Posted on 2011-11-01
Mr Darcy, upon his proposal to Miss Bennet and the disastrous conversation resulting from it, was understandably irritated with the manner in which his offer had been so summarily dismissed. Returning to Rosings and intent on setting the lady right on a few accounts, he snuck past the drawing room, up the stairs and sat down in his room to pen a letter which would hopefully make Miss Bennet rue her harsh words.
Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.
The pen clattered on the table as he let go of it to bury his face in his hands. She had been disgusted. Oh, how disgusted she had been! The last man in the world whom she could ever be prevailed on to marry. Those had been her words. She had said that. Actually said that! To him! He who had been prepared to be so generous as to overlook her low connections! But no, she rather believed the words of a blackguard and a rake. She rather believed him, an upstanding, honourable man, to be a blackguard. The anger that had been bubbling low in his stomach erupted in fierce flames, coursing through his veins until every nerve in his body was strumming with hot pain. For a moment, he wished to hurt her like she had hurt him. With a fierce snarl, he ripped the paper with the letter opening to shreds, hurled himself across the room and threw the door open.
"Igor!" he bellowed down the hall.
"Yeth, thir," said a servile voice behind him.
Darcy whirled around. It was unsettling how Igor managed to always stand right behind one when one had need of him. In all fairness it must be said that Igor himself looked every bit as unusual as his habit. He had two different ears (literally) and faint scars from several surgeries could be seen in his face, around his neck and around his wrists. Darcy though had no time to waste on the looks of one of his aunt's odder servants. He was more interested in Igor's set of skills, which were paramount to the practical application of his idea.
"You prepare the cough medicine for my cousin Anne, don't you?" he questioned.
"Yeth, thir. Altho the ointmentth and other drugth she mutht take for her health."
"So you would say you are rather adept at mixing drugs?" he queried further.
"No, thir."
"Oh." Darcy's face fell.
"I am the betht, thir."
"Good. That is good. Very good. Excellent." A relieved smile hovered nervously around the edges of Darcy's mouth. "Tell me then, is it possible, hypothetically speaking, to concoct a drug that would incapacitate only a certain group of people? Say, only men for example. Hypothetically."
"Yeth, thir. The genetic make-upth of men and women differ enough to allow for that dithtinction."
Darcy had always thought that make-up was something one put on one's face but he let the small irritation slide in the pursuit of his goal. "And you could make such a drug? Hypothetically."
"Indeed, thir. Motht eathily. Shall I thtart on it immediately, thir?" Igor paused and added, "Unhypothetically?"
"Yes. Immediately," said Darcy.
"Yeth, mathter. With pleathure, mathter," said Igor and bowed himself out of the room. He had been given an order and was as excited as an Igor can get about a project that does not involve surgery. If he got lucky, he might even make use of the lightening rod that he had installed on Rosings' roof only last week.
Darcy remained standing in his room, staring at nothing in particular. "Last man in the world you would marry," he muttered to himself with wild eyes. "Let's see whether you're as good as your word."
Article on the front page of The Times from 16 July
Mysterious Deaths Shock London
Tonight, Sir Joshua Cavendish died after two weeks of suffering from an unknown illness. Sir Joshua, undersecretary at the Palace, is only the last in a long line of similar deaths. Whereas first cases had been declared to be consumption due to a similarity of symptoms, scholars of medicine now reckon that it is an entirely new disease. "While we may not yet be able to say with certainty how the disease is transmitted, or pinpoint its exact nature," said John Abernethy, assistant-surgeon at St. Bartholomews and Fellow of the Royal Society, "it would not do to panic. With the proper attention to your diet and regular purging of the digestive tract, you will not die."
For further information see p.3, p.4, p.6, p.7
Article on the front page of The Times from 29 July
Epidemic Spreading, Disease Only Befalls Men
Many who fled London to the perceived safety of their country seats found that they could not outstrip the plague after all. Cases of the pandemic disease have been reported from as far as Litchfield in Staffordshire. "Obviously, it is very bad," said Amelia Sanders, midwife. "Even though we found out that only men can get ill, there is no saying how many will fall to it. We'll have to ride out the storm, I fear."
For further information see p.2, p.3, p.4, p.5, p.6
Article on the front page of The Times from 24 August
War Suspended As Epidemic Spreads To Continent
Whereas the British Isles rejoiced with the first survivor of the disease last week, life and indeed the war have come to a grinding stop across the channel as the first cases of pandemic disease spread among the troupes in Flanders and from there across the continent. Military leaders agreed to a suspension of hostilities while the epidemic strikes.
For further information see p.2, p.3, p.5
Article on the front page of The Times from 19 October
Safe Haven For Men
In accordance with Her Majesty Queen Augusta's latest Royal Edict, all men have to report to safe houses situated in every major city. These measures are in place to prevent such incidents from happening as the unfortunate demise of Mr John Freeman at the hands of an irate mob of women last Thursday.
For further information see p.4, p.6
Article on the front page of The Times from 24 December
Project Repopulation About To Begin
An estimated 80 - 90 % of the male populace died in the wake of the pandemic that swept our world in the last six months. Our Queen Augusta in her wisdom has decided that the repopulation of males must be our first and foremost goal at the moment. Henceforth, every woman who is able to carry a child must register with the safe houses where you will be given a date and time for your meeting with one of the males. The Times would like to urge all women to consider childbearing their duty to Queen and country and will proudly lead by example. The whole staff of The Times has already gone and registered. The last six months have been a horrible ordeal but we at The Times trust in our Queen Augusta and trust that we are looking into a bright future.
Fitzwilliam Darcy died in June the following year. The post-mortem read heart failure due to exhaustion. In his short, last months, working tirelessly for Queen and country, he fathered many children. None of them with Elizabeth.
A few notes:
Igor, his lisp and his scars have been stolen from Terry Pratchett's Discworld for the duration of this story. But there are so many Igors, I don't think TP noticed. Igor is now back with his family in Überwald, playing with lightening.
Sir Joshua Cavendish, Amelia Sanders and Mr John Freeman are fictional.
John Abernethy, though, was a real surgeon at St. Barts and a member of the Royal Society of London. He was said to be rather blunt with his patients.
Litchfield, Staffordshire is called Lichfield nowadays and is the birthplace of Samuel Johnson. (Unless I'm crap at reading maps drawn in 1811.)
Queen Augusta ... I've taken rather large liberties here, making the second daughter of George III. Queen, but I figured the Princess Royal, Queen Charlotte of Württemberg was busy enough on the continent. Ach, who am I kidding? I thought it was funny to make a terminally shy virgin Queen.
The End