Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody Read online

  When at last Elizabeth entered the ballroom at Netherfield, she searched in vain for Mr Whackem among the cluster of red coats there assembled. She had the suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr Darcy’s pleasure in Bingley’s invitation to the officers. Lydia, who had already conversed with half the soldiers present, soon after delivered the news that Whackem was washing his hair that very evening, and would be unable to attend.

  I do not imagine he would have chosen tonight to attend to his toilette, had he not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here, Elizabeth thought to herself.

  She herself had dressed with more than usual care, borrowing Jane’s plum-coloured silk gown, which accentuated her fine, lissome figure. It was a fact not lost on Mr Collins, who pronounced her to be almost as attractive as his beloved Lady Catherine de Burgh.

  Mr Collins had secured the first two dances with Elizabeth, and for the latter they were dances of mortification and distress. Mr Collins, surprisingly for the former drummer with Genesis, displayed little rhythm, and often moved the wrong way without being aware of it. The moment of Elizabeth’s release from him was ecstasy.

  Discovering Charlotte Lucas in the orangery sneaking a cigarette, Elizabeth believed she had found both a refuge from the attentions of her stepfather’s cousin, and a sympathetic ear.

  ‘Oh Charlotte,’ she sighed, ‘I am beginning to think that I am being singled out among my sisters to be Phil Collins’s mistress.’

  ‘Would that be so disagreeable a thing, Lizzy?’ Charlotte asked reasonably. ‘Mr Collins is of no mean fortune, and with his back catalogue of hits, is sure to earn handsome royalties for many years to come.’

  ‘That, I fear, is not enough to overcome my aversion to his company. I find him both foolish and tiresome. If I have to listen once more to his recollections of the Montreux Music Festival in ’84, I declare I shall top myself!’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘You are too harsh, I think, Lizzy. I find him quite personable.’

  ‘You surprise me, Charlotte! I had thought you more discerning.’

  ‘At least you are attracting some male attention, however unwelcome,’ countered Charlotte. ‘I’ve had to dance with a yucca plant for the last two hours. Anyway, take a look under my petticoat. There should be a bottle of tequila somewhere.’

  The young ladies’ plan to get totalled on cheap booze was soon thwarted, however, as Mr Collins, upon spying Elizabeth rummaging under her friend’s gown, made his way out to the orangery to join them.

  ‘I have found out,’ said he, ‘by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a close acquaintance of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Burgh. How wonderfully these things occur! I am now going to pay my respects to him, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before.’

  ‘You intend to introduce yourself to Fitzwilliam Darcy?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Indeed I am. He is Lady Catherine’s godson, is he not?’

  Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr Darcy would consider his addressing him when improperly attired in a ‘Genesis Reunion World Tour’ T-shirt as an impertinence rather than a compliment to his aunt. ‘He is a proud man and a great stickler for appropriate dress,’ Elizabeth advised him. ‘At the very least put on your tailcoat.’

  ‘Do not distress yourself, dear cousin,’ Mr Collins reassured her. ‘I have made a study of these points of etiquette, and when a man of the cloth, such as myself, is addressing the minor aristocracy, there is No Jacket Required.’

  With that, he made his way across the room to the fireplace, where Mr Darcy stood prodding the coals with his poker.

  Too mortified to witness the unfolding exchange, which would doubtless end in humiliation for Mr Collins and, by extension, to herself, Elizabeth contented herself with watching Jane and Mr Bingley. Their happiness and ease in each other’s company was evident to all, and Elizabeth allowed herself to imagine Jane settled in that very house, in all the felicity that a marriage of true affection could bestow. Mrs Bennet evidently felt the same, as sidling up to Elizabeth, she said in a state of great animation: ‘It goes well, does it not, for your sister? See how Mr Bingley rests his hand upon her buttock!’

  In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to persuade her mother to describe the scene in a less audible whisper, for to her great distress, she sensed that the exchange was overheard by Mr Darcy, who had moved away from Mr Collins at the first opportunity and was now busy colour-coding a nearby fruit bowl.

  ‘I am certainly not afraid to speak my mind in front of him,’ her mother scolded, ‘just because he has ten thousand a year! I dare say he thinks us a bunch of uncouth country bumpkins, but he would not look quite so superior if he knew that earlier, when he was not looking, I pissed in his glass of claret.’

