Free Bad Austen by Peter Archer

NOW?
    Jane’s nephew, James-Edward Austen-Leigh, wrote this now-famous description of his aunt’s habits of composition at Chawton:
    She had no separate study to retire to, and most of the work must have been done in the general sitting-room, subject to all kinds of casual interruptions. She was careful that her occupation should not be suspected by servants, or visitors, or any persons beyond her own family party. She wrote upon small sheets of paper which could easily be put away, or covered with a piece of blotting paper. There was, between the front door and the offices, a swing door which creaked when it was opened; but she objected to having this little inconvenience remedied, because it gave her notice when anyone was coming
.
    Quelizabeth looked toward her dear sister Quane, and then across the pond to Mallard Bingley. “He seems rather awkward and dull. I am sure she shall like him very much. For my part, I’ll make sure Quane is available for as many dances as possible. I shan’t like any of his friends, I’m sure. City ducks are all the same.”
    “Quite right,” Mr. Bennet said. “Quite right. No city ducks for you indeed, my Quizzy.”
    P ride, P rejudice, and R evenge
    W ESLEY S ILER
    It is most fitting at this day and time that I be writing to you in this, your hour of need, my dearest Fitzwilliam Darcy. How I have missed you! I hope that this letter finds you in good stead, and I can only hope you think of me as pleasantly as I have thought of you. I know that your recent incarceration is much troubling, and I have hope that I will be able to bring you some joy in spite of this as you look upon my writing.
    Everyone around me tells me you are of dastardly reputation and that it would thusly be better for me not to think more on you, or your recent transgression, which has unfortunately landed you into jail, but I find that I cannot. For I know there is no heat and very little in the way of clean water and facilities in such places. I wish there was a way to make your time there more pleasurable, until the most unfortunate thing which must come to pass has.
    I wonder, what is your cell like? Has anything of interest happened as you have looked through that small window of yours with the vertical iron bars? I know it must be dreadfully dull. I myself have been asked to attend a fancy dress party. And have it on most good authority that everyone who is anyone will be there. Would that you could be there as well … if only … if only. I remember the night was beautiful, that rich full moon shining like the sun as we had gone out onto the veranda. I loved the way that your hand dwarfed my own and how your warm lips brushed against mine. My breath quickened as you nuzzled your bearded face against my skin. My heart leapt as you brushed your fingers against the silkiness of my gown, and I knew then I needed to be next to you. After all, I was a woman of five and twenty years, far too long for anyone to be without the comforts of adult company.
    But you were not to give me any further interest, no matter how much I played with my hair, batted my lashes, nor even when I had gone so far as to “accidentally” brush my hand across your inner thighs. Nothing … nothing…. It was then, thirty and three nights ago, I paid a visit to the local apothecary and obtained a sleeping draught. You, my sister Catherine, and I then met some nights later in the pub. I slipped the draught into your mead as you were looking over at Catherine and not at me … the one that you should have been concentrating on. The draught took hold, and I helped you from the pub and into a waiting carriage under the auspices of getting you abed and driving us back home.
    D ID Y OU K NOW?
    We don’t know how many copies of
Sense and Sensibility
were printed—750 or 1,000—but the first edition had sold out by July of 1813. Jane Austen had made a profit of 140, and the few reviews in the press were good. Also good were word-of-mouth