Vignettes
In Defense of a Lady's Honour
. . . A Truth About Mr. Darcy Vignette.
The morning was a cool one; a thick mist hanging heavily in the air and along the ground as the curtain of night began to lift with the ascent of the sun. On the outskirts of London, two men stood in the midst of a dewy field; their backs to each other, pistols pointing skyward. The physician blotted his brow and inquired, not for the first time, whether the two parties might yet be able to reconcile their grievances in a peaceful manner.
Before the offender could answer, his challenger’s strong, haughty voice rang out decidedly, “The time for words of reconciliation has passed. Indeed, this man has spoken far too much for my liking. Let only his actions speak today.”
The physician stepped back and, in a clear, resounding voice, began to count, “One!”
Each man took a step forward, though the difference in their strides and demeanour could not be more obvious. One, long, even, and sure; the other, short, unsteady, and stricken. Indeed, it had taken more than a moment for the second man to will his leaden legs to move at all, though when he did, it was all he could do not to flee in terror and disgrace.
“Two!”
How on earth could a man of his consequence and position in the world have come to be in such an untenable situation? It was in every way unthinkable!
“Three!”
He faltered, his foot most unfortunately finding a rabbit hole, and he stumbled awkwardly before gaining his bearings once more.
“Four!”
His gaze fell to the pistol clasped tightly between his trembling hands. Never in his life had he fired a pistol at anything, not even an animal during a hunt. How, in all that was Holy, would he ever be able to aim such a weapon at another man?
“Five!”
Especially such a tall, powerful, and angry man? he wondered with an involuntary shudder as he swallowed hard. He had never forgotten the expression of animalistic rage that had once graced his opponent’s countenance on one very particular day so many weeks ago in Meryton.
“Six!”
Why, why was he now in this position? Certainly, he decided, one woman hardly merits such a sacrifice on the part of any man, no matter how innumerable her charms!
“Seven!”
Good God, but this is unnerving! he thought desperately as he wiped beads of perspiration from his brow and face. No amount of flattery had been effective in dissuading his opponent from challenging him. He had even groveled, but without success.
“Eight!”
He had been certain that he could talk his way out of it, as he was so well versed in the art of conversation and flattery, especially with those of the fairer sex. It had certainly never failed him before, yet his opponent could not, would not be swayed.
“Nine!”
Fleeting thoughts of his valued living, of his future wife and property—of all that should someday have been his—suddenly raced through his mind. All, all would be gone in the blink of an eye if his aim did not ring true, which he knew it most assuredly would not. He was most heartily certain his was the most hopeless case! Certainly, not even God could help him now.
“Ten!”
His breathing ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, his sweat-soaked clothing clinging to him, he turned with alacrity to see his opponent at not nearly so far a distance as he would have wished; his pistol raised and gleaming in the first full rays of the morning sun. The man’s hand appeared steady, his eyes, cold, and his mouth—his mouth was turned up ever so slightly with an expression he could not quite decipher, nor did he find it advisable to attempt it.
He took a long, staggering breath, aimed his own pistol to the best of his abilities at the striking figure standing not one hundred yards from him, and cocked the trigger.
And then, with a resounding thud, Mr. Collins fell to the ground.
Four pairs of boots raced toward the two men with surprising alacrity. “Good God, Darcy!” Bingley cried. “I declare, man, you have actually killed him!”
Darcy could hardly speak for the shock he felt. “I swear to you, Bingley, I never even cocked the trigger! I do not understand what happened. One minute he was standing upright and the next he was in a heap upon the ground. I hardly know what to say, but I most certainly did not shoot him.”
“Blood!” called the physician from across the way as he bent over a most unconscious Mr. Collins. “There is blood here, on his head.”
Darcy was dumbstruck. He had taken great precautions to make sure the chambers of both pistols were empty. In any case, as much as he would have taken pleasure in it, he was dead certain he had not fired a single shot.
