Liz glanced out of the steamed up coach window and thought the day couldn’t possibly be more miserable. The heavens had opened the minute they had pulled up outside Sudbury Hall and she was reluctant to reach for her long overcoat and woolly hat that fitted over her ears like a bonnet.
It seemed like everything was conspiring against her. Not only was she almost thirty-nine and still single, last night she had been forced to endure her younger sister’s engagement party where she had attempted to avoid all the usual family questions about her own enduring single status.
“No Mr Right yet?” Her Uncle Edward echoed everyone’s thoughts in the room. “Still sitting on that shelf?” Her mother had tutted out loud as the room fell silent and shook her head sadly. Liz contemplated getting the word ‘spinster’ tattooed on her forehead for her fortieth birthday. Her sister, Jane, had touched her arm sympathetically and rolled her eyes, and Liz caught the radiant glimmer of the diamond engagement ring on her left hand. She spent the rest of the night gulping down thin bubbles of champagne, which had left her with a thick head this morning. The last thing she needed for a coach trip.
And here she was, head banging, with a sorry band of singletons, visiting Sudbury Hall – the location set for the filming of the TV version of her all-time favourite novel, Pride & Prejudice. The dating agency she had joined last year was a little bit different to the ones that promised to match you.com with eternal love, peace and harmony. It was more of a reader’s group that met up to discuss the intricacies of the Victorian novel. It promised good, old fashioned romance. So far, it had delivered the same old story. Liz felt comfortable that it felt more intellectual though.
She took a deep breath as she stepped off the coach into the cold air and found a quiet moment to survey the reading club. There was George Wickham, he liked to be called Wicksy, single all his life, a commitment-phobe who was losing his hair at a much faster rate than he could comb it over. He still lived with his mother. Then there was Bill Collins who was a religious man, very studious by nature, looking for a good, Christian girl to accompany him to church. There were a couple of others, women bordering on middle-aged who had put their desperation out on parade in the hope of catching a uniform man, all clutching the promise of love to their beating hearts, drinking in the romance of Austen’s words. Liz felt as if she was the only cynical character in a novel which was feeling more and more like a comedy of errors. Maybe she would be more suited to Shakespeare and tragedy…
And then there was Darcy. Liz pulled her woolly bonnet down over her ears and watched as long limbed Darcy strode ahead of the pack, the rest of them hot on her heels like a pack of hungry dogs. She was formidable. Tall for a woman, sinewy from running marathons, short red hair spiked around a strikingly feminine face which was home to pearlescent, shimmering emerald eyes. If she weren’t so… manly… she could be a strange kind of heroine, Liz thought to herself.
She dragged along behind the group. She might be an attractive, intelligent and witty woman… but she was rude as hell… and what kind of name was Darcy?
“Darcy the nutcracker…” Liz muttered under her breath as the group made an entrance into the main hall – which all looked vaguely familiar and opulently grand.
“You called?” Liz swivelled round and looked up at Darcy as her nemesis jutted her chin out in defiance.
Liz wasn’t frightened of the Amazonian woman – not like the rest of them. “I was just wondering whether your mother named you after a ballerina,” Liz said matter of factly, attempting an air of nonchalance. They had often clashed during readings of the book. Both had strong opinions on Austen’s narrative and prose and they clashed on subject matter and form. They lost all sense of manners when they were debating the moral fibre of the Victorian novel and where it fitted in with the feminist movement that later followed. Austen gave women a voice, Liz would shout. Yes, but she was never brave enough to step outside of moral boundaries, Darcy would counter! But her social commentary and realism were never surpassed during that era, Liz debated. But she never set her heroines free or questioned their role in that society! Darcy blustered in anger and frustration. She much preferred the Bronte sisters for substance…
Now, Darcy narrowed her eyes as she swept her gaze up and down Liz’s face. “Actually my mother named me after Mr Darcy. She was a big Austen fan… and she never forgave me for not being a boy. Personally, I’m not sure why such an anti-feminist book could still be regarded as relevant in today’s society, and I’m intrigued as to why its story appears to be so enduring. All it’s done is provide an unrealistic blueprint for generations of women who still believe that their destiny and happiness lies in the eternal unity with a man!”
Liz shot Darcy a look. “But isn’t that why we’re all here? This is, after all, a reading club that promises companionship with the hope of a happy ever after?”
Darcy smiled slowly and raised one eyebrow. “And are we sure that those two things make interesting bed fellows?”
Liz blushed scarlet as the tour guide herded them all together and started to regal the small crowd with tales of filming, walking them around the palatial building, pointing out drawing rooms, roaring fires and picture windows framed with original wooden shutters. Liz paused for a moment at one of the windows to enjoy the view – the same one Elizabeth Bennett had looked out over as she contemplated her refusal of Mr Darcy’s marriage proposal. She looked over her shoulder and the crowd was dispersing, given some time to wander and immerse themselves in the history of the location. The sun had suddenly poked its head out of the clouds and started a little argument with the rain to create a rainbow. There was a pond in the distance. And Liz saw Darcy striding towards it. She felt her heart jump as she watched her pull off her short jacket and loosen the button on the back of her skirt. What on earth was she doing?
Liz took flight from the house and followed in Darcy’s footsteps, catching her up, her breath quickening as they reached the edge of the pond where ducks and swans glided gracefully along the smooth surface.
“What are you doing?” Liz demanded, watching as Darcy shrugged off her bright red jumper, her white, flimsy blouse underneath revealing a slim torso and small breasts. Liz turned away. She could see her nipples through the material!
“I thought it was time to stop playing games,” Darcy said, pulling off her boots and letting her skirt fall to the floor revealing a chiffon underskirt. “We’ve been coming to these god forsaken readings for months, listening to all of these sad singletons bemoaning their lot in life, yearning for a bit of passion, living their lives through the characters of a novel written by a woman who’s been dead for over two hundred years. For heaven’s sake, Wicksy had a full head of hair when we started and he’s almost completely bald now! I’ve watched you, Liz, and I know you’re not one of them. I know it in here…” She put her hand to her chest and Liz felt her own heart begin to pound. “I know why you’re almost forty and still not married. And it’s not because you haven’t found the right man, or it hasn’t been the right time. I know why-“
Liz began to protest. “You know nothing about me. You’re arrogant, self-centred and you don’t belong with the rest of us-“
“I know I don’t belong with the rest of them.” Darcy was nodding her head as she looked out over the lake, beginning to wade into the water as Liz covered her open mouth with her hand. “And I wouldn’t want to belong to that particular club.” She was up to her waist in water now – it must have been freezing – and she ducked her head under as Liz watched incredulous.
And then there was the moment. The Darcy moment. She emerged from under the water, the fabric of her blouse and underskirt clinging to her muscular limbs, her short hair plastered against her head and curling at her neck as rivers of water cascaded down between her breasts and thighs. She began to stride out of the pond and Liz dropped her hands to her sides as she felt her antagonism towards this woman turn quickly to attraction. She tried to fight it but the sight of Darcy, standing in front of her, damp from head to toe, her emerald green eyes searching her face, caused her heart to balloon and take flight.
“You see,” said Darcy, taking hold of Liz’s hand and putting it to her lips. “I know that you’re like me and I know how proud you are, and I know how hard it is to fight against the prejudices… even today… but you can’t deny who you are. Not ever. The only way you can find happy ever after, is to be true to yourself.”
Darcy reached down to lift Liz’s chin gently and she kissed her, dripping water down her cheeks and neck. Then she took a small step back and smiled mischievously before adding:
“And we both know that Sense and Sensibility is a much better novel…”
THE END
Mags Winthrop Blog 