[excerpt from The Diaries of Other Pendragon © 2017 by TrilloCom LLC]
Mr C. is not here. I had thought the prospect of a new and popular book would tempt him to try and snatch it, but there is no sign of him.
A hard time of it I had trying to find the author. The anonymous credit, “By a Lady”, threw me off the scent. It turns out the author is merely the daughter of a merchant, albeit well-mannered enough. Her name is Miss J___A___ , a spinster of above thirty years, neither pretty nor plain, but with a lively manner and a keen wit. She and her family welcomed me kindly as a fellow author, although unpublished, and listened rapt to some of my poetry, until Miss A___ excused herself, saying she felt unusually fatigued, at which her parents and siblings said they felt the same way, and all retired. Country folk go to bed earlier than their city cousins, it seems.
Over the next few days, the family received many callers, keen to meet a newcomer. I could not help but think many of the mothers in the area were there to assess if I must be in need of a wife. One young woman who arrived unchaperoned was a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a neighbour and good friend of Miss A___ . She is a lovely young woman, and showed a great interest in my background and occupation. She had brought a generous wedge of apple pie for me as a welcoming gift. It was delicious, but on tasting it I felt a faint vibration that made me wary. “The pie, Miss Bennet, is as delectable as your company,” I said. “Tell me, am I addressing the creator of this marvelous bonne bouche, or may your esteemed mother claim the credit?”
She laughed fetchingly. “I pray you sir, do not repeat that to Maman. We are very well able to keep a good cook.”
“Then I must meet this paragon and compliment her myself,” I said, seizing the opportunity.
“Indeed, Mr. Pendragon, do call upon us for lunch tomorrow,” she replied, “and you may sing the good woman’s praises to her in person.”
The next day I strapped my seax under my tailcoat, for the country middle classes here look askance at the wearing of a sword, unless by the military. I borrowed a horse and set out for Longbourne, the seat of the Bennets. Lunch was superb, and I praised it over and over and insisted on meeting the cook. I sensed Mrs. Bennet would rather I praised her daughters, but she grudgingly said, “Very well, sir, but I’m sure I don’t know how to find the kitchen. Lydia, would you show Mr. Pendragon the way?”
Lydia, a silly and flirtatious child, was happy to do so, and led me downstairs to the hallway outside the kitchen door. The harpstring thrum of an Immortal presence was strong. “Thank, you, Lydia,” I said, “I will proceed from here. We don’t want to overwhelm the good woman.” I stepped through the door.
The kitchen was full of steam, and through it I saw a plump woman dicing a mangel-wurzel at a table. She pretended not to be aware of me at first, but then turned, feigning surprise. “Dearie me!”, she exclaimed, “But you gave me a turn. I hope you don’t mean any harm to a poor helpless old woman.”
“Desist, madam,” I cried. “You and I both know what we are.”
At that her expression changed. She snarled and let forth a flood of Billingsgate, effing and blinding like a sailor. Holding a paring knife in front of her, she began to advance toward me. “Huh,” I said contemptuously, “That’s not a knife. This…” but my seax was tangled in my tailcoat and I could not draw it. “This…” I repeated, as she stabbed furiously at the saucepan I held in front of me as a shield (mother would be so proud). “This…”, I backed away, tipping a tureen of mangel-wurzel soup off the stovetop onto the floor, as she threw a colander at my head.
“…is a knife!” I shouted triumphantly, drawing my seax. She let fly her foulest curse so far and threw the paring knife at me, reaching up to seize a great lamb splitter from the wall.
As she took hold of it, the blade glowed with an eerie light, like a will-o’-the-wisp from the marsh, and emitted a ghastly wail. Her blade was enchanted! “Have at you!” she yelled.
“Gesundheit,” I replied politely. “Don’t think, hag, that you can frighten me with that eldritch cleaver. Come at me!” (In truth, I thought I had met my doom.)
Raising the lamb splitter over her head, the beldam screamed “Mind your manners!” and charged, but slipped on the soup on the floor and fell at my feet. Forgetting any notion of chivalry, I swung my sword, and it was over. Her last words were, “Harold, the tea’s ready.”
A great sadness mingled with indignation overtook me. Who would complete the quilt for Mrs. Ennis’ grandson? My fingers made inadvertent knitting motions, and I thought “That little snip Lydia Bennet is no better than she should be.”
There was only one thing left to do. Reader, I buried her.*
*biographer’s note: It is unknown whether Jane Austen managed somehow to make a copy of this account and pass it to her fellow author Charlotte Bronte, but plagiarism is an ugly word. We must assume coincidence.
@old v. @teknocholer
rolls tgt tgt rolls
**Hit! ( 81) 50 Agg v. Agg 50 ( 87) Hit! [Mom is Unphased]**
**Hit! ( 91) 60 Nor v. Cau 40 ( 26) miss**
**Hit! ( 86) 30 Rck v. Cau 70 ( 73) Hit!**
**miss ( 63) 70 Agg v. Nor 30 ( 67) Hit!**
**miss ( 31) 50 Nor v. Nor 50 ( 6) miss**
**miss ( 5) 50 Cau v. Cau 50 ( 86) Hit!**
**Hit! ( 49) 40 Def v. Agg 60 ( 69) Hit!**
**miss ( 51) 70 Rck v. Agg 30 ( 86) Hit!**
**---- ( --) 40 Agg v. Cau 60 ( --) ----**
**------------------------------------------**
Mom (0/5) v. (1/5) Other Pendragon
Other Pendragon (@teknocholer) experiences a Quickening!
