Dancing with Mr. Darcy Part 9

Lucy leaned over and picked up the guide book.

'Um, cross st.i.tch-' she read aloud.

'Boring,' Anna said.

'Charades-'

'Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely.'

'Pianoforte recitals!' Lucy's eyes lit up. 'Oh, let's do that there's a piano in the room next door and I love that bit in Sense and Sensibility where Marianne and Willoughby play together and he's watching her in that way you know, all rakish and sort of brooding and repressed-'

'Please!' Anna rolled her eyes.

'Can anyone play the piano?' Rachel asked hopefully. I suddenly found all eyes on me.

'No,' I said firmly (and truthfully).

'But you're a schoolteacher,' Anna said.

'And?'

'All my teachers could play the piano.' 'And mine,' Lucy said. 'Mine too,' Rachel added.

'Well, good for them.' I shrugged. 'Because I can't, sorry.' Three collective sighs of disappointment echoed around the woodpanelled walls. Which was a bit rich, I thought three years of teacher training had equipped me with a diverse range of skills: cla.s.sroom management, extracting pencil rubbers from the ears of small children and the ability to construct lifelike models of dinosaurs to scale from bits of papier mache and Copydex. Mastering a musical instrument seemed to have been squeezed out of the modern Cert Ed curriculum. I explained this to my dear, loyal friends.

They remained unimpressed.

'All my teachers could play piano,' Anna reiterated, adding, 'no wonder kids can't read anymore and spend the whole time happy-slapping strangers in the street. Typical.' Before I could defend myself, she stood up. 'I'm going for a f.a.g,' she said and swept grandly out of the drawing room. Which left three of us.

'I'll go and check on Oscar,' Lucy said, getting to her feet. 'If he's still got a temperature I should really take him home sorry, Rachel.' She looked apologetic. 'It's not very child-friendly here, is it? With the toilet and hygiene and everything-'

So then there were two.

Rachel started to sniffle. But all was not lost! I resolved then, dear reader, to save the day. I couldn't provide a rakish piano-playing suitor, an evening of sparkling yet genteel amus.e.m.e.nts or even a workable flus.h.i.+ng loo for my party, but I had at my disposal something far, far superior. The one thing guaranteed to unite a group of females in even the direst of circ.u.mstances.

Cake.

I shouldn't have shouted at Lucy. It wasn't Oscar's fault that he'd gatecrashed our hen weekend, or blocked the toilet, or even that he'd managed (despite his upset stomach) to demolish the entire hamper of cupcakes in the half an hour we had faffed about in the drawing room. I know I should have held back but it was the icing that did it. All those hours I'd spent, hunched over my kitchen table with the latest Nigella, anointing my home-made delicacies with chocolate sprinkles, little silver b.a.l.l.s and edible flowers. I'd packed them so carefully too, along with my granny's best china and filigree napkins, a confection of girly delight that I knew would gain Rachel's approval and even that of Jane (G.o.d rest her soul) Austen herself. To find Oscar standing there, his grubby toddler mouth encrusted with pink icing was just too much.

'There's no need to be rude,' Lucy sobbed, smoothing his hair.

'Why shouldn't he be allowed a bit of cake?'

'A bit of cake? How much is left exactly, Rachel?'

Rachel peered into the depths of my ravaged wicker picnic hamper.

'None,' she replied. 'Apart from a few crumbs and some hundreds and thousands-'

'None!' I nearly exploded.

'He's not well!' Lucy yelled at me, as if that made it all better.

'We won't be having cake then,' Rachel said sadly and flipped the lid of the hamper shut.

'There's still crumpets,' I said. 'And I can make some tea-' but I knew that was it. The Jane Austen hen weekend ended here; I'd failed her. I was a rubbish chief bridesmaid, a rubbish event organiser and a thoroughly rubbish best friend.

Oscar emitted a loud burp.

'Mummy,' he said in that whiny toddler voice that reminded me why I'd chosen to teach eight-year-olds and not a nursery or foundation cla.s.s. 'I think I do a sick now.'

My beautiful hamper. There was no time to explain politely (not that I was feeling especially polite at that point) to Lucy how priceless it was. Or why, as she thrust it beneath her retching child's chin, it might have been an idea to remove my granny's cherished Royal Doulton and napkins from it first. I could only watch, and whimper.

'Guess what?' Anna burst into the kitchen with a big grin on her face, trailing cigarette ash in her wake.

'What?' I asked weakly.

'The plumber's here and he's proper fit. Quick, come and look!'

We didn't need telling twice.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that all young ladies, when confronted by a single man in possession of a six-pack draped in a crisp, white, wet s.h.i.+rt, will inevitably swoon. The fact that the plumber's s.h.i.+rt was drenched in half a gallon of raw sewage could have taken the s.h.i.+ne off it, but I was willing to overlook that, seeing as he was so handsome. And proper fit.

'Hi,' I said, watching as he wrestled with the waste pipe. 'Shouldn't you be wearing a boiler suit or something?'

'I was at my brother's wedding,' he said, looking up at me with deep brown eyes. 'But I came as soon as I could.'

