Posted on Monday, 2 June 2003
As the story opens, you have met Mr. Darcy, but as he approached you in Byronic fashion, he slipped in the large puddle of drool, and had to return home. In this chapter, Mr. and Mrs. Gardener, two innocent bystanders whose carriage you hijacked, are taking you to visit his house.
As you drive all too slowly along, you watch for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, your spirits are in a high flutter.
The park is very large, and contains great variety of ground. You enter it in one of its lowest points, and drive for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.
Your mind was too full for conversation with your hostages, but you see and admire every remarkable spot and point of view. You gradually ascend for half a mile, and then find themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye is instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road, with some abruptness, winds. It is a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; -- and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks are neither formal, nor falsely adorned. You are delighted. You have never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.
Meanwhile, your hostages are getting a little nervous.
CLAUDIUS:
Knowst thou who wrote this play?
HAMLET
Not I, indeed
Nor do I care to know!
-Rosencratz and Guildenstern, W.S. Gilbert
Before disembarking from the carriage, perhaps it would be best if we dealt with your unfortunate hostages.
"Now, see here! I demand you release us immediately, before I -" quoth Mr. Gardiner.
"Listen. I'm just borrowing your carriage, and Pemberley is a beautiful place," you reply edgily.
"But we wanted to go to the Lakes!" quoth Mrs. Gardiner.
"Look, do you want me to reveal the scandal about you two?"
"What scandal? I've never done anything scandalous in my -" quoth Mr. Gardiner.
"This is a laptop computer. Observe." You log in to the DWG. "Right... post new message.... Title...
Beneath the Gardiner's Garden, Chapter I: More than just potatoes.
"We all know Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, Lizzy's kind relatives in Pride and Prejudice. But there is a dark secret waiting to be told...."
"Fanfic? Er... perhaps we were a bit rash..." quoth Mrs. Gardiner.
"Good." You delete the story. "Now then, just act normally, and you can drive off as soon as we've toured the house. Kapish?"
"What's Kapish mean?" asks Mr. Gardiner.
"It means, 'Do you understand or do I write the fanfic?'"
"Oh, yes, I understand...."
Having dealt with your hostages, you enter to meet Mrs. Reynolds, who informs you that Darcy wouldn't be there until tomorrow. Perfect! You know what that means... indeed, you can hardly wait until the tour of the grounds starts, and wonder which version my occur... you hope.. you plead... you see Darcy arcing into the pond....
"Yes!!!!!!"
As you run towards him, the Gardiners roll their eyes and slip back to the carriage, leaving only the gardener to watch the shocking next scene. Arr! Useful blackmail, that be.
Posted on Thursday, 6 March 2003
Adam's Note: This chapter marks the start of Cindy C. joining the team responsible for this travesty. She wrote all the mush, I was in charge of corrupting the mush.
You walk down to the pond, eager to see more than just the silhouette of this man diving in.
"Mr. Darcy! You're dripping, sopping, wet!" His shirt is plastered to his strong, muscular chest, and you drool. You want to melt into his arms, but he's still in the pond, albeit the shallow end, so you wade in.
...You know, people have often forgotten that ponds can be very cold in March. As has Mr. Darcy. Indeed, high in the mountains of Derbyshire (which happen to be the Pennines. Yer might as well combine learning with pleasure), they are even colder. Your teeth are chattering and your clothes are covered in green algae, not to mention your Regency dress having gained immensely in weight. Are you sure this was such a good idea?
...But you slog into the shallow end anyway. Because yer daft.
"You have a g-g-g-green r-r-im around your d-d-dress, d-d-d-dearest, l-l-l-oveliest Cindy."
A pause occurs. "C-C-Cindy? Do you l-l-love s-someone else?"
"N-n-no. She's writing this s-s-section. I meant d-d-dearest l-l-loveliest [F-f-fill in your name here]. But I had b-b-b-etter carry you b-b-b-back to P-p-p-pemberley," says Mr. Darcy through his chattering teeth.
Picking you up in his arms, he realizes the Regency gown is much too heavy, so he slings you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
It's a bit undignified, admittedly, but then, so is the greenish water dripping from your dress, so I wouldn't complain. From the corner of your eye you see the observant gardener doubled up with laughter - but before you can comment, your weight, being concentrated at the bottom of your dress, pulls you off Darcy's shoulder and into a muddy puddle.
