Dispelling the Gloom, Part 1

Happy October!

When I saw this month’s theme—“Which Witch: Magic and Malevolence in Austen”—I was frightened, terribly frightened! While magic and malevolence are perfect concepts for the month of Halloween, I have never once attempted a fantastical Austenesque variation. Many authors—many here at Austen Variations—have written compelling  Austenesque fantasies; indeed, they have taken some of the very best elements of P&P (power, attraction, love) and melded them beautifully with the magic of the fantasy genre.

However, what on Earth (or not on Earth) could I hope to offer?

When I get stuck (that happens a lot!), here’s one of my tricks: I visit the Project Gutenberg e-text version of whichever Austen novel I’m using for inspiration. While I love my physical copies of Austen’s books (especially the annotated versions), I also have so much fun playing with the “find” function available with the e-text version. I just hit Command-F and boom! I can search for any word I like!

So, when faced with the prospect of writing a fantastical P&P vignette, I thought I’d search for words like magic, enchant, or spell. I didn’t expect to find anything; I’ve read the text enough times to know that Austen keeps us firmly grounded in the realistic details of her day. And indeed: no magic, no enchant…but wait! When I typed in “spell,” I found something! Not a magical spell, of course, but the word “dispelling”:

Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family.

—Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 24.

Wait, what? My only Command-F connection to magic in Austen is Mr. Wickham? And not just Mr. Wickham — the Mr. Wickham who dispels (rather than creates) gloom? What the heck was I supposed to do with that?

Well, here’s the result. I’ll post Part I today and Part II in two weeks. I hope you enjoy!

Dispelling the Gloom, Part I

She could not recall much about her great aunt Matilda, for Elizabeth had been only a child when that lady had passed, but she did recollect the old woman’s last visit to Longbourn. On the very day of her arrival, even before she had taken off her bonnet, Matilda had crooked her finger at Elizabeth and said, “Remember, my dear: the gloom will be your friend and your legacy.”

“Poor thing,” Elizabeth later heard her mother tell her father. “Aunt Matilda has become quite addle-pated!”

After lugging a large dictionary under her father’s desk and looking up the word “addle-pated,” seven-year-old Elizabeth had tried to convince herself that her mother was correct. If Aunt Matilda was indeed losing her wits, then her words could hold no power over Elizabeth—could they?

But seven-year-old Elizabeth was just old enough to know that her mother was rarely correct when it came to judging others’ characters. So no matter how much she tried, she could not dispel the notion that her great aunt had been giving her a very important—and very disturbing—message.

Though Matilda’s words had haunted Elizabeth for the entirety of that lady’s visit, Elizabeth did not often think of them afterward. Indeed, when the source of this wisdom departed Longbourn—and then, three months later, the world—Elizabeth all but erased the words from her memory.

Only now, thirteen years later, as she stood in the midst of a deep and unsettling fog, did the words come rushing back to her. Shivering, she pulled her old, black cloak about her, wondering if she ought to turn back to Longbourn, though what awaited her there—a petulant Lydia and an even more petulant Mrs. Bennet—held little charm. Elizabeth knew that she ought to return home soon, for Jane’s sake, if not for her own. How her sister managed to care for Lydia, in bed with a cold, and listen to their mother’s unceasing chatter about the man who was fast on his way to breaking Jane’s heart, Elizabeth could not fathom. She only knew Jane was a far better person than she would ever be.

Case in point: Jane would never have thought the words that came into Elizabeth’s head the moment she saw Mr. Darcy, of all people, stride into the clearing that she herself was just about to enter.

What is that arrogant killjoy doing in my meadow?

To her credit, Elizabeth was surprised and vexed (reactions that rarely lent themselves to wisdom and never to civility). She had left the house seeking solitude and, given the chill mist and dark clouds, had quite expected to find it. Instead, she found Mr. Darcy—the last man in the world she wished to see—standing in the middle of one of her most beloved haunts.

Though Elizabeth was not exceedingly fond of cold, damp weather, she did not mind it quite so much here. The meadow that stretched between Longbourn and Netherfield was enchanting when laced with fog, the wispy clouds swirling above the ground as if they were suspended in time and space. The previous autumn, Elizabeth had stretched out on the grass and stared up at the fog, wondering if it appeared substantially different from that angle. Alas, fog was fog; it all looked the same, whether standing in the midst of it or lying below it. The only thing that had changed was her cloak, which should have appeared darker, soaked as it was with dew and condensation; instead, it had glistened, as if it were catching the light of the hidden sun. With an astonished laugh, Elizabeth had shaken the water from her cloak, oddly disappointed when the exterior resumed its dull black hue.

This past disappointment was nothing to the dismay she felt now. Why had Mr. Darcy, the man almost certainly responsible for her sister’s increasing unhappiness, returned to Hertfordshire? Elizabeth was convinced that Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield owed much to Mr. Darcy’s machinations. Oh, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had surely urged their brother to leave, but Elizabeth guessed Mr. Darcy was largely at fault for the party’s decampment more than a fortnight ago.

Then again, his presence here might be an auspicious sign. Indeed, Mr. Bingley could very well be close behind him! Why else would Darcy appear so miserable, except that he had been unable to convince Bingley to stay away from Longbourn?

Elizabeth looked about the meadow expectantly, waiting for Mr. Bingley to come bounding out of the fog, laughing as he called, “Come, man! Do not look so dull! We are almost at Longbourn!”

Instead, the near-total silence of the meadow deepened. Elizabeth became conscious of her own breathing, fast and shallow, as she squinted into the distance, trying to make sense of this inexplicable scene.

Why is he here, alone and despondent?

For that was how he appeared—not just cross or put-out, but despairing. Shoulders rounded, head in his hands, he sank onto a large, craggy rock that jutted out from the earth, just a few feet from her. This version of Mr. Darcy seemed so fantastical that she could not help take another step nearer. Was the fog obscuring her vision?

A stick broke beneath her boot, the sharp crack rupturing the silence. As Darcy whirled around, she instinctively pulled her cloak more tightly about her. Do not let him see me!

To her amazement, he did not. Though he stared directly into her eyes, he seemed to look through, rather than at, her. Was he unable to see through the fog? If so, why could she see him? Had they found themselves in a ballroom or drawing room, she might have supposed him purposefully ignoring her, but here, in this foggy meadow? No, he seemed genuinely confused.

“Who is there?” he called out, his deep voice tinged with—anger? Anxiety? She could not tell. She only knew that he looked as perturbed as she felt.

“Expecting someone else, Darcy?” called a voice from the opposite direction.

She blinked at the sudden appearance of Mr. Wickham, who broke through the fog with a spring in his step and a grin on his face.

Lips parting, she stared at him. There were a number of reasons to be surprised, of course, not least of which was the fact that Mr. Wickham was smiling—or was he smirking?—at the man who had kept him from his rightful inheritance. Yet what struck her most in that moment: Wickham had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, dispelling the gloom with a bright—no, a brash—radiance. From their first meeting, she had thought of him as a sort of light-bringer, one who amused and charmed nearly everyone around him. Now, though, she saw something else. This light he carried? It did not illuminate, it blinded.

End of Part I

Author’s Note: Thanks to the Austen Variations team for the inspiring theme—and thanks to all of you for reading! I’ll be back in two weeks with Part II.  In the meantime, feel free to leave any thoughts, critiques, or suggestions in the comments.