'Thank you so much.' Our eyes remained locked. Despite this, I still managed to take in all the necessary details: the moody, furrowed brow beneath tousled dark hair, the fixed, firm jaw and the arm muscles that tensed impressively as he did something manly and complicated with a monkey wrench. I could have stood there in that bathroom all evening, oblivious to the sodden floor and heinous smell, if it meant spending more time with this Colin Firth-alike. Until Anna coughed and broke the reverie, reminding me that we had an audience. She stood in the doorway, smirking, along with Lucy, Rachel and Oscar who had thankfully stopped retching but nevertheless was still seriously cramping my style.

'Er, did you want a cup of tea?' I asked our hero, attempting to sound in control.

'No, I'm fine. But I could do with changing this s.h.i.+rt-' and the three of us ladies watched open-mouthed as he loosened the b.u.t.tons.

'Oh, please do,' I said boldly well, I was responsible for this weekend, wasn't I? It was only right to take charge. And it hadn't been a complete disaster, I reasoned, helping him out of his wet things. I wasn't such a bad chief bridesmaid after all. In fact, I had a feeling this weekend was about to get a whole lot better.

And I'm sure Jane would have approved.

My inspiration: Mr Darcy and a blocked toilet. A recent sewage leak in my house inspired me, alongside my love of Jane Austen's novels and happy endings.

ONE CHARACTER IN SEARCH OF HER LOVE STORY ROLE.

Felicity Cowie.

Hannah Peel was dispatched by her author to shadow heroines from Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre.1 Like all CAST cardholders, Hannah was well aware of the Intertextuality Act which had come in around the start of the twentieth century, acknowledging that writers could make use of existing characters, consciously or otherwise. Hannah hoped to use her shadowing work to convince her author that she could take a larger role. While some characters might be comfortable to turn in some very slight work and be used solely to comment on the downfall of the hero, Hannah was not one of them. She suspected her author of being inexperienced. Frequently, Hannah wished she might be commissioned to work with Ali Smith or s.h.i.+rley Hazzard or Kazuo Is.h.i.+guro, but that was unfair. Every author deserved at least a chance to listen to their characters.

When Hannah arrived at the Netherfield Ball she immediately noted that Mr Bingley was dancing with an Unnamed Character at the far side of the floor. Hannah approached Jane Bennet, who was sitting apart, struggling with a word puzzle.

'Miss Bennet? I'm Hannah Peel. I'm going to be the chief female character in a modern novel. I've been sent here, by CAST, to shadow you.'

Miss Bennet put the puzzle book aside and stood.

'You are most welcome to Netherfield, Miss Peel. But I am afraid you have mistaken me for my sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It is she who is the heroine of this novel. I am Jane Bennet and a secondary character in a parallel subplot. Shall I take you to her?'

Hannah studied a print-out of her CAST email.

'No, it says here that my placement is with you. After that I'm off to Thornfield Hall to shadow another Jane.'

'Oh,' said Miss Bennet, her face flus.h.i.+ng with pleasure, 'Miss Eyre! You are to visit Miss Eyre? Please pa.s.s on my warmest regards to her. And to Miss Helen Burns if you should be travelling with Miss Eyre through her Lowood years. They both came to work with me when they were in development. They studied my equanimity.'

She gestured to the couch and she and Hannah sat down together.

'Miss Eyre split her placement between myself and dear Lizzy. She shared Lizzy's desire to argue for the rights of a lower cla.s.s character to hold and express feelings. Miss Eyre studied Lizzy's confrontations with Lady Catherine and Mr Darcy before making her pa.s.sionate speeches to Mrs Reed and Mr Rochester.

'In fact,' said Miss Bennet, lowering her steady voice, 'Miss Eyre came here at first of her own will. For you know that her author was most unhappy with Miss Austen?'2 Laughter exploded from the side of the dance floor. Hannah turned to see a man and woman unsuccessfully attempting to compose themselves, doubling up with further laughter whenever they looked up at one another.

'Who is that?' asked Hannah.

'That is dearest Lizzy and Mr Darcy. They are no doubt attempting their scene where Mr Darcy refers to her as "tolerable" which they both find most amusing.'

'Mr Darcy!' exclaimed Hannah.

'You have already made the acquaintance of Mr Darcy?' asked Miss Bennet very politely.

'Oh no,' said Hannah, 'but a lot of my friends have worked with him. He's a very popular hero just now, after the Andrew Davies adaptation of Pride and Prejudice in 1995 and the subsequent Bridget Jones novels. Oh, Miss Bennet, what's wrong?'

Miss Bennet had started to frown.

'It is nothing, Miss Peel, only that my poor Mr Bingley suffers a little for Mr Darcy's popularity. CAST does not have so much work for Mr Bingley.'

'But Mr Darcy is every woman's ideal man, Jane. Aren't you secretly disappointed that you don't end up with him?'

Miss Bennet shook her head firmly.

'Mr Bingley singles me out from the start of our acquaintance and, as soon as he is sensible of my returned feelings, he proposes marriage to me. But I am not sure that Mr Darcy is always so good a man until Lizzy speaks to him of his improper pride.'

