Apologies and Amends, by way of free books and other people's poems

First the apology. There will be no Twisted Austen this year. I am so, so sorry, a largely selfish sentiment, as the entire enterprise is entirely self-indulgent. Is it not our own deprivations we most lament? I had an idea, but simply no time to enact it. What writing time I did have was sucked up in the Mixed-up Mash Up madness, which I had targeted for completion last summer. Now NaNoWriMo looms before me, and I don't know how I'm going to shift my head back to Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice. Again. For the third year in a row. I think I'm going to end up trying to  continue working on both books at the same time, which probably means that I will get no where with either. Sigh.

Anyway, on to the amends. 

In lieu of new Twisted Austen and the attendant hoopla, I'm giving away one complete set of the series for Kindle download. Just leave a comment and make sure to either include an email address or that your contact information is accessible through your blogger account. Giveaway is open through Halloween, and the winner will be announced November 1st. 

In addition, as I increasingly dwell on reading with my ten year-old daughter on this blog, here are some dark and/or spooky 19th century poems that I'm hoping to get her to engage in with me this Halloween. I have no idea if she'll respond to any or all. I sought short poems, to suit her attention span, which is why some obvious options are not included. Regardless of Eliza's interest, it is always fun revisiting favorite authors. Maybe you will enjoy them, too. I hope so.

On a Dream

As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
And seeing it asleep, so fled away,
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe where Jove griev’d that day;
But to that second circle of sad Hell,
Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
Their sorrows—pale were the sweet lips I saw,
Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

John Keats (1819)

Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll (1871)

Here is an excellent guide to the word play that Carroll utilizes: https://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/resources/analysis/poem-origins/jabberwocky/.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

Edgar Allan Poe (1829) 

If that goes down well, maybe I'll talk her into reading The Raven, or at least revisiting this beauty:

Happy Halloween!

Räbeliechtli, Jane Austen Style

As you may have gathered, Halloween is important to me. I love any excuse to dress up, so this is a holiday has always suited me perfectly. Unfortunately, the celebrations were very curtailed this year. We were able to participate in some very limited, socially distanced trick-or-treating, a feat rendered easier by the fact that most people do not celebrate Halloween in Switzerland, although it's catching on.

Even though Halloween is my own, much beloved way to celebrate the autumn, I think I was actually far more disappointed to miss out on our new tradition, adopted only since we relocated, and much more akin to the harvest festivals of millennia ago than the candy-fueled masquerade the English speaking world indulges in today. In a normal year, all the school children would have gathered at the top of the town last night (like so much of Switzerland, we’re built on a hill). All the lights would be turned off, revealing windows filled with the Swiss-German equivalent of jack-o-lanterns: Räbeliechtli (ra-ba-leekt-li). In English, this roughly translates "little turnip light." In my town, the school children build parade floats covered in the things, and each one carves a Räbeliechtli to carry, suspended from a string or mounted on a stick like a torch. They parade through the town (this is called the Räbeliechtliumzug), more children and adults joining in along the way, until we all descend en masse upon the main town square, where there is an award for the best float and free sausages for all the kids. It’s really hard to explain the experience, but take my word for it, it is absolutely magical, perhaps particularly because no one ever catches on fire or burns down the town. The atmosphere is perfectly fairytale. It's a tradition I have come to adore in the past five years. I'm really rather devastated it has been cancelled. I had high hopes, before the latest surge in the virus, that we would would still get to do it.

The videos embedded in this post will have to hold me over until next year (please, oh please may life be more normal by then!). Though they are not from my town’s celebration, I chose them because they begin to capture the experience (for images from the biggest Räbeliechtliumzug in Switzerland, check out these from Richterswil’s Räbeliechtlichilbi, not far from where I live). Enjoy them! Most of the songs you will hear are specific to this celebration and in Swiss German, like Räbelichtli, wo gahsch hii?, with a notable high German exception, Ich gehe mit meiner Lanterne, coopted from the St. Martin's celebrations that take place in Germany on November 11th. Hopefully, the clips work in all countries.