“No, wait a moment,” the physician called again. “It does not appear to be from any bullet wound, only from his having struck his head upon this rock when he fell. There seems to be no visible wound otherwise and I did not hear a shot fired. . .” The physician shook his head slowly and scratched his chin. “Astounding! I do believe the poor man actually fainted! In all my years I have never before witnessed such a thing at such a time, but I do suppose it was bound to happen eventually.”
Darcy, Bingley, Mr. Hurst, and Mr. Bennet had all gathered 'round the fallen parson; and there they stood, each with expressions upon their faces that ranged from amusement, to pity, to incredulity, to outright alarm. Mr. Hurst took out a hip flask and nudged Mr. Collins’ portly body rather roughly with his boot. “I daresay the doctor is right, by God. The blasted fool is out cold.” Then he took a long, satisfying drink before grunting and offering his flask to Darcy.
Darcy nudged his hand away and, with a furrowed brow, knelt down to have a better look at Mr. Collins’ pistol. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “That obsequious little snit actually cocked the trigger!” he exclaimed with horrified indignation. “I do believe he meant to shoot me!”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “Well, what did you expect, Mr. Darcy? You challenged him to a duel! Surely, you cannot have expected the poor man simply to roll over and play dead? Though,” he added in a tone of much amusement, “he does seem to be playing the part quite admirably, if you ask me.”
Bingley and Hurst chuckled while Darcy scowled darkly. “I had no intention of actually dueling with him, you know I had not. I meant only to frighten the prig of a man enough to put a stop to his incessant meddling in my affairs. I certainly never expected the insipid man to accept such a challenge. Stupid twit,” he muttered under his breath as he raked his hands through his hair.
“Even so,” said Mr. Bennet as he waved his hand, “my poor, ridiculous cousin had no way of knowing this was all just a farce. I confess, I felt inclined to reveal your plan to him on several occasions—Lord knows he crowed over the unfairness of it frequently enough to give me a pounding headache—but the promise of watching this folly unfold was simply too much of a temptation for me to risk enlightening him. He did, after all, dare to slander my Lizzy.”
Mr. Collins stirred then and all four gentlemen took several steps back while the good doctor remained close at hand. “Mr. Collins, sir,” he asked, “how do you feel? Do you know what year it is?”
Mr. Collins stared at him, clearly taken aback by such a question. “Of course, it is the year twelve, my sir. And what, may I ask, is your name? There is a familiarity about you, but I am afraid the nature of our acquaintance escapes me at present.”
“I am Doctor Carter, Mr. Collins. I am afraid you have fainted.”
The clergyman started, smirked, and then waved him off, saying, “That is simply not possible my good man, for—and here, I am afraid that I must flatter myself, you see—since I have always been of a hearty, robust constitution and not at all prone to those fits of weakness which, as you, in your own noble profession, I am sure, may have readily discovered to be so rampant in others who are of a far less sound and impure character and, therefore, open to all the vises and temptations that are, no doubt, put in our way by the devil himself for the sole purpose of throwing us off the divine path of enrichment and purity while we proceed through our humble lives on our exalted journey to the hereafter.”
Dr. Carter regarded his patient with a look of absolute incredulity, clearly concerned by such a lengthy declaration from one who had just suffered an injury to his head. Mr. Hurst, however, rolled his eyes and snorted derisively. “Oh, for the love of God. I say, Darcy, you had better explain again why the devil you decided not to use bullets in those blasted pistols. This one’s a right bore, if you ask me. I daresay you would have done us all a great service if you had only put him out of his misery.”
Mr. Collins looked up in astonishment to see the other gentlemen staring down upon him; Mr. Hurst, with contempt; Mr. Bennet and Bingley, with amusement. He caught sight of Darcy’s scowling countenance and suddenly recoiled in terror. No doubt, his memory was not jarred where that gentleman was concerned. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally emitting no more than a high pitched squeak.
Darcy raised one brow and said dryly, “As eloquent as ever, I see, Mr. Collins.”
