Goodly Creatures: A Pride and Prejudice Deviation (2 page)

On the music front I owe a great debt of gratitude to Patrick Galvin’s
‘Irish Songs of Resistance
.’ It was an excellent source of information about the tunes and lyrics and the history of struggle in Ireland they reflected. John Gay’s
‘Beggars Opera
’ allowed my Elizabeth to push the boundaries of inequality of relations between the sexes, and to a lesser extent classes, in the context of music. His use of traditional songs to point out hypocrisy was brilliant and inspired another of my idols Berthold Brecht.

Of course, the greatest thanks for inspiration is reserved for Jane Austen. There are bits and pieces of every one of her novels interspersed throughout
‘Goodly Creatures
.’ It was a desire to give her two Elizas from
‘Sense and Sensibility
’ a happy ending that first moved me to attempt fan fiction. I wanted to try my hand at telling tales, so what better way to get feedback than writing serially ‘a la Dickens’ in an online forum. The plot of
‘Pride and Prejudice
’ seemed the most advantageous to pursue—besides, it is the most popular for readers at the different sites where I posted my story—and would assure me a larger readership. I was already committing a major heresy by raping Elizabeth Bennet (a beloved character) so I thought I should not push my luck or make my story too repugnant by using a lesser favored of Austen’s plots. I did wonder and even felt some outrage when I heard that particular criticism. Would it have been acceptable to rape Lydia Bennet or Maria Bertram (non-beloved characters)? But, I digress.
‘Pride and Prejudice
’ is about people changing, after all, and the characters I envisioned all needed to rid themselves of considerable baggage in order to achieve a happy-ever-after.

I debated the question of whether to use some of Austen’s prose or to completely ignore it and create my own. In the end, I chose to wrap her words around my changes to her plot. Though the words spoken in
‘Goodly Creatures’
are many times identical, the meaning often shifts dramatically and even the speaker or the one spoken to are not always the same. This was one of the most enjoyable things about my process.

Ms Austen in chapter 44 of
‘Sense and Sensibility
,’ through the words she put in Willoughby’s mouth created the definitive selfish and amoral character—the first such intentionally psychological depiction in literary history—at least for me. The seducer without a conscience she crafted would in today’s world be labeled a sociopath. Her truth left me stunned and with the belief that she also did not believe justice was served—but felt it the better part of discretion not to say it in print. Her description of Willoughby’s domestic felicity and freedom to enjoy his horses and dogs was to my ears dripping in irony and I even detected a whiff of angry sarcasm. Thanks, for making me do this, Jane.

It is time I turned to the living in my acknowledgements. The first group I must tip my hat to is my family. My sisters and brother—Bronwyn Hinton, Sari Bledsoe and Dr. John Semmer are throughout this tale—as are my deceased mother and father. We like the Darcy siblings lost our parents early, and all know the pain of being rudderless at an early age. It is my brother John who became the prototype for my hero, a good man who was a bit too rigid in his following of society’s rules as a young man. My sister, Sari, read the serialized version of the story online and gave tremendous encouragement.

Friends also provided inspiration, encouragement and acted as advisors. The memory of a voicemail from my coworker Dwana provided the imagery and words for one of my favorite scenes. My high school girl friends, Connie, Dianne, Martha and Pam were the inspiration for another. Barbara Gregorich, an amazing author, has been one of my staunchest supporters. She gave me invaluable aid in learning how to self-publish.

The online community for Jane Austen Fan Fiction is a wondrous thing—enthusiastic, passionate, kind, astute and international. The idea that readers will comment on what you are doing is amazing and was a tremendous aid in determining where I needed to improve and what about my characters was not being understood—it was even better than having Gertrude Stein critique my manuscript. I raise the international component because it was particularly thrilling to me that my words were being read all over the world. Though a strong believer in the sovereignty of
all
nations, I think the way forward—humanity’s brave new world so to speak—is through international understanding and cooperation. There are no borders in the JAFF world. I thank all I have met, but I especially enjoyed my interaction with Loli in Puerto Rico, José in Greece, Pumza in South Africa and Ann in Austrailia.