And does this have anything to do with Miss Austen? That picture of the top of the post suggests it does. Admittedly, I’m reaching more than a bit, but I look to the good people at the Jane Austen Centre in Bath for precedence. A few years ago, they published a fun article with instruction for carving your own “Jane-o-lantern,” including some history of Halloween. After providing the common origin story of the holiday, derived from the Celtic harvest festival Samhain, the author explains how these traditions were celebrated in Austen’s time:

During the night of spooks and ghosts, homes would be lit by rustic lanterns carved from turnips (known early on as neeps) beets and rutabagas. Pumpkins would be used later, as they were brought to Europe from the New World in the 17th century. These flickering lights were set out in hopes of welcoming home friendly souls and chasing away the evil spirits who wandered that night.

Jane Austen would have been aware of these celebrations and divination rites; however, as the daughter of an Anglican clergyman, it is doubtful that she would have partaken in such goings on…. She mentions neither these holidays or her feelings towards them. 

There, at least, is the turnip connection. Often the last vegetable of the harvest, turnip lanterns were a natural choice for carving but more labor intensive than pumpkins (trust me on this: they are much less forgiving, you need a lot more of them, and they rot faster). The internet is alive with images of creepy turnips, carved by people harkening back to the past, often in the style of jack-o-lanterns. This is not what the Swiss do. They carve beautiful turnips, often decorated with Christmas images. The Christmas season has already begun here, though it needs a few more weeks to get into full gear (Samichlaus, the Swiss equivalent to Santa, has his big day December 6th, while the Christkind visits on the 24th).

If you’ve never carved a giant turnip before, the inside is solid and takes a bit of work to hollow. The smell is somewhat similar to horseradish, though not as intense. I imagine that if I had been doing this all my life, it would reek of childhood nostalgia. As it is, I need a pumpkin to conjure such sensations. There’s something about the texture of the pulpy seeds slipping between my fingers and that sweet, fresh scent. It’s kind of hard for a humble turnip to compete, but it is going to try, parade or no parade. I have two turnips waiting, one for each child, and we'll carve them tonight to display on the balcony. 

Last year I carved my own Räbeliechtli, instead of just helping my kids with theirs, inspired by the Jane-o-lantern concept. Not sure what to call it (Janeliechtli doesn’t really work), but of the thousands of turnips decorated in my town that week, I feel pretty confidant that I was the only one who opted for an Austen motif. I was pleased enough with the result to write this entire post about it, and it's been an exceedingly nostalgic and bitter sweet experience. My hopes are all for next year. It's such a beautiful tradition. Thanks for reminiscing with me.

Twisted Austen 2020: The Ladies of Norland

It's that time of year when I insist on overtaxing myself by writing a story that few will read and might prove detrimental to my career. Welcome to Twisted Austen, my annual event conceived in the spirit of Halloween but which really just serves to infuriate and confuse my fellow Janeites. That’s not being totally fair to myself. Some readers do actually seem to really like these stories, but I write them for my own amusement. It’s a space where I can explore ideas that really aren’t marketable.

Now that I have entranced you with that confident pitch, let me inform the uninitiated that this is an eight day event, beginning tomorrow, October 24th, and running through Halloween. I will post one part of this year's story each day, and then I will publish once complete. There are likely to be giveaways, as well (I've always offered them in the past, perhaps too many), if I can pull it together in time. 

Twisted Austen was born in the wake of the monster mash-up craze that overtook this genre after the publication of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Could Austen’s beautiful stories be rendered “horrid” even without imposing monster-filled dystopian realities on her stories? If nothing else, I think I’ve proven the answer to be an emphatic yes. Why would I want to attempt such a thing? I guess I am, myself, a little twisted. I actually treasure some of the worst reviews this series has received, in a way I never could for any of my other works, because the entire point is to be a bit appalling, while provoking the reader's imagination into doing the bulk of the dirty work for me.