“My dear, Mr. Darcy,” he said at long last, quickly jumping to his unsteady feet and assuming a low bow of abject capitulation, “you must believe my sincerity when I say that it most certainly was not my intention to inconvenience you further by so thoughtlessly and selfishly fainting just as you were about to shoot me dead, for, I would never dream of perpetrating such an affront against you, especially after you were so intent on singling me out in such an exalted manner by bestowing upon me the very great honour of facing you here, so that you might exact some sort of compensation—however primitive and savage it may be—for the heinous slander that spewed forth from my accursed mouth so freely with regard to your betrothed. I say betrothed, you see, rather than intended, because your poor, dear, sweet cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, is the only lady, you see, who is truly entitled to bear the very great distinction of that honour. Indeed—”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy warned, his tone venomous, “have you still no proper sense in that ridiculously thick head of yours? How is it possible that you continue to speak of a matter that has most assuredly brought you to be here in the first place?” Darcy gestured wildly to the surrounding field, his nostrils flaring in his anger.
Mr. Collins shuddered and, miraculously, fought to remain quiet. It lasted all of ten seconds. “Please, Mr. Darcy! I am certain beyond a doubt that your aunt, the most affable and condescending Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would by no means approve of such rash and barbaric behaviour on the part of her own nephew and future son-in-law.”
Upon seeing Darcy’s eyes narrow dangerously and his colour heighten, he raised a shaking hand to his lips and said, “Oh, I did not mean to imply that you are not to marry Miss Elizabeth, sir, indeed, I did not! It is only that she would be far better suited to marrying a man of my own situation in life; but, alas, I now find myself promised to another. . .and, as you have already compromised her, I see no other alternative laid before her other than for you to lead her to the altar. Of course, you must not think upon the scandal that marrying so far beneath you would certainly cause—no, of course you should not—for I am certain that my dear cousin Elizabeth’s charms shall more than make up for any fall from grace that you and your most exalted family shall incur upon the happy event of your most shameful and scandalous marriage.”
“By God,” Darcy growled through gritted teeth, “someone give me a bloody bullet! I am going to kill the little weasel and hang his hide in the cold room at Pemberley!”
Mr. Bennet stepped up and placed a painfully firm hand upon his arm. With steely eyes focused upon his cousin, he said, “Not so hasty, Mr. Darcy. My Elizabeth is not yet married to you. I believe, as her father, that it is still my responsibility to protect her, and, by God, I shall!”
With that, an enraged Mr. Bennet grabbed Mr. Collins’ discarded pistol and struggled to pull a bullet from the confines of his waistcoat.
“That is all well and good, sir, but not if I can kill him first!” Darcy rounded on his oldest friend. “Bingley! I know you have a bullet on you. Give it to me,” he demanded.
Bingley patted his coat and shook his head helplessly. “Forgive me, Darcy, but I have no bullet on me. I thought you were not intending to shoot him. I regret that I did not think to bring one in case of an untoward occurrence.”
With a smile, Mr. Hurst then pulled several bullets from his top coat. “Here you go, Darcy. I daresay this should do the trick rather nicely.” He took another satisfying swallow from his hip flask and let out an ungentlemanly belch. “If you happen to miss, I have several more you may have as well. Damn, but I love watching some good sport!”
“Thank you, Hurst. I am most obliged,” Darcy said with a nod of his head as he claimed his prize.
Mr. Collins watched in horror as his cousin and his esteemed patroness’ favourite nephew then laboured to see who would claim the distinction of being the first to wrestle his bullet into his weapon.
“Gentlemen, please, I hardly think—” began Dr. Carter, before he quickly fell silent under the menacing glares he received from both men.
“Ah-ha!” shouted a gleeful Mr. Bennet as he waved his loaded pistol in the air. “I shall have first crack at him! Either way it plays out, the entail shall be broken and my wife and remaining daughters shall not have to worry themselves about starving in the hedgerows. I daresay it shall do wonders for Mrs. Bennet’s nerves!”
Mr. Hurst cocked an eyebrow as Mr. Bennet cocked his trigger and said dryly, “I suggest you run for it, Collins, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mr. Collins did not need to be told twice and, as Darcy managed to cock his own pistol, the portly parson took off at top speed toward a nearby thicket.
