‘
I
think of little else.’

‘For shame, Lydia, do not make a show of yourself,’ her sister Mary hissed, through pursed lips.

‘Why, Philip does not mind!’ Lydia declared, rubbing Mr Collins’s bald head affectionately. ‘Now, Phil, tell us more about how you went Loco in Acapulco.’

Mr Collins declared his intention to stay the week, and over breakfast the next morning, the sisters were regaled with many tales of his former abode in Switzerland.

Lydia declared a desire to walk into Meryton, every sister agreed to accompany her, and Mr Collins insisted on attending them because he could ‘feel something coming in the air
tonight’ and was anxious for their safety.

In pompous nothings on Mr Collins’s side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed until they entered the village. Lydia and Kitty immediately cast about for soldiers,
and their gaze soon settled upon a young officer with a most gentlemanly bearing. All the party were struck by the stranger’s pleasing appearance, and upon enquiry, discovered him to be a Mr
Whackem, a recent recruit to the militia.

Whackem was a tall, well-built fellow, with two silver hoop earrings glinting in his ears, and eyes of a fathomless deep blue. Elizabeth couldn’t help but compare his red hair, tied back
into a ponytail, with Mr Darcy’s floppy copper locks. And neither could she help herself from trying to say, ‘floppy copper locks’ very fast, twenty times. It was surprisingly
difficult.

Introductions were made, and soon the whole party was engaged in very agreeable conversation, when the sound of horses drew to their attention two riders approaching. It was Mr Bingley and Mr
Darcy, the latter mounting a fine-looking chestnut mare. He deigned to acknowledge the company with a nod, but was suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth, happening to see
the countenances of both gentlemen, noticed that Mr Darcy’s eyes grew dark and his jaw set firm, while Whackem visibly paled. After a few moments, Mr Whackem raised his hat, a gesture that Mr
Darcy acknowledged by raising his middle finger and mouthing the word, ‘Asshole.’

Whatever could it all mean?
wondered Elizabeth.
Was there some enmity between the two gentlemen?

Without another word, Mr Darcy wheeled his horse about and galloped back down the street, the way he had come. Mr Bingley appeared vexed.

‘I
told
him to go to the water closet before we left,’ he complained.

Mr Whackem, however, soon seemed to recover himself, and declared his intention to accompany the young ladies as far as the millinery shop.

‘The militia is just a hobby for me,’ he confided to Elizabeth as they walked along together. ‘My true interest lies in books.’

‘You love to read, Mr Whackem?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘So do I! Pray, which authors do you favour?’

‘Reading is indeed a passion, Miss Bennet,’ he replied, ‘but it is to the
business
of books that I am most drawn. I have a small independent publishing company, Whackem
Enterprises. We publish the
Whackem Official Sporting Guides
. You may know them better as the
Whackem Off
Series.

‘Oh, but we have the
Whackem Off Guide to English Cricketers
at home!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘How fascinating that I have now met Mr
Whackem Off
himself!’

She pondered a moment. ‘I always imagined, had I been born in some future time when young ladies might receive as rigorous an education as men, that I might have sought employment in the
same sphere as yourself.’

‘You might have wished to be a publishing executive?’

‘A copywriter, perhaps, or a literary agent.’

Whackem’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe you could consider doing a little proofreading for me?’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘I could not possibly
work
for a living, Mr Whackem! I am far too busily engaged in pacing about the parlour, sticking pressed flowers in scrapbooks and
embroidering cushion covers.’ And yet she was not so lacking in pride as to deny that his talk of employment was flattering. The idea of enlisting her mind outside the domestic sphere
appealed to her vanity, and, for a brief moment, she allowed herself to entertain the tantalizing thought.

The talk continued about Meryton, and forthcoming recitals and balls, but Elizabeth found herself chiefly wishing to hear what she could not hope to be told: the history of Whackem’s
acquaintance with Mr Darcy. Her curiosity was unexpectedly relieved, however, when Mr Whackem began the subject himself.

‘We have a mutual acquaintance, I understand; one who abides at Netherfield.’

‘You refer to Mr Darcy?’

‘The very same. We are not on friendly terms. He has, in the past, used me very ill.’

Elizabeth’s interest was at once piqued.