  Glancing sideways, Elizabeth discerned that Mr Darcy was not looking at her mother after all. Indeed, his smouldering grey eyes appeared to be trained, constantly, on her, following her every nuance of movement, every curve of her body. She squirmed under his scrutiny. It may have been Mr Darcy’s persistent appraisal, or the heat of the room, the exertion of dancing or too many tequila slammers, but at length Elizabeth began to feel quite light-headed.

  ‘I must go onto the balcony and take some air,’ she declared to her mother, and, throwing open the doors, stepped into the clear, frosty night.

  ‘Miss Elizabeth, are you not well?’

  Mr Collins had appeared by her side, as if from nowhere, and his beady little eyes were boring into hers. ‘May I be of assistance? Some water, perhaps?’

  Elizabeth gathered some of the hair that had escaped from her chignon and tucked it back behind her ears. ‘Pray, do not trouble yourself, Mr Collins. It is a momentary weakness, that is all.’

  Mr Collins sprang forward so that his hands were upon her waist – they were drummer’s hands, and surprisingly strong.

  ‘Mr Collins! Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘Oh Elizabeth…’ Mr Collins stood up on his tiptoes and attempted to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘No, please do not!’ Elizabeth protested. ‘Stop, I beg you…’

  ‘We could have a Groovy Kind of Love, Elizabeth,’ Mr Collins whispered into her hair. ‘Just let me kiss you…’

  ‘I think the young lady said no!’

  Holy hero! Mr Darcy was standing in the doorway, his rangy yet muscular physique almost blocking out the light from the ballroom beyond. His countenance betrayed a tumult of feelings: rage, passion, indigestion.

  ‘Mr Darcy!’ Mr Collins released Elizabeth at once. ‘Miss Bennet was feeling unwell, and I was giving her succour.’

  Mr Darcy’s voice was clipped. ‘If Miss Bennet is in need of succour, then I should be the person to administer it!’

  ‘I do not need succour at all, I merely need fresh air,’ Elizabeth said in an exasperated voice, bending over an aspidistra – she had an unsettling feeling that she might be sick. ‘Please, I beg you both, leave me alone. I will be quite recovered in a moment.’

  ‘You heard the lady,’ Mr Darcy ordered.

  ‘As you wish, Madam.’ Giving a curt little bow, and a sideways glance at Elizabeth, Mr Collins retreated into the ballroom.

  Mr Darcy strode across to Elizabeth and grasped her, tightly, by the buttocks.

  ‘Are you quite well, Miss Bennet?’ he asked anxiously, his eyes burning with concern.

  ‘Quite well, thank you, Mr Darcy,’ Elizabeth murmured weakly. But just then, to her mortification and dismay, she was caught in a paroxysm of nausea and was violently sick all over Mr Darcy’s calfskin boots. She was aware, as she was bending down, of Mr Darcy holding back her hair with tender care, and then, as she straightened up, of him braiding it deftly into plaits.

  ‘Oooh, that’s better,’ he announced, clapping his hands. ‘Pigtails!’

  Looking upon her ashen countenance, he cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Whatever are we to do with you, Miss Bennet?’ he smirked. ‘You are unused to alcohol
. I take it you did not eat before you came here tonight? Perhaps I could get you a vol-au-vent?’

  ‘I do not need to eat anything,’ Elizabeth said impatiently. What was it with him and food?

  ‘Pray, do not keep defying me, Miss Bennet!’ Mr Darcy ordered. ‘My God, you have no idea what it does to me…’

  Seized by a sudden agitation, Mr Darcy strode about the balcony, his hands balled into fists at his side. After pacing for a minute or so, he turned to her and growled, ‘Do you know what it did to me to see Phil Collins with his arms about you?’

  Elizabeth was astounded, and immediately coloured.

  ‘Put down those damn crayons and look at me!’ Darcy commanded.

  Elizabeth laid her colouring aside, and, tentatively, looked up to meet Mr Darcy’s cold, penetrating gaze.

  ‘You have no idea of the effect you have upon me, Miss Bennet,’ Darcy said, running his hands through his copper hair. ‘You do something to me. Something deep inside.’

  ‘Please,’ Elizabeth groaned, ‘I have had my fill of song lyrics.’