“Ready!” called Mr. Bennet.
“Aim!” Darcy hollered.
“FIRE! boomed Mr. Hurst, taking another satisfying swig from his flask.
And so they did and, this time, Mr. Collins did not faint.
All four men raced to the thicket. “Bloody hell,” muttered Darcy as he prowled in agitation along the perimeter. “How long do you think he can stay in there, do you think?”
“I hardly know,” replied Mr. Bennet coolly as he loaded another bullet into his weapon, “but I am willing to wait it out. I’ve seen him eat. The glutton will have to come out some time.”
“Blast!” Darcy swore as he ruthlessly thrashed the thick brambles with the barrel of his own pistol. After several minutes, he exhaled in frustration and took a seat upon the ground, raking his hands through his hair. Mr. Hurst handed him his flask and, this time, Darcy accepted it gratefully. He took a long swallow and passed it to his future father-in-law as he eyed the impenetrable thicket. “Would to God I had thought to use swords instead,” he muttered.
The branches within gave a violent shudder and all four men voiced their agreement.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Before the offender could answer, his challenger’s strong, haughty voice rang out decidedly, “The time for words of reconciliation has passed. Indeed, this man has spoken far too much for my liking. Let only his actions speak today.”
The physician stepped back and, in a clear, resounding voice, began to count, “One!”
Each man took a step forward, though the difference in their strides and demeanour could not be more obvious. One, long, even, and sure; the other, short, unsteady, and stricken. Indeed, it had taken more than a moment for the second man to will his leaden legs to move at all, though when he did, it was all he could do not to flee in terror and disgrace.
“Two!”
How on earth could a man of his consequence and position in the world have come to be in such an untenable situation? It was in every way unthinkable!
“Three!”
He faltered, his foot most unfortunately finding a rabbit hole, and he stumbled awkwardly before gaining his bearings once more.
“Four!”
His gaze fell to the pistol clasped tightly between his trembling hands. Never in his life had he fired a pistol at anything, not even an animal during a hunt. How, in all that was Holy, would he ever be able to aim such a weapon at another man?
“Five!”
Especially such a tall, powerful, and angry man? he wondered with an involuntary shudder as he swallowed hard. He had never forgotten the expression of animalistic rage that had once graced his opponent’s countenance on one very particular day so many weeks ago in Meryton.
“Six!”
Why, why was he now in this position? Certainly, he decided, one woman hardly merits such a sacrifice on the part of any man, no matter how innumerable her charms!
“Seven!”
Good God, but this is unnerving! he thought desperately as he wiped beads of perspiration from his brow and face. No amount of flattery had been effective in dissuading his opponent from challenging him. He had even groveled, but without success.
“Eight!”
He had been certain that he could talk his way out of it, as he was so well versed in the art of conversation and flattery, especially with those of the fairer sex. It had certainly never failed him before, yet his opponent could not, would not be swayed.
“Nine!”
Fleeting thoughts of his valued living, of his future wife and property—of all that should someday have been his—suddenly raced through his mind. All, all would be gone in the blink of an eye if his aim did not ring true, which he knew it most assuredly would not. He was most heartily certain his was the most hopeless case! Certainly, not even God could help him now.
“Ten!”
His breathing ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, his sweat-soaked clothing clinging to him, he turned with alacrity to see his opponent at not nearly so far a distance as he would have wished; his pistol raised and gleaming in the first full rays of the morning sun. The man’s hand appeared steady, his eyes, cold, and his mouth—his mouth was turned up ever so slightly with an expression he could not quite decipher, nor did he find it advisable to attempt it.
He took a long, staggering breath, aimed his own pistol to the best of his abilities at the striking figure standing not one hundred yards from him, and cocked the trigger.
And then, with a resounding thud, Mr. Collins fell to the ground.
Four pairs of boots raced toward the two men with surprising alacrity. “Good God, Darcy!” Bingley cried. “I declare, man, you have actually killed him!”
Darcy could hardly speak for the shock he felt. “I swear to you, Bingley, I never even cocked the trigger! I do not understand what happened. One minute he was standing upright and the next he was in a heap upon the ground. I hardly know what to say, but I most certainly did not shoot him.”