The gardener is by theis time most amused. As is Darcy.
"If I'm going to wallow in the mud, sir, you are going to have to join me." You grab him by the ankle of one of his now-unshiny Hessians and pull him, open shirt, buckskin breeches and all, into the puddle with you. You never knew mud looked so good plastered to buckskin breeches...
"Hey, now stop that, squire! Yer'll ruin all those bulbs I jist planted. Them expensive Holland ones. Yer wouldnt want thaat." says the gardener. You throw a bulb at him. "Well, suit yerself. But they're mighty expensive." He stops for a moment, pauses, picks up the bulb and pockets it, then wanders off.
"Did I ever tell you how becoming mud is on your chest?" you state.
"Arr, thank yer, miss! Oi didn't know yer cared," replies the gardener. Darcy shoots him a look.
What will happen in the next chapter? Will you choose Darcy, or the gardener? Find out in chapter III of... Dearest, Loveliest [Fill in your name here]!
Posted on Friday, 7 March 2003
"Whispering breeze,
Bring me my dear!
Wind-shaken trees,
Beckon him here!
Rivulet, hie -
Prithee go see -
Birds, as ye fly,
Call him to me!"
-The Mountebanks, W.S. Gilbert
...but you don't care about Darcy. This courderoy-trousered fellow in flat cap and checkered shirt has won your heart. "[Fill in your name here]? [Fill in your name here in all caps]?! No... don't leave me!" Darcy shouts. You push him into the mud, and rush into the arms of your beloved muttonchopped gardener.
"I knew it was you the minute I saw you clipping the hedge," you whisper in his ear. "And the way you use that trowel... you can transplant me anytime!"
In an attempt to gain your attention once more, Darcy rips off his shirt and shows you his bronzed, bare chest. You barely notice, because the gardener is going to show you his greenhouse...
"But, [fill in your name here]!" Darcy wails, knowing he has lost you to the one man you can truly call a rake. "Come back to Pemberley with me and be my love!"
Walking arm in arm with the gardener, you stick your tongue out at Darcy and get ready mow the lawn...
Posted on Saturday, 8 March 2003
Authors' Note: This is the alternate, original Chapter III, and follows on immediately from Chapter II.
"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your-" he says, when splat! A huge wad of mud drips from the side of Darcy's head. You giggle, because you threw it, jealous of the way he was spending more time with the gardener than with you.
Pulling him back down in the mud, you lean over with a sigh. "That's much better," you purr. "I thought for a moment you liked gardeners better than you do me."
"And in the alternate chapter I thought the same!"
"Oh, you know how Adam is. Now, a shift in attention like that deserves a reward..." Flinging yourself on top of him, you give Mr. Darcy a big, muddy kiss. Darcy sputters a bit, not exactly relishing the taste of mud.
"You're going to pay for this, [Fill in your name here]," he says, but you know he is being coy, so you smile suggestively and tell him to go right ahead. "I ought to kiss that smug little smile right off your face."
"Help yourself," you reply at your most winsome. "Here, let me help..."
Planting a big one on Mr. Darcy in the middle of a mud puddle has always been a fantasy of yours, so you indulge yourself, not letting the man up until he passes out from lack of air. Oops. Luckily, you then get to give him the kiss of life, so that's alright.
Eventually Darcy awakes again, and glares at you. However, you have been well trained to see a glare as a look of affection, so you kiss him again.
Just then torrentuous, and very, very cold rain begins to pour down in buckets.
"Goody!" you exclaim. "I've always wanted to strip and towel down a wet Darcy!"
"My good woman, as much as I love you, I cannot so break down propriety until we are engaged. Will you marry me and become Mrs. Wickham?"
"Wickham?"
"Yes. You.... you thought I was Darcy, didn't you? I thought you were just puffing up my ego... No... I'm the one who looks like Colin Firth. He's large-built, with a beard down to here." Here he holds his hand three inches below his chin. "You will marry me, though? Have I not shown you I'm good for you?"
"I am torn. I had been lead to think you were all that was evil... but you have shown yourself all that is good. I will marry you."
Posted on Friday, 14 March 2003
CHRYSAL:
I see--if that was only what he thought,
It makes a difference.