The other amazing thing about the Jane Austen community is the assistance offered so freely by participants to aspiring writers. The people who helped me were amazing and thankfully very honest. I know what you will read is greatly improved by their contribution. Pam W was the one who pushed me to rewrite this story and post a second time. The first draft was entirely too long and full of unnecessary tangents. Along the way as beta for that ride, Pam was fabulous at asking me probing questions about my characters’ motives and actions. My other beta was Carol B. She knows
‘Sense and Sensibility
’ backwards and forwards and would not allow me to take the easy road when portraying Eleanor (my first Eliza). She insisted my character reflect the faults Austen had given her. Carol was also instrumental in pointing out cuts I could make to improve flow and focus. And, then there was her gently pointing out that I had written prone when I meant supine. Letting my error stand would have resulted in a major guffaw for readers since I had used the word to describe the way a very pregnant Elizabeth was lying on the floor.

Sybil H, who I met online, and then learned she lives only a few miles from me, has become my friend. She volunteered to take on the job of doing a detailed critique of my story after it had been posted for the second time. Acting as my editor, she questioned me on oh so many things, and because she was close we were able to spend time together in person going over her impressions and suggestions for improvements. This final version would not have been as accomplished or probably not even accomplished at all without her input.

The process of implementing an editor’s suggestions often results in missing words or words that should have been deleted during the rewrites. In addition, I chose to use British English in my novel and being an American that presented a challenge. What could be better than to have a professional proofreader do the final perusal? Even more advantageous would be to have that person be from the UK and have a well-rounded knowledge of British history and literature. Kathryn Begley is the person who offered her services as part of the JAFF community. She performed the final check for me. I am very grateful.

The first advice I remember hearing about learning the craft of writing was write what you know. I chose to entwine the legacy of my own rape into this story of a fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Bennet—who stands in for the seduced and abandoned Eliza Williams from ‘
Sense and Sensibility
.’ Her words and emotions reflect my own guilt, humiliation, anger and fear as I dealt with a similar life altering event.

My biggest thanks is for my husband. He was both an inspiration and a major help in accomplishing this project. He and I have the right names (Beth and William), but he is not my Mr. Darcy. As I said earlier, that honor went to my brother. When I met Bill Massey, he was thirteen years my elder—more like Colonel Brandon or Mr. Knightley. He owned no estate, but instead had under his belt two tours in the marines, a six month spell in an Irish Christian Brothers’ seminary, time working a clerical job at
National Review
because he agreed with their politics, a stint living homeless on the streets of New York City and incarceration in the same jail at the same time as Dr. King as a participant in the Civil Rights Movement. In addition, he was struggling with a deteriorating marriage and had undergone a profound political conversion worthy of Saul on the road to Damascus. He did not hesitate for one second to express his outrage when I told a few friends that I had been the victim of date rape—even though my female roommate did not. In 1968, what happened to me was not considered a crime. It was something I was expected to accept as the lot of my sex and the consequence of poor judgment. Women had the responsibility to take the precautions necessary to guard themselves against unscrupulous men; and if they failed in that endeavor, society judged them the guilty party. It was determined that their dress had been provocative, they drank to excess or they went somewhere they should not have gone. Bill, who was only a friend at the time, likened my ordeal to the denial of nations to the right of self-determination. His passionate solidarity with my plight endeared him to me and played no small role in our becoming a couple after the failure of his marriage. We have been together more than forty years. Though he is triply disabled and dealing with the effects of aging has resulted in the development of numerous fears and anxieties which has prompted me on occasion to rudely refer to him as Mr. Woodhouse, he still makes me laugh—much more Henry Tilney than Fitzwilliam Darcy.