“Blood!” called the physician from across the way as he bent over a most unconscious Mr. Collins. “There is blood here, on his head.”
Darcy was dumbstruck. He had taken great precautions to make sure the chambers of both pistols were empty. In any case, as much as he would have taken pleasure in it, he was dead certain he had not fired a single shot.
“No, wait a moment,” the physician called again. “It does not appear to be from any bullet wound, only from his having struck his head upon this rock when he fell. There seems to be no visible wound otherwise and I did not hear a shot fired. . .” The physician shook his head slowly and scratched his chin. “Astounding! I do believe the poor man actually fainted! In all my years I have never before witnessed such a thing at such a time, but I do suppose it was bound to happen eventually.”
Darcy, Bingley, Mr. Hurst, and Mr. Bennet had all gathered 'round the fallen parson; and there they stood, each with expressions upon their faces that ranged from amusement, to pity, to incredulity, to outright alarm. Mr. Hurst took out a hip flask and nudged Mr. Collins’ portly body rather roughly with his boot. “I daresay the doctor is right, by God. The blasted fool is out cold.” Then he took a long, satisfying drink before grunting and offering his flask to Darcy.
Darcy nudged his hand away and, with a furrowed brow, knelt down to have a better look at Mr. Collins’ pistol. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “That obsequious little snit actually cocked the trigger!” he exclaimed with horrified indignation. “I do believe he meant to shoot me!”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “Well, what did you expect, Mr. Darcy? You challenged him to a duel! Surely, you cannot have expected the poor man simply to roll over and play dead? Though,” he added in a tone of much amusement, “he does seem to be playing the part quite admirably, if you ask me.”
Bingley and Hurst chuckled while Darcy scowled darkly. “I had no intention of actually dueling with him, you know I had not. I meant only to frighten the prig of a man enough to put a stop to his incessant meddling in my affairs. I certainly never expected the insipid man to accept such a challenge. Stupid twit,” he muttered under his breath as he raked his hands through his hair.
“Even so,” said Mr. Bennet as he waved his hand, “my poor, ridiculous cousin had no way of knowing this was all just a farce. I confess, I felt inclined to reveal your plan to him on several occasions—Lord knows he crowed over the unfairness of it frequently enough to give me a pounding headache—but the promise of watching this folly unfold was simply too much of a temptation for me to risk enlightening him. He did, after all, dare to slander my Lizzy.”
Mr. Collins stirred then and all four gentlemen took several steps back while the good doctor remained close at hand. “Mr. Collins, sir,” he asked, “how do you feel? Do you know what year it is?”
Mr. Collins stared at him, clearly taken aback by such a question. “Of course, it is the year twelve, my sir. And what, may I ask, is your name? There is a familiarity about you, but I am afraid the nature of our acquaintance escapes me at present.”
“I am Doctor Carter, Mr. Collins. I am afraid you have fainted.”
The clergyman started, smirked, and then waved him off, saying, “That is simply not possible my good man, for—and here, I am afraid that I must flatter myself, you see—since I have always been of a hearty, robust constitution and not at all prone to those fits of weakness which, as you, in your own noble profession, I am sure, may have readily discovered to be so rampant in others who are of a far less sound and impure character and, therefore, open to all the vises and temptations that are, no doubt, put in our way by the devil himself for the sole purpose of throwing us off the divine path of enrichment and purity while we proceed through our humble lives on our exalted journey to the hereafter.”
Dr. Carter regarded his patient with a look of absolute incredulity, clearly concerned by such a lengthy declaration from one who had just suffered an injury to his head. Mr. Hurst, however, rolled his eyes and snorted derisively. “Oh, for the love of God. I say, Darcy, you had better explain again why the devil you decided not to use bullets in those blasted pistols. This one’s a right bore, if you ask me. I daresay you would have done us all a great service if you had only put him out of his misery.”