I launched Twisted Austen in 2012 with Emma & Elton: Something Truly Horrid. The subtitle was meant as a warning but, nevertheless, many readers were truly dismayed. It is the most disturbing of the collection, exploring what could have happened had Mr. Knightley warned Emma not to be overly attentive to Mr. Elton. Still, I really don’t understand how anyone could expect a happy ending with such a title. My very favorite review for it on Amazon is one sentence long and only two stars: “It was written, but the plot itself is so cringe-worthy and horrifying that there’s really no reason to re-read it.” I know it’s probably against my better interests to further publicize such sentiments, but I just can’t help myself. For this story, cringe-worthy is a compliment. I did, however, listen to the reviews and tone it down a little bit the following year. Jane & Bingley: Something Slightly Unsettling is not nearly so devastating as Emma and Elton in its outcome. In fact, it adheres strictly to canon, which possibly angered readers even more. The most consistent complaint about the book is its abrupt ending, which I’m glad people found unsettling. I took a story my readers know like the back of their hands and offered a different perspective – not necessarily a probable one, just a possible one – and supported it with evidence from Austen’s original text. Readers, equipped with their perfect knowledge of forthcoming events, are then left to their own conclusions. This is where Twisted Austen stories collide with typical Halloween tales, ghost stories and horror films having long exploited the fact that what goes unseen is often what frightens most. At the same time, the concept is quintessentially Austenesque, dependent as it is on the reader's knowledge of Jane’s novels.

In 2014, I wrote Becoming Mrs. Norris, a prequel to Mansfield Park. It attempts to evoke sympathy for a despised character by endowing her with a tragic backstory. I published this story convinced no one would read it. Mansfield Park is notoriously hard to sell to JAFF readers. Little surprise, it pretty much tanked upon release, but when a few reviews finally did trickle in, they were far more positive than I had expected. I guess having the name “Mrs. Norris” in the title is a better deterrent for the feint-hearted than my more expository attempts to ward them off. Those of us who read Mansfield Park fan-fiction are a rare breed, and I think I self-selected an appreciative audience.

*Just a random note about book covers. I repurposed the artwork from Emma & Elton for Becoming Mrs. Norris (who wants to spend money on a book they don’t expect to be able to sell?). Also, and as you may have observed, Twisted Austen comes to you in color this year. I have long been in the process of changing the style of my covers, and this year's story, The Ladies of Norland, is the first publication to roll out the new look. 

For two years I had to abandon Twisted Austen. We relocated to Switzerland in late summer 2015, and it was a long struggle afterwards to reestablish regular writing habits. The fact that Halloween is not widely celebrated here was of little assistance. When I finally resurrected the event in 2017, I was in a decidedly more playful mood than in previous years, even as I continued to try and redeem the unredeemable. Part prequel and part perspective-shift, I am Lady Catherine envisions that lady’s life from the time of her marriage through the end of Pride & Prejudice. The reception for this story was, by far, the most positive of the entire series and a firm reminder to me that no matter how tempting it might be to push people’s buttons, it is way more fun to earn their praise than their censure. In 2018, I tried to build upon that "success," even while delving into a very delicate subject. Young Wickham is a sequel to Pride & Prejudice that relies heavily on the plot of Mansfield Park. Instead of the Bertrams taking in a niece, we find the Darcys inviting Lydia and Wickham’s oldest son to live at Pemberley. A lot of readers were expecting this to be about Wickham's youth and were taken aback to find the action takes place in the Victorian Era. Still, the reception was strong amongst those who read it.

I'm trusting that The Ladies of Norland has not such an off-putting title as some of my others. I've experienced another Twisted Austen hiatus, this time triggered by the birth of my son, and it is a small miracle that I managed to complete it at all. It is the first real work that I have accomplish since the pandemic began. As it is, I barely finished it in time, and it is significantly shorter than my other Twisted Austen books, definitely not qualifying for the grandiose title of "novella" to which the others aspire. As you've probably surmised, this one is Sense and Sensibility based. It's a reimagination premised on the idea of old Mr. Dashwood being more generous to our heroines than Austen rendered him. Unfortunately, sometimes adversity is better for us in the long run. It's actually sort of a hopeful theme for our chaotic times. So please, come by, read along, and gasp in shock if you must. A happy Twisted Austen to all! 

Young Wickham: Part Eight

PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE / PART SIX / PART SEVEN

When Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, and Mr. Bingley entered upon the scene, having been belatedly alerted to Mrs. Norton’s ailment, the drawing room was yet a scene of chaos. Their appearance had the helpful effect of silencing the many children clamoring around the sofa upon which she lay, her head in Mrs. Bingley’s lap. They parted before their elders like the Red Sea.

“What is wrong? What has happened?” Mrs. Darcy cried, kneeling down beside her sister and feeling for her pulse.

“She ran into the house screaming she had been shot!” Mrs. Bingley said in a shaky voice. “Yet there is no blood.”