My William was with me every step of the way as I wrote this very personal story. He helped me with my research—suggesting books with information I needed. His knowledge of Irish history and music was invaluable. He acted as my cold reader, though because he is legally blind, I had to do the actual reading and he did the listening. In the early days of our courtship, he had entertained me with poetry and song. His suggestions for snippets to include were priceless. Those who know him will see bits of him in my Dr. Wilder, my Mr. Bennet and my Colonel Fitzwilliam. Thank you, Bill.

PART ONE
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1806

1 SUCH PEOPLE

Elizabeth Bennet leaned eagerly toward the railing, hair tumbling forward, her face a study in joy. The chance to attend a performance of
The Tempest
with her aunt and uncle had captured her imagination beyond all the other delights London had previously offered. As her eyes darted about, taking in all the sights, a moan of delight escaped her. She was in a box hired by Sir Gareth and Lady Hughes, her Aunt Gardiner’s friend, surrounded by the
haut ton—
the very ones whose goings and comings were chronicled in the London newspapers and so often became the gossip of the ladies of Meryton. She could not wait to describe the spectacle to those back home.

Shakespeare’s words,
‘How many goodly creatures are there here!’
dominated her thoughts as she surveyed the other boxes. Such people as she had never seen—glorious women in glittering gowns and handsome men—some like peacocks even more splendidly dressed than the women on their arms were a feast for her eyes. She wondered if there could be any dukes and duchesses present, or could that elegant couple, just there across the way, be a marquis and his marchioness? And that stiff looking man with them, who could he be, and why was he frowning? The, oh so elegant one, the one she imagined to be a marquis seemed to be smiling at her and gave her a slight nod of his head. Warmth suffused her cheeks in a blush. Just at that moment the performance began. Excited by the purpose of her presence, she turned her attention to the stage.

An unconscious licking of her lips as if she was anticipating savouring something delicious was quickly supplanted by an array of emotions—smiles of delight, hearty laughs and occasionally even a slight pant of fear. Elizabeth had read Shakespeare’s play, revelling in the tale of the castaway Prospero and his daughter numerous times and knew much of it by heart. Despite advance knowledge of the plot, she shuddered in revulsion upon seeing Caliban for the first time, while simultaneously being drawn to him. It was the depiction of Miranda, however, with whom she was most taken. The actress playing her was a small woman with long brown curls burnished with fiery copper highlights like Elizabeth’s own hair. Portia had always been her favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines, but tonight, this character, on the brink of a great adventure, stole her heart.

In reflecting on her own papa’s similarity to Prospero, Lizzy decided Miranda’s father seemed more responsible in giving his child what was her due—of course, he had only one daughter, not five as did Mr Bennet—not to mention, he was the rightful Duke of Milan and not a country gentleman whose small estate, Longbourn, was entailed on the male line. Besides, Prospero knew magic whereas Mr Bennet’s greatest accomplishment appeared when delivering humorous barbs at the expense of others.

As Elizabeth thought of her papa’s most pleasurable diversion, his favourite twisting of a popular cant expression came flooding back. The recollection caused her to brush a wayward curl back before covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. Papa had said,
‘My daughters, and my wife, are quite lovely creatures.’
A slight, mischievous glimmer would always steal across his face as he dryly delivered the droll second half of his pronouncement—‘though,
unfortunately, they are all guilty of having more hair than wit… Ah, but what beautiful hair each has!’
Her particular enjoyment from these words of mockery came because, on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday, he had made the jest and condescended to exempt her by adding,
‘Lately, my Lizzy has been showing a bit more insight, but at her age it could be just a passing fancy. Once she experiences her first flirtation, I fear she may lose all her accumulated wisdom.’
Lizzy wondered whether Mr Pope would think she was being damned with faint praise by her sardonic parent.

Her thoughts jumped to other words she and her sisters had heard him pronounce for as long as she could remember.
‘Remain chaste and try not to be too silly.’
Had this admonition been more serious in its intent? The first time he had voiced this cautionary decree, she had needed to ask him to explain the meaning of ‘remain chaste.’ His answer had been filled with satire, as was his wont. Finally, he had laughed and told her she would learn from her mother soon enough.