Mr. Collins looked up in astonishment to see the other gentlemen staring down upon him; Mr. Hurst, with contempt; Mr. Bennet and Bingley, with amusement. He caught sight of Darcy’s scowling countenance and suddenly recoiled in terror. No doubt, his memory was not jarred where that gentleman was concerned. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally emitting no more than a high pitched squeak.
Darcy raised one brow and said dryly, “As eloquent as ever, I see, Mr. Collins.”
“My dear, Mr. Darcy,” he said at long last, quickly jumping to his unsteady feet and assuming a low bow of abject capitulation, “you must believe my sincerity when I say that it most certainly was not my intention to inconvenience you further by so thoughtlessly and selfishly fainting just as you were about to shoot me dead, for, I would never dream of perpetrating such an affront against you, especially after you were so intent on singling me out in such an exalted manner by bestowing upon me the very great honour of facing you here, so that you might exact some sort of compensation—however primitive and savage it may be—for the heinous slander that spewed forth from my accursed mouth so freely with regard to your betrothed. I say betrothed, you see, rather than intended, because your poor, dear, sweet cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, is the only lady, you see, who is truly entitled to bear the very great distinction of that honour. Indeed—”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy warned, his tone venomous, “have you still no proper sense in that ridiculously thick head of yours? How is it possible that you continue to speak of a matter that has most assuredly brought you to be here in the first place?” Darcy gestured wildly to the surrounding field, his nostrils flaring in his anger.
Mr. Collins shuddered and, miraculously, fought to remain quiet. It lasted all of ten seconds. “Please, Mr. Darcy! I am certain beyond a doubt that your aunt, the most affable and condescending Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would by no means approve of such rash and barbaric behaviour on the part of her own nephew and future son-in-law.”
Upon seeing Darcy’s eyes narrow dangerously and his colour heighten, he raised a shaking hand to his lips and said, “Oh, I did not mean to imply that you are not to marry Miss Elizabeth, sir, indeed, I did not! It is only that she would be far better suited to marrying a man of my own situation in life; but, alas, I now find myself promised to another. . .and, as you have already compromised her, I see no other alternative laid before her other than for you to lead her to the altar. Of course, you must not think upon the scandal that marrying so far beneath you would certainly cause—no, of course you should not—for I am certain that my dear cousin Elizabeth’s charms shall more than make up for any fall from grace that you and your most exalted family shall incur upon the happy event of your most shameful and scandalous marriage.”
“By God,” Darcy growled through gritted teeth, “someone give me a bloody bullet! I am going to kill the little weasel and hang his hide in the cold room at Pemberley!”
Mr. Bennet stepped up and placed a painfully firm hand upon his arm. With steely eyes focused upon his cousin, he said, “Not so hasty, Mr. Darcy. My Elizabeth is not yet married to you. I believe, as her father, that it is still my responsibility to protect her, and, by God, I shall!”
With that, an enraged Mr. Bennet grabbed Mr. Collins’ discarded pistol and struggled to pull a bullet from the confines of his waistcoat.
“That is all well and good, sir, but not if I can kill him first!” Darcy rounded on his oldest friend. “Bingley! I know you have a bullet on you. Give it to me,” he demanded.
Bingley patted his coat and shook his head helplessly. “Forgive me, Darcy, but I have no bullet on me. I thought you were not intending to shoot him. I regret that I did not think to bring one in case of an untoward occurrence.”
With a smile, Mr. Hurst then pulled several bullets from his top coat. “Here you go, Darcy. I daresay this should do the trick rather nicely.” He took another satisfying swallow from his hip flask and let out an ungentlemanly belch. “If you happen to miss, I have several more you may have as well. Damn, but I love watching some good sport!”
“Thank you, Hurst. I am most obliged,” Darcy said with a nod of his head as he claimed his prize.
Mr. Collins watched in horror as his cousin and his esteemed patroness’ favourite nephew then laboured to see who would claim the distinction of being the first to wrestle his bullet into his weapon.
“Gentlemen, please, I hardly think—” began Dr. Carter, before he quickly fell silent under the menacing glares he received from both men.