Mrs. Darcy began inspecting her sister’s form for injury and Mr. Darcy ordered, “Miss Lee! Miss Jones! Please remove your charges from the room!” The children, suddenly compliant, were quickly ushered out the door, while Edmund approached his father and pulled him aside.

Tom signaled to Mark and George to follow the others, and the three had almost escaped when Mr. Darcy, still beside Edmund, pointed an accusing finger their way and said, “Not you three!"

The boys turned reluctantly around and slowly walked back across the room.

“Edmund believes you may know something of what has befallen your aunt,” he said sternly, looking to his eldest. “I am waiting for you to enlighten me, Tom.”

“We were just in the woods by the lawn,” he smoothly replied. “We came in when we heard Aunt Norton hollering, like everyone else. I don’t know why Edmund should think we have any more information than any of the others.”

Mr. Darcy looked at both Mark and George, neither of whom could hide their guilt as well as Tom, and sighed miserably. He knew not when his son had become such an accomplished liar, but the realization that he was tore at his heart. “Mark? George? What have you to say for yourselves.” Neither boy replied, both staring downward in shame. Mr. Darcy looked again to his son, who confidently met his eye. “Are you lying to me, Tom?”

Tom dropped his gaze and assumed an attitude of repentance. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“George did not mean any harm,” he quickly said, “I am sure he did not.”

“Me?” George exclaimed in alarm.

“George is not to blame,” Mark spoke up. “It was our idea. He warned us it was a poor one, but we really did not mean to do Aunt Norton any harm.”

“Mark!” Tom exclaimed, his voice a warning.

“What did you do?” Mr. Darcy asked, the words seeming to come from someone else.

Mark swallowed hard, looked pleadingly at Tom, then back at Mr. Darcy. “Tom fired his slingshot across Aunt Norton’s path. He did not hit her. I swear it.”

His nephew’s admission was like a knife in Mr. Darcy’s side, slowly twisting as the full magnitude of what he was hearing sunk in. His son had played a dangerous prank, which was bad enough, but then he lied about it and tried to blame another. He must have thought his father would believe him over this new nephew, the son of his old nemesis. Never had Mr. Darcy felt more a failure, not even when Wickham nearly absconded with his sister, all those many years ago.

Mrs. Norton was beginning to rouse and moan. Mr. Darcy Looked to where his wife sat busily administering to her sister and was grateful she had been spared the burden of her son’s sins, at least temporarily. “Go to my study and wait for me there,” he ordered the three boys. “You too Edmund. I will be in to speak with you shortly.”

§§§

“You betrayed me, Mark!” Tom said as soon as they were in the privacy of Mr. Darcy’s study. “And you too, Edmund. How dare you!”

“How dare I?” Edmund, never one to raise his voice, nearly shouted. “How dare you! Where do you find the audacity, Tom? Have you no thought at all for the lives you endangered? Yes, lives! For you placed George’s life in threat today just as much as you did Aunt Norton’s. I am ashamed to call you brother.”

“You had best not speak so to me,” Tom growled. “I should be sorry to see another prospective rector of Kympton lose his livelihood.”

“It is not in your power to deprive me of my birthright, but it is within Father’s. Yours as well. If nothing else inspires you to contrition, I am certain losing your inheritance would.”

Tom had no reply to this, and for the first time seemed truly chastened.

“What did you mean by ‘another prospective rector of Kympton?’” Mark suddenly asked.

“My father was meant to have the living,” George explained. “Tom implies Uncle Darcy denied it to him, but it is not true. He accepted a cash settlement for the value of the living.”

“I don’t know how you know that,” Mr. Darcy’s voice interrupted the boys, who had not heard the door open. Mr. Bingley followed him into the room. “I am sure your father never told you.”

George blushed but faced his uncle and said, “No, my father spoke rather bitterly of the loss of the living, but long before I came here and met you I realized his version of events did not add up.”

“George has been snooping through old estate ledgers, Father,” Tom said.

“At your insistence,” Edmund appnded, earning him a violent glare from his brother.

Mr. Darcy sighed heavily and dropped into his chair. “Your aunt will recover, though she has suffered a severe shock. I hope all of you understand the seriousness of your actions. Had your thoughtless prank resulted in her death, you might have been held responsible before the law.” He paused to allow this notion to seep into their minds.

“I am very disappointed in you, Mark, to pull such a cruel trick,” Mr. Bingley said. “I must discuss with your mother how best to punish you, but I assure you it will be severe.”

