Authors: Peter Archer
Bad Austen (10 page)
Wickham stood outside the regimental headquarters in his fine red coat, the morning sun blazing upon his handsome dark curls, and rubbed a door panel with a soft bit of chamois. Seeing his own dashing reflection, he preened, but his attention was caught by a flash of lavender in his peripheral vision. Miss Lydia Bennet and her sister Kitty approached, taking their morning constitutional through Meryton so that they might enjoy the view of handsome soldiers in fine regimentals.
“Well, Mr. Wickham, whose fine barouche are you polishing?”Lydia exclaimed.
Wickham shrugged with some degree of feigned indifference. “This old thing? A gentleman practically begged me to take it. He had promised to donate a few pounds to a kitten rescue agency, you see, and found himself short. I had to think of the kittens, Miss Bennet.”
Lydia clasped her hands to her breast. “Dear generous Wick-ham, the kittens! You are too good!”
Wickham slowly ran the chamois down the length of the barouche, rubbing it in slow, languorous circles. Was it possible that Lydia’s breath had quickened just a bit?
Kitty scowled. “We have no use for kittens. Everyone knows we are quite mad about puppies. It is for puppies that we go simply wild. Kittens, indeed!”
“Never listen to Kitty, dear Wickham,” Lydia cried. “Indeed, I always say there is nothing quite so handsome as a man with a collection of kittens in a fine gleaming barouche!”
“You say no such thing, and I shall tell Mama you are being vulgar,” Kitty hissed. She stuck her tongue out at Lydia and retreated to the milliner’s shop.
“Miss Lydia,” said Wickham, sliding his fingers gracefully along the barouche’s leather upholstery, “I have it from your sister Elizabeth that soon you shall be removed to Brighton as a guest of Mrs. Foster’s. Is this mere rumor, or dare I hope to see you at the Assembly Rooms of that fine town?”
Lydia noticed his hand softly caressing the bright red seats of the barouche and felt her pulse begin to pound. Surely, all this talk of kittens and barouches could not be distracting her so! Why, just recently Lydia had actually taken the time to read a book—well, perhaps not really read, but skim over—and had found herself having to loosen her stays while perusing the description of a carriage being plundered by highwaymen. Why, just the memory of the word
plunder
made Lydia catch her breath a bit and feel somewhat tingly in parts of her body of which a lady never spoke.
Recollecting where she was, Lydia blushed prettily and regained her composure. “If my sister Lizzie tells you I am to go to Brighton, then it must be true, Mr. Wickham. I will indeed be in Brighton very soon.”
Wickham stepped back, noticing a tiny speck of dust on the side of the barouche, marring the vehicle’s perfect appearance. “Oh dear. A spot. It cannot be borne, Miss Lydia. Do excuse me a moment.” He leaned in close to the side of the barouche, opened his mouth, and exhaled warmly onto the speck. The gleaming wood, polished within an inch of its life, fogged at the heat of his breath, and when Wickham pressed his thumb to the warm spot and rubbed it gently, Lydia thought that she might faint right there on the street.
“Wickham,” she gasped, a catch in her throat. “Will you come find me in Brighton?”
He glanced up at her, licking his lips gently. “Would you like that, Miss Bennet?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “We could perhaps take a ride in your barouche.”
“Indeed we could,” he murmured, rising to his feet so that he could look down at her. “And perhaps, Miss Bennet, we could pay a visit to the kitten shelter.”
Lydia closed her eyes and sighed, nearly weeping with joy. She knew that any resolve she might have had before this day would be lost, along with her virtue, the moment Wickham came for her in his barouche and took her to visit a houseful of kittens.
I
n a
M
ore
C
anine-
L
ike
M
anner
T
AMARA
H
ANSON
Miss Basset was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little shaken when after only two barks who should enter but Mr. Tabby. Her tail lay straight and still beside her, demonstrating the annoyance she felt to see him only sit and stare at nothing on the wall. She couldn’t help but be curious at his behaviour. Just as she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at him, he began:
“In vain have I tussled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must have noticed the uncontrolled purring, the gazing at you, the slow blinks I have given you. When I greet you nose to nose, I have a strong urge to rub my face against yours and curl up beside you. Miss Basset, I must urge you to ease my suffering and consent to being my napping partner and mate.”
