Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody Read online

  ‘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.

  My dear girls,

  Have either of you managed to ensnare any of the young gentlemen yet? I am loath to send for you until you have. Jane, you must hitch up the hem of your gown a little; no, make that a lot. You have such shapely thighs, you must show them off to Mr Bingley. And Elizabeth, pray, do not read books in front of the gentlemen, lest they think you a lesbian. You will have more chance of securing the gentlemen’s attention if you giggle girlishly at their witticisms, and, when they win at cards, shriek with excitement while jumping up and down so your bubbies wobble like jellies. It has always worked for me.

  Your loving Mother

  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.

  ‘Good morning, pretty maid,

  Whither are you heading?’

  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.

  ‘To Gloucester, if it please you

  For ’tis my sister’s wedding.’

  ‘Fair maid, it does not please me

  It gives me much vexation

  I told you to stay home

  And eat a pound of bacon.’

  ‘Good sir, please stay your hand

  It’s true I have not eaten.’

  ‘A wicked miss you’ve been

  And now you must be beaten!’

  Thwack, whack, smack!

  Three strokes he did deliver

  Thwack, whack, smack!

  Her flesh was all a-quiver.

  ‘If you disobey me

  You’re sure to be berated

  I’ll flog you with my riding crop

  Until I’m fully sated!’

  Thwack, whack …’

  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 fr
ame 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?’

  But Elizabeth paid no heed. This man, this beautiful, sensual man, was intrigued by her! And she feared that she was, against all wise judgement, becoming equally drawn to him.

  ‘I do believe you would not have fainted if you had eaten before you came here, Miss Bennet,’ Mr Darcy continued. ‘A young lady should take nourishment at least five times a day.’

  ‘I rarely feel hungry, Mr Darcy. But thank you for your concern.’

  Mr Darcy’s eyes darkened.

  ‘You must eat more, Miss Bennet! I insist upon it!’

  At once, Elizabeth’s mood changed from one of desire to one of annoyance. ‘You insist? You presume too much, Mr Darcy. We are of but meagre acquaintance. Insistence is the preserve of those with whom I enjoy more intimate friendship.’

  Mr Darcy’s eyes were blazing now, like a malfunctioning boiler. ‘I do not like to be defied, Miss Bennet,’ he breathed huskily. ‘If indeed I knew you more intimately, I should put you across my knee and spank you!’

  Spank her? Now Elizabeth felt light-headed again. ‘I would remind you, Sir, that we are in polite company. And talk of spanking is both indecorous and insulting.’ Now her own blue eyes blazed, too, with humiliation and anger.

  Mr Darcy stared at her for a long moment. His brow creased, and his expression was pained, as if he was torn between two choices – a cheese sandwich vs tuna mayo, maybe, or between pride and desire.

  All of a sudden, he stood and gave a curt bow.

  ‘Laters, Baby,’ he said stiffly, and turned upon his heel.

  ‘Seriously, what a knobend,’ muttered her Subconscious.

  But that night Elizabeth dreamt of intense grey eyes, muscly arms and huge, throbbing feet.

  The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton, a most convenient distance for the young Bennet ladies, who were tempted thither three or four times a week to visit the milliner’s or to run various errands for their mother and stepfather. Lydia and Kitty were ever more frequent visitors now that a whole regiment of the militia had settled in the neighbourhood for the winter, and even Mrs Bennet was fond of accompanying the girls there for the opportunity of casting her eye upon a pleasing male form made ever more appealing by close-fitting army breeches.

  It happened that Elizabeth walked with her two younger sisters to the village one morning, despite a light autumn drizzle, in order that she might visit the haberdashers for buttons and patronize the poor of the parish with a basket of groceries. Before long, Kitty and Lydia had become distracted by the sight of a red jacket.

  ‘Why, there is Captain Carter!’ Lydia declared. ‘Look, Kitty, he is just coming out of Slaggy Sal’s hovel – I do wonder why he has been visiting her. Pray, let us waylay him and ask!’

  Thus the sisters parted company and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing the village green at a quick pace and tripping over, vulnerably yet somehow sexily, upon the steps of the haberdashery shop.

  ‘Allow me, Miss Bennet.’