“Yes, Papa,” Mark said. His face spoke his understanding, both showing fear of what might come and acknowledgement that whatever it was, he had earned it.

“Come along, your Uncle Darcy wishes to speak to the others alone.” Mark followed his father out of the room, looking back miserably at his cousins before shutting the door behind him.

“I do not even know where to begin.” Tom opened his mouth to offer a suggestion but an upheld hand stopped his tongue. “Much has been revealed in the past few moments, the severity of which is difficult to digest. Foolish pranks and invasions of privacy aside, we have disharmony between brothers, abuse of power, and deception with which to contend. In the end, the fault must be mine. Somehow, I have failed to instill a proper morality, and Elizabeth and I will have to do something to account for this neglect, but Tom: you must understand the severity of your actions! You are to be the Master of Pemberley someday! Countless people will be dependent on your good sense and honor. Today I fear you have revealed a character unfit for such a task.”

“I am sorry, Father,” he said. “For everything. It was stupid to lead the others in the stunt. I take full responsibility.”

Mr. Darcy’s eyes spoke his pain. “Now you say what you ought to have the moment I inquired. How do I know you do not speak only to appease me? Your first instinct was to evade responsibility for your actions.”

“I am sorry, Father,” Tom said again. “It was very wrong to blame George.”

“Yes, it was. Far worse than it would have been to have tried to put the blame on Mark, who is not in any way beholden to you. Have you apologized to George?”

Tom promptly turned to his cousin and extended his hand. “I am sorry, George. Have I your forgiveness?”

“Yes,” George relented for the second time that day and shook the proffered hand, though he could see no sincerity in Tom’s eyes.

“You will both make a full confession and apology to your Aunt Norris. I imagine she may be in need of a few days of rest to recover herself. You will offer to assist her while she convalesces with anything she requires.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom and George chorused in reply.

“I blush for you, Tom,” he said severely. “Based upon your recent actions, I feel it incumbent to remind you that you shall enact no vengeance upon either Edmund, Mark, and most certainly not George for what has occurred here today.”

“No, sir”.

“We will discuss your punishment further. Edmund, George, before you leave us, I want to clarify a few matters, that they need not be further pursued,” he paused thoughtfully. “Nearly twenty years ago, George’s father did indeed receive a payment from me for the value of the living at Kympton. He professed the intention of studying the law, which the funds provided should have easily covered. As you know, he ended up in a different career, and upon marriage received from me the purchase of an ensigncy in the Regulars, as a means of supporting his wife and future family. These dealings have no bearing on the fissure between myself and him, the reasons for which I trust cannot be found in any ledger. If you have any further questions on the matter, I invite you to ask them now.”

Edmund and George both shook their head in reply, while Tom managed to look as if he had never a care for the subject at all.  

“Very good. I trust the topic may now be permanently closed for discussion. Let me just say your father’s past is not your own, George. Despite your part in today’s outrage, your subsequent conduct reflects well on your character. You aunt and I are very happy to have you with us here at Pemberley.”

“Thank you, Uncle Darcy.”

“Now go. Tom and I have much to discuss.”

The boys left the young heir to his fate, closing the study door behind them.

§§§

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery! I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

Ten years following these events, Thomas Darcy attempted to jump an ominous hedge and broke his neck.

Darcy and Elizabeth, though heartbroken by his death, found solace in the knowledge that he did not suffer and even came to see the good of it in time. Their other children were constant sources of pride and their love for them and each other only grew in intensity throughout the years.

Mr. Norton proceeded Tom to the grave before Edmund was old enough to succeed him. Mrs. Norton left the rectory and took up possession of the far grander Dower House, where she discovered ailments of her own to fill the void the loss of her husband’s gout left in her conversation.

Mr. Carson and Miss Lee, once their services were no longer required by the Darcys, made a future for themselves together and had three very well-educated children to show for it.

The Bingleys lived a charmed existence, rarely touched by loss or grief. Mark studied engineering and invested heavily in the railroad, his private fortune one day outstripping that of all his other relations.

Edmund never did take orders but proved a superior landlord, ensuring the prosperity of Pemberley and all attached to it for generations to come. He spent his later years developing his love of painting and joined the Royal Academy, his works regularly featured in the Summer Exhibition.