-The Palace of Truth, W.S. Gilbert
Even as you accept his proposal, you reach for your laptop, hoping that the mud hasn't seeped into it too far.
"What are you doing, my love?" asks Wickham.
"Oh, I must add my feelings at this into my live journal."
"Very well, but be quiick."
You're in luck, it works! You type: You know of course I was joking.
Darcy says, "You know, of course I was joking."
"About being Wickham?" you reply.
You type: Yes, of course.
Darcy replies, "Yes, of course."
Two days later, when you finally recover, and remember the laptop in the mud, you realize the hard drive is permanently damaged and no one is going to ever believe he was Darcy all along, and that he was just pretending to be Wickham.
A quick trip to the Tea Room is in order, because you know the Dwiggies will believe you. (Well, zo much for naat contradictin' ourzelves. But then, with two authors it's bound ter happen. Ought ter change this, Oi should, but Oi dun't loike the changes I've tried, zo...)
It was REALLY Darcy! -- [Fill in name here if you're not Lucie, as Lucie has said that she doesn't want Darcy, didn't you Lucie, eh? Serves yer right! Mwahaha, I'm a vicious bugger, me.] -- Sunday, 9, March 1813, at 10:06 a.m.
When I wrote that Darcy was really Wickham, it was a joke, everyone. Wickham was really Darcy. Honest! I had the emails to prove it, but they got caked in the hard drive with the mud when... well, let's just say it has been an interesting two days at Pemberley. Without the gardener! Or the Gardiners, for that matter... I know you believe me. Right? Right?
I thought you threw him over for the gardener? - Elizabeth B. -- Sunday, 9, March
1813, at 12:15 p.m.
I can assure you that it is a truth universally acknowledged that to marry two at once is bigamy. Therefore, I fear that you are strongly mistaken in your belief that you have gained Darcy. He is obviously destined for me. Miss Austen promised.
-Elizabeth Bennet.
I want my Wicky! -- Lydia B. -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 2:05 a.m.
I long for my Wicky! And you can't have him! *sticks out tongue*
- Lydia
Remember your Fordyce... -- Saint Mary -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 9:00 a.m.
Bigamy is a sin. Lizzy saw him first, but you have been compromised, so IMHO, Mr. Darcy should do the right thing and marry you instead.
I don't understand any of this -- J.B. -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 11:52 a.m.
I think everyone should just hug and make up. I don't believe in fighting, especially over men.
-Jane
He's MINE! MINE YOU HEAR? MINE! -- Lalyson -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 12:13 p.m.s.
Hmmph... allow me to recount what happened earlier today....
"Darling..." I said to my ruggedly handsome husband of one day. (We were married by special license as soon as the gardener and other name fillers were distracted in the greenhouse.)
"Yes, Dearest, loveliest Lalyson?"
"Do you know how happy you make me?" I asked, momentarily detoured from my original topic of conversation.
He smiled adoringly, his dimples deep and splendid. "If my own happiness is any gauge, I may have a very good idea."
See, Lydia, Wickham's mine! Mine I say!
Re: I thought you threw him over for the gardener? - William C. -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 1:42 p.m.
Cousin Elizabeth, you must realise that Darcy was, of course, destined for neither of you, but for his cousin Anne De Bourgh. The sooner you throw over this romantic nonsense and accept me as your husband, the happier we shall be But, of course, fashionable ladies such as yourself are fond of using jealousy to increase my fervour.
-William Collins.
Re: I thought you threw him over for the gardener? - Elizabeth B. -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 1:43 p.m.
Re: I thought you threw him over for the gardener? - Sofa -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 2:19 p.m.
Ha! Elizabeth! You are lost... for just a while ago, though you may have been too busy struggling to notice....
As you rejected poor William, he cried in despair, "The spell you have cast on me is broken! You can't lure me from my dearest, loveliest Sofa. She is waiting for me at the butcher's. We will be chosing lard together and then walk out to rub it in my hair and converse on the picturesque beauty to be found in her breasts. I mean, a nearby park."