  Oh, this was insufferable! Here, yet again, was Fitzwilliam Darcy, the last person she hoped to see in Meryton. His hair was tousled from the rain, and his grey eyes sparkled silver in the dull morning light. He was holding out his powerful hand in order to help her up. Reluctantly, Elizabeth allowed him to lift her from the step, and, using a pocket handkerchief he had taken from his waistcoat, delicately remove one of her teeth from where it had become embedded in her lower lip.

  ‘I worry for your safety, Miss Bennet,’ he murmured, gently dabbing the blood from her chin. ‘It is clearly not healthy for you to be walking about on your own. I will see to it that Taylor accompanies you in future.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bennet.’ Taylor’s head suddenly poked out from behind a horse trough beside the shop. Jeez, he got everywhere!

  Elizabeth would have demurred – she was perfectly able to perambulate the neighbourhood unaccompanied – but her mouth still smarted and, under Mr Darcy’s penetrating stare, she somehow found herself unable to argue.

  ‘Now, Miss Bennet, we must get you out of this rain.’ His eyes surveyed her gown and petticoat. ‘You are wet, I see.’ Now they ran over her embonpoint. ‘And I am stiff …’

  Elizabeth felt a blush blooming from her cheeks down to her chest.

  ‘Stiff, Mr Darcy?’

  ‘Indeed. Bingley and I engaged in an archery contest yesterday. And I fear my aching arms cannot hold this door open for long. Come …’

  She knew not why, but she felt powerless to resist his entreaty. Stepping inside the shop, she feigned concentration, shaking the raindrops from her gown as she tried to regain her composure. Holy catalogue model! Mr Darcy was the very picture of early nineteenth-century hotness. His white linen shirt was freshly pressed and open at the collar, while his grey flannel trousers hung off his hips in a most distracting fashion.

  ‘What brings you to Meryton, Miss Bennet?’

  Mr Darcy’s sensuous, low voice startled her from her reverie.

  ‘Necessity, Mr Darcy. I have a basket of eggs for Granny Egbert, and some butter for Sergeant Butterworth. Oh, and Mr Sexpest requested I bring him some of my unwashed underthings.’

  ‘You are visiting the needy?’ Mr Darcy looked pleasantly surprised. ‘It is most commendable for a young lady to take an interest in good works.’ He gazed at her admiringly, his grey eyes glinting from beneath his floppy copper-coloured locks.

  ‘I, too, am involved with many charitable causes.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir, I have heard much of your benevolence.’

  ‘Then you may kn
ow of my plans to open a refuge for fallen women, here in Meryton?’

  ‘That is most commendable. But it will be necessary, will it not, to find honest labour for the young ladies in question, or they may be tempted back to their licentious ways.’

  Mr Darcy nodded in assent.

  ‘I have considered that, Miss Bennet. I plan to open a tavern in the village, and the girls will work there as serving wenches. I shall call it …’

  He paused, and for a moment his smoky-grey eyes lingered over Lizzy’s heaving bosom.

  ‘… Hooters.

  ‘An unusual name, Sir.’

  ‘It is after my manservant, Mr Hooter, who shall be landlord there.’

  ‘I see,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘And what brings you hither, Mr Darcy?’

  ‘To Meryton?’

  ‘To the haberdashers. We ladies are not accustomed to seeing gentlemen perusing ribbons and trimmings.’

  Mr Darcy cast his eyes about the shop. ‘I come here often, Miss Bennet,’ he replied, with a hint of a smile. ‘There are many accoutrements a gentleman of my nature requires for his private pursuits. See here,’ he murmured, running one of his long index fingers down a length of grosgrain ribbon, suspended from a hook on the wall. ‘This may prove useful.’

  ‘You are preparing a collage, perhaps?’ Elizabeth enquired.

  Mr Darcy’s lips quirked up into a half-smile. ‘No, not a collage, Miss Bennet,’ he murmured.

  ‘Perhaps trimming a pair of curtains?’

  He chuckled softly, as if amused by some private joke. ‘It is true that I favour a pair of neatly trimmed curtains.’ His eyes pierced hers, and for a moment the air between them seemed to hum. Had someone farted?

  ‘Yes, let us say that I am trimming some curtains. Perhaps you could assist me in choosing the materials?’

  He proffered his arm and led her across to the counter, where numerous frills and furbelows and bolts of cloth were displayed.

  ‘How may I oblige you, Mr Darcy, Miss Bennet?’ asked the haberdasher, who, obviously being already acquainted with the former, was nonetheless bowing obsequiously low.