Belinda Roberts - Mr. Darcy Goes Overboard - A Tale of Tide & Prejudice

To my delightful family at Longbourn

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a yacht must be in want of a female crew.

It was this that occupied the mind of Mrs Bennet as she stepped purposefully out from her holiday house at 3 Island Street, Salcombe, and strode along Victoria Quay and up Fore Street, drawn hypnotically towards the divinely glamorous world of Amelia’s Attic, with only the vaguest notion of what she would do there when she arrived, apart from browse a little and browse a little more. It just seemed a perfectly respectable place to be heading, and it was so important to look busy and wanted. As she passed The Upper Crust bakery, delicious warming aromas caused her to pause, but one look at the queue of Crew-clad shoppers dangling jute bags as proof of their environmentally friendly lifestyle in one hand and jangling their 4 x 4 keys in deep pockets with the other, made her swerve to the right side of the narrow street. She was just considering the fudge in Cranch’s when a squawk made her swivel her head violently to port.

“Yahoo! Frances! Darling! Have you heard the news?”

It was Mrs Lucas, flushed with excitement.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“Of course, darling.” Mrs Bennet never liked to appear not in the know. “What on earth is it?”

“Look. Are you busy? Never mind if you are. Come with me to The Wardroom for a cappuccino, and I’ll tell you what the whole of Salcombe society is talking about!”

Mrs Bennet found herself being scooped up Fore Street, arm in arm with her best friend, Mrs Lucas, and over a cup of steaming cappuccino, being the recipient of startling and delightful news.

“A man of great fortune is said to have taken Netherpollock!”

Netherpollock! A magnificent seaside villa with large bay windows, situated on the opposite side of the estuary, perched just above Small’s Cove, with fabulous views of the harbour’s comings and goings. How splendid.

“…and what’s more,” continued Mrs Lucas, breathless, “he is young…”

Young!

“…and single!”

Single!

This was too much. Mrs Bennet spluttered into her cappuccino, sending a frothy spray over her unfortunate friend. This was news indeed! Gulping down her refreshment with the utmost speed, not even pausing to use her teaspoon to scrape any residual froth from the bottom of the cup as was her normal custom, Mrs Bennet muttered something about having to catch the post—her usual excuse, although how rare it was these days to put pen to paper—and dashed off back to Island Street.

“News, Mr Bennet! News!”

Mr Bennet, happy to be on holiday in Island Street with its lively mix of activity—boatyards, chandlers, art galleries, tanks of live crabs and lobsters, the sounds of craftsmen banging, chipping, and sawing—was still in his striped pyjamas, peacefully reading the Daily Telegraph in the little flagstone kitchen of No 3. Spurning the plate of foreign croissants, he was enjoying a hearty piece of thick toast spread with thick butter and thick marmalade, when the explosive, high-pitched sounds pierced his ears from two streets away. An instalment of his wife’s “news” was hard to bear. A sale on at Jack Wills? A new diamanté bag in Amelia’s Attic? He closed his eyes, savouring the last moments of sanity.

The front door slammed open, and the front door slammed shut. Heavy breathing and six hurried footsteps down the wooden-planked hall followed, and Mrs Bennet burst into the kitchen.

“Mr Bennet! Oh, Mr Bennet! Have you heard? Netherpollock is let at last!”

Mr Bennet opened his eyes, adjusted his specs, and read that 20 percent of married men confess to having considered leaving their wives at least once. “Only 20 percent!” he muttered.

“Twenty percent? No, the whole lot!” retorted Mrs Bennet. “A young man of large fortune from the north of England has taken it.”

Mrs Bennet paused, reflecting on her own words. North was not as promising as south, but she was prepared to remain open-minded.

“And is his wife charming and dressed from head to toe in Joules clothing?”

“His wife? Oh, Mr Bennet! How you tease me! He is single, to be sure! Young and single! Is that not a fine thing for our girls?”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr Bennet! How can you be so tiresome? You must know that I am thinking of him going out with one of them and, if we are lucky, marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in taking Netherpollock?”

“Design? Nonsense! How can you talk so? But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must go up to the Yacht Club for a drink this lunchtime and make his acquaintance, for he is sure to be there.”

“Why don’t you go and take the girls with you? Then he can see which he prefers, and, who knows—he might even choose you!”

“Oh, Mr Bennet. You know I cannot go on my own or with the girls. It would look too obvious. Too pushy! No. You must go and fall into friendly conversation with him. Talk about tax cuts, budgets, financial sorts of things. Make his acquaintance.”

“You go, and I will send a note along with you, saying he can marry whichever of my daughters he chooses, though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy!”

“Oh, Mr Bennet! It’s always Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy. She is no better than the others. Yet you always favour her!”

“They have none of them much to recommend them; minds stuffed with fashion, ears stuffed with iPod intrusions, mouths stuffed with Chupa Chups. No ability for normal conversation or comment on the world,” replied Mr Bennet. “They are gormless and half-witted, like most of their generation; but Lizzy shows the occasional spark of being able to function like a reasonable human being.”

“Mr Bennet! These are our girls you are ridiculing. Our babies. Oh! Oh! You have dehydrated me with your venomous talk. Oh! I am all palpitations. I need to detox. I need purified water. Oh, Lord! My stress levels are rising. I can feel them! Can you see them, Mr Bennet? Can you see them?”

Mr Bennet looked at his wife and shook his head.

“Oh, Mr Bennet, you have never cared for my stress levels.”

Mrs Bennet sat down heavily, holding her heaving chest, gasping for breath.

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your levels. They are the barometer of my life. I have been party to their rises and falls for the past fifteen years.”

“Oh, Mr Bennet. You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my nerves either.”

“No!” interrupted Mr Bennet with severity and raising his hand to halt further comment. “Not your nerves! They are my old friends, whom I have heard you mention with consideration these twenty years at least, and I will not have them dragged into this conversation, too.”

“Ah! you do not know what I suffer,” cried the panting Mrs Bennet.

Mr Bennet returned to his calm, reasonable manner, adding, “But I am sure your attack will soon pass, and you will recover to see Salcombe soon overflowing with young men of good fortune, and our girls will have the courage to speak with them direct.”

There was a clanking on the wooden stairs. Lydia, the youngest Miss Bennet, dressed in buttock-revealing pink-spotted pants and a lacy singlet top, shuffled into the kitchen, robotically put on the kettle, fumbled in the cupboard for a mug, blobbed in a teaspoon of Nescafé, slumped down onto one of the six pastel blue kitchen chairs, and yawned vigorously. Her presence created a pause between Mr and Mrs Bennet. Mrs Bennet had temporarily run out of steam, unable to maintain continuing signs of dangerous stress, and, after a formal “Good morning, Lydia” to his daughter, from which he expected, and obtained, no response, Mr Bennet returned to his paper.