While you wrestled yourself from his grasp, finally having to lubricate yourself with grease from his hair to slip free, he was running - well, panting towards the butcher's. (He's very forgetful that way.) After battling off some mad monks intent on kidnapping me by the clever scheme of using his body odour, he threw me astride a white horse that was just brought forward by Dawkins, and made a mad race behind it as it bolted. His sweat dripping down on the ground in an appealing manner. He somehow caught up. I leant over and tried to pull him up into the saddle with me, and he, of course, pulled me off the horse. There was a not-so-amazing kissing scene whilst I regret my choice.
-Sofa.
"I'm going to kill Adam and Cindy"
Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute here... -- Anne Beth -- Monday,10, March 1813, at 2:42 p.m.
I watched Lalyson run off with Wickham, and realized there's no chance any more. The other Dwiggies were all staring after the gardener...who's wearing courderoy, which I've never liked... I prefer leather... There is nothing left for me to do, but to run to the stable and grab a groom for a groom. After saddling up, I am able to ride him....
Need I say more?
-Anne Beth
Odd... today I too found love - Anne Rocks -- Monday, 10, March 1813, at 4:07 p.m.
While all the non-sense (and sensibility) was going on... I decided to go on the make for Edward Ferrars. I violently punched Lucie Steele, Leaving her sister Nancy moaning over her sister's unconcious body.
And Edward and I made a run for a tree, which is just a tree. No poetry intended.=)!
Indeed, 'tis strange... -- Wabbey - Monday, 10, March 1813, at 7:49 p.m.
I too have met my true love - he's a clever businessman by the name of John Thorpe. He told me of his immense riches, assured me of his great romantic nature, and told me of all the wonderful things we will do... We will be married tonight.... and then.... my life of bliss will begin!
Yes, indeed... -- Krykia - Monday, 10, March 1813, at 9:56 p.m.
I must confess to finding the love of my life. His chaste kisses have the taste of weak tea. His arms embracing me are white as milk. He is moral and upright, indeed, so upright that he has had surgery to keep himself upright involving sticking a ramrod up his arse. Yes, Edmund Bertram is my only love.
With a sigh, you turn off your computer and decide to hang it all up. What do those Dwiggies know, anyway? You think they are all mad, dicked in the nob because they act like these people are real. Ha! Not only do they chat like their characters are flesh and blood, but several have this bad habit of keeping characters in their showers and in their basements. Even the authoress keeps several under her bed. Some even write themselves into the stories. You know they are fools. You decide to just leave them to revel in their delusions and go back to your beloved Darcy...
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you....
Marx arrives home, puts on more decent clothes than his loincloth, hangs up his mechanical wings, and hides his Cupid-o-matic 3000 at the back of his closet. Eh, it's a living. And very amusing if you go at it right. And have the ability to travel between reality and literature...
But back to things you are actually able to know about. It violates narrative convention ter let the characters know what's been happening that they don't know, ayup. We resume with Darcy.
"I love you, Dearest, Loveliest [Fill in your name here], but I wish you would get off that computer and come over here and kiss me," Darcy tells you. "The Tea Room does not need to be checked 200 times a day to see if anyone replied to your post, my love."
You roll your eyes, but realize Darcy knows what he is talking about. He probably checked the message board and tea room more than that the first few years of the DWG's existence, wanting to see what people were saying about him. Still, he had been at it longer, and was featured in more fan fic than you, so it would take 200 hits a day to check those many posts.
"But Darcy!" you wail. "I wanna see..."
"Come here, [Fill in your name here], and I will show you everything you could possibly want and need the rest of your life. The Dwiggies can go hang!" He grins at you.
Time passes.
More time passes.
Right, let's just skip ahead a while.
"Ah, Darcy, I love you. But really, you shouldn't have joked about being Wickham. It's so patently false! Do you really expect me to believe that you had a beard down to here?" You hold your hand four inches below your chin. You notice Darcy is acting oddly. "Darling?"
"Er, well, a bit before I met you, I sent Georgiana to Ramsgate, to live with a Mrs. Younge... and, er... one day, she asked me to stop by and visit, and spend the night... and, er... when I woke up.... and walked downstairs, there was Wickham setting with her and.... they both burst out laughing. That old rogue shaved my beard off in my sleep! But I got my revenge on him. Heh, you'll like Wickham, but you ave to keep an eye on him.... Anyway, my love, the beard will grow back, and then you will have the complete Fitzwilliam Darcy!" He enfolds you in his extremely hairy arms......