The boys never did learn the extent of the elder Wickham’s betrayal of the Darcy family, though the younger George Wickham forever called Pemberley home, his bond with the Darcys solidified and the injuries of the past fully forgotten by the time he was old enough to wed Maria.

THE END

_________________________

 A Twisted Austen Giveaway:

Stop by, read the story, and enter to win! Increase your chances of winning by leaving multiple comments (be sure to include you email address in at least one). At the end of the event (giveaway open through November 7th), I will randomly select two grand winners. Each will receive copies of all five Twisted Austen ebooks, including Young Wickham, plus a set (six each) of these adorable decorative clothes pins, purchased at my local grocery here in Switzerland. Two runners up will receive Young Wickham ebooks. What if you already have all the Twisted Austen books? Enter anyway. We'll work something out. This giveaway is open internationally. Extra entries for social media shares, but you must mention them in your comments for credit. Good luck to all who enter, thank you so much for reading, and have a very happy Halloween!

Young Wickham: Part Seven

PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE / PART SIX

George spent two hours that second day at Pemberley ensconced in the library, reading through entries made in a much younger Mr. Thompson’s hand. The next morning he continued the task before breakfast, attended his first lessons in Mr. Carson’s tutelage, and returned to the library later that day. This pattern continued on Friday, only interrupted when Aunt Lizzy insisted the boy accompany her to Lambton for some much needed new attire. By Saturday, as the family prepared for the arrival of the Bingleys, Mr. Wilcox reported to Mr. Darcy that Midnight had yet been ridden only once by her new master. When his nephew presented himself in the breakfast parlor, Mr. Darcy tasked him with this neglect.

“Is Midnight not to your liking, George?” he asked.

“Oh no, Uncle Darcy! She is magnificent horse. I am most grateful for the consideration you showed in selecting her for me.”

Mr. Darcy glanced at his wife in confusion. “Perhaps you are unaccustomed to having such an animal of your own, but you will need to take her out more regularly. She requires the exercise, and it is now your responsibility to see she gets it and benefit from the exertion yourself. You have no lessons today and our guests will not arrive until later. Join Tom and Edmund when they go out.”

It was George’s turn to glance uncertainly down the table, catching Tom’s eye.

“If my cousin wishes to remain indoors, Edmund can ride Midnight for George today.”

“And what of Hamlet?” Mr. Darcy questioned.

“Wilcox will see he gets some exercise.”

“Your generosity on your brother’s behalf notwithstanding,” Mr. Darcy replied dryly, looking at his eldest with some chagrin, “George must not shutter himself away in library all day long. A young man needs fresh air and activity. You will ride today,” he concluded with finality, speaking directly to George.

“Yes, sir,” came the somewhat meek reply.

“I understand your enthusiasm for the library, George,” Mrs. Darcy said. “When I first came to Pemberley, I too could lose myself in it for hours on end, but that was winter. You will have ample time to hide away in the months to come.”

“I like reading in the library, too,” Maria offered, “but there are many more interesting books there than those old ledgers, Cousin George.”

“Old ledgers?” Mr. Darcy questioned.

“Edmund brought them to my attention my first morning here,” George quickly explained. “They reveal much about the workings of the estate.”

“If you wish to know more of the estate, you would do better to attend Mr. Thompson in his rounds, a task that he performs on horseback, incidentally.”

“I should like that very much, Uncle Darcy.”

“I will arrange it for next week.”

When the meal concluded and the boys headed out towards the stables, Tom questioned George on his progress.

“Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, yes, in fact, I did. There are two entries listing payments made to my father in 1808. The first was a one thousand pound legacy stipulated in your grandfather’s will. The second, more interesting payment was for three thousand pounds.”

“That is a tidy sum of money. What was that for?” Tom eagerly asked.

“I am more curious to know what happened to it,” George said with a slight hint of bitterness, “The note said ‘in lieu of Kympton,’ nothing more.”

“Well! That is something! So my father paid him the value of the living? He must have decided not to take orders, and I cannot say that I blame him. T’would be a dull life for such a man. I think he must have been far better suited to a military career.”

“Perhaps,” George concurred, looking consciously at Edmund, “but I suspect it would have been a better life for his family. Besides, my father did not join the militia for several more years, just before he met my mother. She has told me countless times that when they were first introduced he did not yet have his uniform. All he required was a redcoat to become the most dashing man of her acquaintance.”