  Mr Darcy seemed to check himself. His face relaxed and, straightening up, he held out his hand. ‘Come…’ he ordered. ‘Dance with me.’

  Elizabeth gazed up into those molten grey eyes, full of erotic promise and dark, dark desires. ‘You still have sick on your boots,’ she breathed. Mr Darcy shook the diced carrot from his feet with one sexy flick of each ankle. How masterful he was!

  Elizabeth felt the eyes of all the assembled company upon her as Mr Darcy led her back into the ballroom. The fiddlers had just struck up a lively tune, and he bowed low, his lips quirking into an amused half-smile.

  ‘Shall we jig, Miss Bennet?’

  Although Elizabeth’s every inclination was to decline, to retreat to the safety of the balcony, she felt inexorably drawn to him, like a mouse is lured by a hunk of cheese towards a steel trap. Into what dangers would her desire for this cheesy hunk lead her?

  Curtseying, she took Mr Darcy’s hand, and allowed herself to be chasséd across the room. He dances so beautifully, thought Elizabeth, as Mr Darcy performed a neat fleuret.

  Her head still swimming from her tequila binge, Elizabeth was soon lost in the music. It was hypnotic: the drummers drummed, the flautists flauted, and the fiddlers kept on fiddling – despite many polite requests to do it in private. Mr Darcy moved sensuously to the rhythm, moving his hips in snake-like patterns, grinding his body against Elizabeth’s and then pulling away – teasing, tantalizing her until she wished for more. As the music reached a crescendo, he span away across the dance floor, performed two high kicks followed by a shoulder shimmy, and then landed – with a high-pitched squeal – in the splits.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ she muttered to her Gaydar.

  Mr Darcy rose languidly from the floor, and made his way through the throng to Elizabeth’s side, never once taking his eyes from hers. She could smell his by-now-familiar leathery scent wafting across the dance floor as he moved, and her insides performed a somersault, with her kidneys ending up somewhere underneath her bladder. There was no denying her powerful attraction to him. Dancing, walking, talking – was there anything Mr Darcy didn’t do sexily? she wondered.

  ‘You look faint, Miss Bennet,’ he said in a voice tinged with anxiety. ‘I trust you are not feeling unwell again?’ He guided her towards a chair. ‘Wait there, I shall fetch you some hors d’oeuvre.’ Before she could speak he was away again, striding purposefully through the dancers as they attempted to do-si-do in formation, scattering them hither and thither and accidentally kicking Carrotslime Bingley in the shins. Jeez, he even collected snacks sexily, thought Elizabeth.

  At that moment, she was distracted by the sound of giggling from underneath the console table to her right. Curious, she lifted up the floral swags and muslin drapery with which it was decorated and peered underneath. In the darkness she could just make out two figures, evidently a man and a woman, closely entwined.

  ‘Why, whatever are you doing there?’ she enquired.

  The figures immediately sprang apart. Elizabeth stared in astonishment as the young lady hastily adjusted the buttons of her gown.

  Her companion reddened.

  ‘Miss Bennet.’ Mr Collins nodded gravely.

  ‘And Charlotte?’ Elizabeth gasped. ‘Is that you?’

  Charlotte Lucas, for it was indeed she, looked up at Elizabeth with a grin that lit up her potato-like face.

  ‘Have you lost something?’ Elizabeth asked, uncertain as to why her stepfather’s cousin and her closest friend were scrabbling under a table like kitchen mice.

  ‘Indeed I have, Elizabeth,’ Charlotte replied with a triumphant smile. ‘My virtue.’

  To be deflowered, by Phil Collins, under a table at a party! This was unwelcome news indeed! Whatever was Charlotte thinking?

  ‘Charlotte! I confess I am shocked! I had not thought you would give up your virtue so easily.’

  ‘Oh, get real, Elizabeth,’ Charlotte sighed. ‘It’s easy for you to say. You’re gorgeous. I, on the other hand, look like the back end of a coach-and-four. We both know I’ve been lucky to get rid of it at all.’

  Poor Mr Collins was by now the colour of Elizabeth’s gown. ‘Please . . . this is a most indelicate situation. I have taken advantage of Mr Bingley’s hospitality most grievously. You must forgive me, ladies…’ He attempted to scrabble to his feet, but only succeeded in hitting his bald head upon the underside of the table.