Hannah considered this and said, 'Maybe that's why Mr Darcy is always getting shadowed? Because he gets his act together after Lizzy gives him what for? Gives women authors and readers some belief that they can turn their men about, doesn't it? But Bingley's already an all-round decent bloke from the start.'

Miss Bennet laughed and asked, 'What do you need to learn from me, Miss Peel?'

'Well, like you I'm very attractive and good but, at the moment, stuff sort of just happens to me. My bloke loves me from the start. He proposes and we get married. I get scouted as a model but, I dunno, I don't like it much. I feel just like a coat hanger. I want to have a baby but I'm not sure I get the chance in the novel to tell my husband about what I really want from him.'

Miss Bennet nodded quickly, 'Yes, if Charlotte Lucas had spoken to me, as she does to Lizzy, of the need for me to make my feelings for Mr Bingley plainer, then I do not believe it would have been so easy for others to convince him of my indifference. And we would have wed within the first quarter of the novel-'

'Miss Bennett, would you mind if I take notes?' asked Hannah who now sat poised over a notebook with pen.

'Shall I speak slowly for you, Miss Peel?'

'It's okay. My bloke, Bill, is a super-duper journalist and he's been teaching me shorthand when our author's been asleep. So I should be able to keep up. I've already got up to 100 words a minute.'

Miss Bennet continued, 'It is Mr Darcy who returns Bingley to me after conveying my true feelings for him. And Mr Darcy has them from dear Lizzy. So my happiness rises and falls with Mr Darcy's perceptions of my character. That is rather hard. But I am very blessed at the end of the novel, securing not just my own happiness but also that of my dear family. For you know that until Lizzy and I marry so happily, there is an entail which hangs over us all? My father's death would have left Mama and my sisters in difficult circ.u.mstances if we had married otherwise. Does your marriage please your family?'

'Yes. Like your mum with Bingley, my mum is quick to invite my bloke into our house. He's only 15 and a runaway when we all meet so he lives with me and my parents. He's not like Bingley because when he turns up he's dirt poor, but he's got brains and earning potential. My parents don't care much about the cash. But we're a close family. They like having Bill grow up under the same roof as me. They believe it'll be a safe way for me to fall in love.'

Miss Bennet sighed and said, 'Your parents are perhaps more sensible than my dear father to family responsibilities. I am afraid he learns a very hard lesson when Lydia elopes with Wickham after he fails to heed or check her nature. She is but 15 when she meets Wickham and lacking the prudence brought about by living within loving constraints.'

Suddenly, Miss Bennet smiled, 'Miss Peel, is your man to come and shadow Mr Bingley?'

Hannah shook her head, 'I'm afraid not, Jane. My fella turns out to be rather messed up.'

Miss Bennet said, 'And so that is why you are to go to Thornfield Hall? To shadow Miss Eyre and her poor Mr Rochester?'

When Hannah arrived at Thornfield Hall, Jane Eyre was away from home. Mrs Fairfax invited her into a small, snug room.

'That's Grace Poole,' said Mrs Fairfax gesturing towards a woman sitting at a round table by the fireplace, rapidly shuffling a pack of cards.

'Do you play, Miss-?'

'Peel,' said Hannah, 'I'm Hannah Peel, here to shadow Jane Eyre.'

'And this is Bertha.'

A tall, sad woman turned from the fire, which she stirred with a poker. She extended a nail-bitten hand to Hannah and said, 'Welcome to Thornfield. How long are you to stay with us here?'3 An alarm sounded.

'Goodness, that startled me!' exclaimed Bertha Antoinette, 'Come on, Miss Peel. It's another fire alarm.'

The characters exited the house and waited in the drive for the siren to stop. Adele, Sophie and Leah were already outside. Grace Poole smoked a cigarette and Adele skipped around them all, breathlessly singing 'Sur le pont d'Avignon'.

'Is it a real fire?' asked Hannah.

'I doubt it, Miss Peel,' said Mrs Fairfax, 'it is most likely a test. Mr Rochester thought it best to put in a system so that none of us gets hurt.'4 At that moment-5 At that moment, a slight figure, gripped by a stocky, pugnacious man, could be seen approaching the house from the direction of the chapel.

'Good G.o.d! Miss Eyre's back from the doomed wedding already with Edward. I must return to the third storey,' exclaimed Bertha Antoinette. She started to rip at her clothes and pulled her black hair into disarray as she ran back into the house. The fire alarm stopped. Grace Poole hastily stamped out her cigarette and followed her.

Mrs Fairfax said to Hannah, 'In eight minutes, Miss Eyre will withdraw to her own room. You may be able to speak with her briefly until Mr Rochester arrives. He will sit outside her door before he makes his inappropriate offer of sinful living.'

Hannah knocked on Miss Eyre's door.

'Ed?' exclaimed a voice in surprise.

Hannah entered, 'No, it's me, Hannah Peel. I've come on a CAST placement. I know it's not a great time but-'

'Come in, Miss Peel. I thought it strange that Ed should be knocking at the door. I usually stumble over him sitting in a chair across my threshold, some time in the afternoon.'