“I bet he squandered it gambling and whoring,” Tom replied with some glee.

George had no reply. He feared his cousin was all too correct.

Soon they arrived at the stables and were met by Mr. Wilcox. “Is it true that George’s father was intended for the living at Kympton?” Tom asked with little preamble.

“Aye, and a good thing it was too that Mr. Darcy refused to give it to ‘em. A worse rector ye’d be hard pressed to find.”

“Father refused him?” Edmund asked in surprise.

“We were under the impression that my father rejected the living and was compensated in kind,” George pressed.

“Aye, that he was. But then he turns up here again, a few years later when the old rector died, pestering Mr. Darcy for what he gave up all rights to, fair and square,” he shook his head disapprovingly.  “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bold one, yer father.”

Tom and George exchanged excited glances. “That must be when they cut ties,” the former commented. “Your father joined the militia instead and ran away with Aunt Lydia.”

George was taken aback. He had pieced the story of his parent’s betrothal together well enough, but he would never dare speak of it so openly.

“I’d told ye before, Master Tom, that the past is best left to itself. No good will come of ye pryin’ about in what don’t concern ye.”

“I have said the same, Mr. Wilcox, to no avail,” Edmund said grimly.

“Ye’d do well to heed yer brother, Master Tom,” Wilcox said ominously.  

Tom laughed off the warning. Once the boys were on their way he said, “You can have some more time in the library after tea today, George.”

“But the Bingleys will be here,” Edmund protested.

“When else is he to do it? Sunday is sure to be busy with church and all the family here, and Father has made it difficult for him to sneak off in the mornings. When you ride with Mr. Thompson next week, George, be sure to press him for information. I bet he knows it all.”

“I am not sure I wish to learn anymore,” George said reluctantly. “It makes sense that he and Uncle Darcy fought over the living and explains a great deal of my Father’s grievances.”

“I think there is more to it than that. Such a mundane squabble they would have overcome years ago. Something kept our families from contact until after your father’s death. You must want to know what it was!” Tom insisted. “How could you not? It is your birthright!”

George shook his head. “I did want to know, when I was worried that Uncle Darcy would never accept me, but now that he seems to have taken a liking to me, it seems wrong to pry. Besides, he has proven himself an exceedingly thoughtful and honorable man in my few days here.” He shook his head sadly. “I do not wish to know all the tawdry details of my father’s indiscretions.”

Edmund nodded. “Some information we are better off without.”

“So you are both content to let sleeping dogs lie,” Tom said grimly, surveying his two companions. “Well, so be it, then. Know that I think you both chicken-hearted.”

George felt the injustice of Tom’s words but yet was reluctant to stand up for himself against the domineering heir, even as his cousin’s brittle temperament cast a dark shadow on otherwise rosy prospects. Holding his tongue, he tried to forget his hurt in observation of the landscape, but before this salve had a chance to absorb Tom resumed his censure.

“I understand why you are afraid of what you might learn, George” he taunted. “Certainly you hoped your father was innocent all along and not the dastard we all know him to have been.”

“Badly done, Tom!” Edmund cried in outrage.

He shrugged. “I only speak the truth. Who would not wish to redeem their father’s sullied reputation, no matter how well deserved?”

“No matter the sins of my father,” George spoke in a terse, controlled voice, “they do not give you leave to besmirch his memory so. I shall have your apology.”

“Will you now?” Tom sneered. “And if I refuse, what will you do? Challenge me?”

The suddenly belligerent look in George’s eye suggested it was exactly that course of action he had in mind.

“Tom,” Edmund intervened, “apologize to my cousin. You must.”

“Very well,” Tom relented, adopting an affected manner and bowing dramatically. “I am sorry if Mr. Wickham’s honor was offended. Do accept my humble apology and be assured I shall never so trespass again.”

“Do be serious,” Edmund chided.

“I am serious!” Tom exclaimed. “Do you accept my apology, Cousin?”

George paused before conceding. “Yes.”

“There you have it! Everyone is satisfied,” and Tom turned the subject to what fun they would have once the Bingleys arrived.