  ‘But Charlotte, did you even ever consider the consequences?’ Elizabeth said with passion. ‘What would happen if you got with child?’

  Mr Collins turned an even deeper shade of puce. ‘Please rest assured, you need have no worries on that score,’ he mumbled, his eyes fixed upon the floorboards. ‘I Missed Again.’

  Elizabeth was not sure whether to be insulted or amused. Not an hour before, Mr Collins had been making protestations of love to her, and assuring her of the strength of his affections in no uncertain terms. Yet here he was, getting his leg over Charlotte Lucas under a console table. She felt no jealousy, however, only relief; if Mr Collins truly had transferred his affections to Charlotte, she would no longer have to entertain the prospect of becoming his mistress.

  She heard footsteps approaching behind her and hurriedly dropped the tablecloth, anxious that her best friend’s disgrace remain undiscovered for at least a few more moments.

  A husky, familiar voice murmured, ‘Titbits?’

  She whirled round and was once again caught in the mesmerizing gaze of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  ‘If you must demean me by calling me by a pet name,’ she declared with what she hoped was hauteur, ‘I would rather it was anything but that.’

  Mr Darcy seemed amused. His grey eyes danced with merriment as he held out a plate laden with sugared almonds, sugared plums and deep-fried cheese balls.

  ‘I was referring to these titbits, Miss Bennet.’ He looked so smug, so pleased with himself, Elizabeth was once again roused to anger.

  ‘What is it with you and food?’ she burst out. Damn her cheap stays, they were ridiculously flimsy! Blushing, she tucked her bosom back into place.

  ‘What is it with you and food?’ she repeated, this time without bursting out.

  Mr Darcy’s expression darkened. ‘Do not ask me that, Miss Bennet.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Believe me, you do not want to know the answer.’

  ‘I do. That’s why I asked you.’

  Mr Darcy’s grey eyes had lost their warmth now, and turned dark as the blackest sea. His palm was twitching, as if it had a life of its own. What was going through his mind? Elizabeth wondered. Which of his fifty shades was she witnessing? Suddenly, Mr Darcy’s palm lifted high in the air, quivered there for one tantalizing moment, then swept down and landed – thwack! – upon Elizabeth’s reticule. Her whole body shuddered, both with dismay and shame.

  ‘That is what you get for defying me!’ Mr Darcy growled, and with that, he turned upon hi
s heel and stalked away without looking back.

  Elizabeth found herself unable to speak, so badly shaken was she by the turn of events. Her legs felt suddenly weak and, putting out a hand to steady herself, she sank onto a nearby chair. ‘Thank heavens I brought my reticule out with me tonight,’ she shuddered, ‘or that smack would have landed right on my beaver.’

  Thus it was settled. Charlotte was to marry Phil Collins. The arrangement would come to an end in a few years, when Mr Collins met someone younger and prettier, and as part of the settlement, Charlotte would receive Hunsford Priory.

  Elizabeth found it hard to reconcile herself to so unsuitable a match. It would be impossible for her friend to be happy, she believed, with Phil Collins pawing at her day and night.

  ‘But I am not like you, Elizabeth,’ Charlotte countered. ‘I have not the advantage of your good looks, your wit. I just need to get out of Meryton. It’s dead round here.’

  ‘And you believe sharing a bed with Mr Collins is a small price to pay?’

  ‘I would shag the Prince Regent if I had to.’

  Charlotte could not be swayed, and so Elizabeth made a strong effort of will to reconcile herself to the match. Charlotte’s departure for Hunsford was imminent – Mr Collins being so eager to introduce her to Lady Catherine de Burgh – and with the prospect of losing her close friend, Elizabeth turned increasingly to Jane.

  Her sister’s happiness was a cause of great anxiety for Elizabeth, who noted that Mr Bingley had called only once in the week following the ball. Now they heard he would be absent from Longbourn for another week, having gone to London on business with Mr Darcy – a fact that caused Elizabeth much relief.

  ‘You have not put out enough!’ Mrs Bennet berated Jane. ‘Gentlemen wish to feel that all is not hopeless in a courtship. A sneaky feel behind the shrubbery, or a glimpse of nipple in the rose garden, is enough to keep their ardour aflame.’