Miss Basset’s bewilderment was beyond expression. She had noticed him blankly staring at her before, but she had been taught that it was the way of his kind. Indeed, she was truly astonished. She paced in a circle, nipped at her sides, and made a low growling whine. She felt none of the great good luck he supposed she would be feeling to be addressed by one with such a pedigree.
She did not bark or snap at him, so he continued: “You must see the aversion I have had to come to this conclusion. In doing so I know I am insulting myself, alienating my family, even going against nature itself, but it cannot be helped. I cannot stop the warmth or fuzziness of my feelings.” He went on with describing how he had tried to sleep away his feelings for her, but in all his usual activities, even pouncing, his mind was only on her and her brown eyes, chubby feet, and blasé expression.
His confidence of her acceptance, his assurance of her docility, and his certainty of getting what he wanted tested her excellent training and obedience too far. Her stubbornness came out as the hair on her back raised and her teeth began to show. She responded at last, “You seem to believe that my faithful and affectionate disposition, even more so than my kin, will cause me to roll over and lay down at your offer. I will not. I am positive the unnaturalness of your feelings, as you have described them, will ensure that this is a short-lived game for you and you can be back to your usual amusements very quickly.”
Mr. Tabby, who was sitting on the mantelpiece, at first stared silently at her. The M on his forehead became more pronounced as he struggled to comprehend her unforeseen response. He licked his paw and flicked his tail as he said, “And this is your response after all the occasions of your trying to entice me by moving your tail slightly under furniture and rolling on your back in the grass. Now I see the training you have had. I did think that the faithfulness and affection of your reported disposition would indeed cause you to jump heartily at my proposal. I clearly see that my assumptions were flawed. I am most astonished at the manner of your refusal.”
“You have expressed the objections you have had to my situation in a most insulting way. You chose to tell me your feelings were against your personality, to the mortification of your family, even counter to your own species! Is that not some cause for incivility, if I was uncivil?”replied she.
“Do you expect me to easily lower myself to your pack’s lack of breeding, submission, or lifestyle? One of your sisters is not even fully housebroken! I am not ashamed of the feelings I related. They were not natural but were just, cozy, and fervent. Perhaps the coolness of my manner in hiding my sentiments was the greatest insult to you. Had I lost my usual snooty haughtiness and acted in a tail-wagging, flattering sort of way, you might have a different response right now. But concealment of my feelings with aloof and dignified conduct was the greatest of evil in your opinion.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Tabby, if you suppose the mode of your behaviour has affected me in any way other than that it spared me the concern I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more canine-like manner.”
With that Mr. Tabby slowly got up and, not wanting to show any of the shame he felt, stretched slowly and thoroughly in his supercilious manner, nudged a vase off the mantel, and walked out.
D
ID
Y
OU
K
NOW?
The Reverend George Austen was a warm, loving father who did all he could to see not only that his ambitious boys succeeded in their professions but also that his brilliant daughter found an audience for her writing beyond the lucky and appreciative family members who acted as her sounding board. This is even more impressive when you realize that it was long before the age of women’s liberation.
Moreover, Reverend Austen might have been excused for thinking that much of Jane’s violent, vice-filled juvenilia was not exactly suitable material for a respectable clergyman’s daughter to be dealing in. Yet he indulged and encouraged her as a child, buying her notebooks and letting her scribble in the parish register the names of imaginary future suitors. In one of the notebooks he gave her, he wrote these sweet words: “Effusions of Fancy by a very Young Lady Consisting of Tales in a Style entirely new.” And we’ve seen how he later wrote to a publisher about
Pride and Prejudice
, even offering to put up his own money to see his daughter’s book published.
Mr. Austen was a great reader (as well as a writer of sermons) and read aloud to his children from his vast library. He let them look through his microscope, which no doubt delighted them. He let them put on plays in his barn. Altogether, the parsonage over which Mr. Austen presided must have been a good place for a child to grow up in.
P
luck and
P
lumage
T
RACY
M
ARCHINI
As was to be expected, the day that Mallard Bingley arrived at the pond was a blustery one indeed. It was not, however, the wind blowing hot air so much as the beak of Mrs. Bennet.
“Mr. Bennet,” she quacked, “I insist that you escort our darling ducklings across the pond immediately. For it’s clear that Mallard Bingley has the ability to take up much of the pond, and we’d certainly want our girls to be friendly with such a duck as that. Look at our dear Quane. She and he would make quite the pair indeed.”