§§§

All the family living at Pemberley and Mrs. Norton gathered on the steps of the house to greet the guests. Mrs. Darcy presented George to Mrs. Bingley with pride, and she quickly took the boy into her warm embrace, exclaiming on what she insisted was his uncanny resemblance to Lydia. Mr. Bingley shook his friend’s hand before likewise embracing George, asking about his horse, and generally endearing himself into the boy’s heart. Nearby a seemingly endless stream of Bingley cousins poured out of the three carriages required to transport them all. Tom, delighting in his reunion with Mark, was in great humor, and conducted George through the mass, making introductions with aplomb. A host of attendants soon had the unwieldy crew bustled indoors, and with remarkable efficiency attended to all the various needs and wants of the travelers. George was in awe of their skill, wondering if the assistance Mr. Darcy was sending to his mother would be equally competent. It would mean a vast improvement in the comfort of her household.

The eldest Bingley, Charles, and his next sister, Fanny, were content to sit and take tea with the adults, but all the rest of the youngsters except the very smallest, who had been dispatched to the nursery, were soon again outdoors. Games were organized, and George found himself a valued member of his new social group, proving his skill in both hiding, seeking, and cracking the whip. After having exhausted himself in such pursuits, George retreated from the others to lean against a nearby oak and rest. As his breathing quieted, he became aware of his name being called in a whisper from a nearby shrubbery. Following the sound, he found Tom and Mark hiding behind the foliage.

“Come with us, George!” Tom said. “Aunt Norton just left for Kympton on foot. Mama always offers her the use of a carriage, but she always declines even as she complains about the distance all the while.”

“’I think nothing of the inconvenience to myself,’” Mark mimicked in a high falsetto nothing like their aunt’s voice but no less hilarious to the three boys for its lack of resemblance.

“I am going to give her a fright that will make her think twice about walking alone from now on and spare us all her griping.”

“What do you plan to do?” George asked, and Tom held up a sling shot in response.

“I won’t hurt her. My aim is excellent. It will just unnerve her a bit. You have not yet seen my aunt in high hysterics. It is excellent sport,” Tom said as Mark nodded his concurrence.

“Let us go now before anyone sees us,” he said, leading the way off into the woods. Tom grabbed George by the wrist and pulled him along before he could register any further objection.

The boys forged a trail through the trees in order to cut off the path to Kympton. Soon after they concealed themselves behind a convenient boulder, they perceived the sounds of Mrs. Norton’s approach.

Tom rose from his concealment and took aim, firing his shot just in front of Aunt Norton’s nose and missing her by only a hair. The pebble ricocheted off a nearby tree with a loud bang and the lady screamed, promptly turning on her heels and fleeing back in the direction she came, tripping over her skirts as she went. Tom and Mark smothered their laughter as she ran, but George could find no amusement in the sight. She might have been severely injured, even killed, but when pressed by the others, he forced a smile. Tom and Mark were anxious to return to Pemberley and witness the fallout from their prank. George followed them, a sense of foreboding descending upon him with each step.

At Pemberley they found the house in uproar and the air pungent with the scent of the burnt feathers that Mrs. Bingley waved beneath Mrs. Norton’s nose, who was swooning upon an ornamental chair near the entryway. All the children were gathered around, eagerly ignoring the minders who futilely sought to remove them from the scene. A great deal of the staff had also assembled. Only Edmund saw the three stragglers enter. He approach them and said to Tom in an harsh whisper, “Where were you?”

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His brother evaded replying as Mrs. Reynolds arrived and began ordering her underlings to either assist Mrs. Bingley, go fetch a doctor, or return to their duties. Soon Mrs. Norton was being lifted by a footman and carried into the drawing room, followed by a parade of her many nieces and nephews, all of whom suddenly found their dull aunt irresistibly fascinating.

_________________________

 Come back tomorrow to read Part Eight!

 A Twisted Austen Giveaway:

Stop by, read the story, and enter to win! Increase your chances of winning by leaving multiple comments (be sure to include you email address in at least one). At the end of the event (giveaway open through November 7th), I will randomly select two grand winners. Each will receive copies of all five Twisted Austen ebooks, including Young Wickham, plus a set (six each) of these adorable decorative clothes pins, purchased at my local grocery here in Switzerland. Two runners up will receive Young Wickham ebooks. What if you already have all the Twisted Austen books? Enter anyway. We'll work something out. This giveaway is open internationally. Extra entries for social media shares, but you must mention them in your comments for credit. Good luck to all who enter, thank you so much for reading, and have a very happy Halloween!