‘I can never be in the company of Mr Darcy without being grieved by a thousand painful recollections,’ Whackem continued. ‘We grew up in the same household – my father
managed the Pemberley estate – and he and I were boyhood companions, although I believe he disliked me even then. Later we were both sent to Beaton together.

‘I had a teddy bear that I loved very much – Mrs Pickles was her name. She was given to me by Darcy’s own father, the best man that ever lived. How I loved Mrs Pickles! She
came with me everywhere.’

Elizabeth frowned. ‘Forgive me, Mr Whackem, for interrupting your account, but I believe teddies have yet to be invented.’

‘It is a deliberate anachronism, Miss Bennet,’ said he, ‘probably due to laziness on the part of the author. May we just gloss over it?’

‘Of course. Please, continue.’

‘One day, I woke to find Mrs Pickles was not in bed beside me as she was accustomed to be. She had quite vanished. How I searched in vain! Mrs Pickles was truly lost, it seemed, and my
tears could not be stemmed. I was tender-hearted, you see, at that young age.’

‘How old, may I ask, were you?’ Elizabeth enquired.

‘I was but fifteen.’

Elizabeth was deeply moved. The loss of a teddy bear, for one so young! It was sure to have scarred his character irreparably.

‘At length,’ Whackem continued, ‘Mrs Pickles’s whereabouts was discovered. It seems Fitzwilliam Darcy had taken her.’ Whackem discreetly brushed away a tear.

‘But what,’ asked Elizabeth, after a pause, ‘can have been his motive?’

‘The pleasures of the flesh, Miss Bennet. Or in this case, the fluff. He had Mrs Pickles tied to his bedpost, whipped her, and used her sorely in a way that is not fit to describe in the
presence of a young lady.’

Elizabeth let out a gasp. How could Mr Darcy be so cruel? To treat a soft toy in that way, it was truly monstrous!

‘Mr Darcy declared Mrs Pickles to be his “submissive”, and used his superior rank and connections to ensure that, from thereon, I had no claim upon my dearly loved toy. Mrs
Pickles was kept in a makeshift sex dungeon under Darcy’s bed, and flogged and debased on a daily basis. There was nothing I could do to save her.’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘How could this be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?’

‘I am a man of honour, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Whackem said sadly. ‘I would never knowingly do anything to sully the memory of Mr Darcy’s late father, whom I held most dear. I
thank God that he is dead and buried, and does not know of the shame his kinky son has brought upon the family name.’

‘I had not thought Mr Darcy so bad as this,’ Elizabeth confessed, ‘althought I admit, I do find him disturbingly oversexed. I imagined he would attempt to penetrate anything
with a pulse, and may even harbour lustful designs on melons, cream cakes, bolsters, and possibly even garden furniture, but soft toys? Never! It is wicked beyond belief!’

‘You will understand now, Miss Bennet, why he and I are careful to avoid each other?’

‘Is is only natural, Mr Whackem,’ commented Elizabeth. ‘And you need have no fears on my account. He is not welcome at Longbourn, and you are most unlikely to find him there if
you choose to visit us. Which I sincerely hope you will.’

Mr Whackem smiled. ‘I am gratified, Miss Bennet. Come, let us have no more talk of Mr Darcy and his abominable vices. My only consolation is that no woman will ever have to suffer as Mrs
Pickles did, as Mr Darcy will never marry.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Lady Catherine de Burgh has forbidden it, and, for reasons unknown, Mr Darcy would never defy her.’

‘She has some influence over him, then?’ Elizabeth asked, puzzled. She could not imagine that a proud man like Mr Darcy would take orders from a mere woman.

‘Indeed, it seems so. She has known him since he was a young boy. It is possible, I suppose, that he might harbour some affection for her. She is, after all, a very handsome
woman.’

‘Bitch troll!
’ snarled her Inner Slapper, most unladylikely.

‘Does Lady Catherine…’ Elizabeth struggled to find the appropriate words. ‘How is she shaped? Is she tall or short? Is her figure ample or slender? How would she
compare, for instance, to me?’

Mr Whackem glanced briefly at Elizabeth’s modest embonpoint and shrugged. ‘I would say she definitely has bigger knockers.’