“Ah-ha!” shouted a gleeful Mr. Bennet as he waved his loaded pistol in the air. “I shall have first crack at him! Either way it plays out, the entail shall be broken and my wife and remaining daughters shall not have to worry themselves about starving in the hedgerows. I daresay it shall do wonders for Mrs. Bennet’s nerves!”
Mr. Hurst cocked an eyebrow as Mr. Bennet cocked his trigger and said dryly, “I suggest you run for it, Collins, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mr. Collins did not need to be told twice and, as Darcy managed to cock his own pistol, the portly parson took off at top speed toward a nearby thicket.
“Ready!” called Mr. Bennet.
“Aim!” Darcy hollered.
“FIRE! boomed Mr. Hurst, taking another satisfying swig from his flask.
And so they did and, this time, Mr. Collins did not faint.
All four men raced to the thicket. “Bloody hell,” muttered Darcy as he prowled in agitation along the perimeter. “How long do you think he can stay in there, do you think?”
“I hardly know,” replied Mr. Bennet coolly as he loaded another bullet into his weapon, “but I am willing to wait it out. I’ve seen him eat. The glutton will have to come out some time.”
“Blast!” Darcy swore as he ruthlessly thrashed the thick brambles with the barrel of his own pistol. After several minutes, he exhaled in frustration and took a seat upon the ground, raking his hands through his hair. Mr. Hurst handed him his flask and, this time, Darcy accepted it gratefully. He took a long swallow and passed it to his future father-in-law as he eyed the impenetrable thicket. “Would to God I had thought to use swords instead,” he muttered.
The branches within gave a violent shudder and all four men voiced their agreement.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Drabbles
What exactly is a Drabble, you ask?
A drabble is an exercise in writing that is no more than one hundred words in length. Several of the ones you'll find here were originally posted as part of a game on another site devoted to Jane Austen inspired fanfiction. Upon posting a drabble, each participant was obliged to leave another "topic" so to speak, to inspire the next person. I've found writing drabbles to be a wonderful way to challenge my creativity and have a little fun at the same time.
Indeed He Shall
Though the song had been requested by another, his heart whispered that she played to none but him. He could not but admire the way her slender fingers danced over the ivory keys; her bottom lip caught adorably between her teeth as she fumbled her way through the more difficult passages. Oh! But to have those fingers dancing over his body and coaxing a glorious melody from his mouth! To caress those full lips between his own as he claimed her in all the ways he desired! Their eyes met and held and, suddenly, he knew what he must do.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Enough of This Foolishness
In vain did he wait for an opportunity to speak with her alone, for none managed to present itself. It seemed that all the forces of providence had conspired against him, including his cousin, who took great pleasure in drawing Miss Bennet's attention to himself. Darcy, for want of a fortified plan, sat glaring at the two of them. Their laughter vexed him, for it was he who wished, more than anything, to hear his own laughter mingled with hers. Did Fitzwilliam not see that Elizabeth was his? That he loved her? Enough was enough. He would carry his point.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Officers! How Wonderful!
"...and for the dessert course we shall have a chocolate torte. Does that not sound simply heavenly, Mr. Darcy?"
Bingley rolled his eyes. "I assure you, Caroline, that such trouble will hardly be necessary. Darcy and I will be dining tonight with the officers."
"Dining with the officers," she sneered. "How wonderful."
Darcy's expression darkened. He was by no means looking forward to spending an evening in the company of George Wickham, yet was forced to concede that even Wickham was preferable to Miss Bingley.
Caroline nonchalantly smoothed her gown. "Perhaps I will ask Jane Bennet to join me, then."
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.
Bingley rolled his eyes. "I assure you, Caroline, that such trouble will hardly be necessary. Darcy and I will be dining tonight with the officers."
"Dining with the officers," she sneered. "How wonderful."
Darcy's expression darkened. He was by no means looking forward to spending an evening in the company of George Wickham, yet was forced to concede that even Wickham was preferable to Miss Bingley.
Caroline nonchalantly smoothed her gown. "Perhaps I will ask Jane Bennet to join me, then."
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2008. All rights reserved.