Poor Rita's Characters
"Those terrible Lucases!" Mrs Bennet cried. She sat in the Poor Mama Green Room in Rita’s laptop with her eldest daughter's head on her shoulder, smoothing out Jane's hair. "I'm not one to keep track of such things, of course, more than in a broad sense, but I do believe..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, in case the authoress was listening in. "...I do believe that we have been stuck here in this story, always at the ready, but called upon so little, for all eternity! And now that scheming Charlotte Lucas, Mrs Collins as she calls herself, and an upstart brother of hers, who I don’t believe I’ve ever heard much mention of, have hijacked my story."
"Hush mama!" Jane whispered, “The story has only been on the boards since Saturday, October 26, 2002. There are some stories by other authors that were posted in 1998 and never finished, so you see, we are not so very badly off.”
“Never finished!” cried Mrs Bennet, reaching for her salts, “Are we to be stuck in this limbo forever?”
“I am confident that Rita will finish this story eventually,” said Mary as she looked up from the book of sermons she was reading. “But I do wish I was allowed to read something other than this reproving hogwash in the interim.”
“Oh la! Of course she will finish,” said Lydia, fanning herself with her bonnet. “She is a Bennetgirl after all!”
“And what, pray tell, does that have to do with it?” cried Mrs Bennet.
“All the Bennetgirls finish their stories,” said Kitty, coughing uncontrollably. “The only problem is they do like to keep these annoying clichés running through them. I am sick and tired of being expected to cough at will.”
“Anyway,” said Lydia, completely ignoring her sister as usual, “if I know the Bennetgirls, they will hound Rita mercilessly until she does finish the story.” She sat back and smiled in a superior sort of way – quite proud of her association with the Bennetgirls. After all, they had given her to Darcy more than once in their stories, and it was always fun to have the opportunity of lording it over Elizabeth, no matter that she infinitely preferred Wickham. But she did have a bone to pick with that Rita – she’d actually given Wickham to Caroline in one of her stories. That was a travesty!
“That is all well and good,” said Mrs Bennet, “but it doesn’t address the problem we are facing with these wretched upstart Lucases. How do we get her focus back to me? I never trusted Charlotte – first she steals Mr Collins right out from under Lizzy’s nose; but no sooner than the poor man dies, God rest his pompous soul, she starts flirting outrageously with Colonel Fitzwilliam who would have been perfect for Kitty, or even Mary if she would get her nose out of a book.”
“Mama!” cried Lizzy. “The very idea of Mr Collins. Ick! You have to admit that marrying Darcy was ten thousand times better.”
“Indeed!” cried Mrs Bennet, thinking of the carriages, jewels, and pin money that Lizzy had so generously shared with her.
“And in giving you Thomas, Rita saved you from the hedgerows,” reminded Jane.
“I am very grateful for Thomas,” said Mrs Bennet, smiling indulgently at the thought of her young son, “but there was no need for Rita to introduce this Lawson, or Lucius, or Landon person or whatever he is called. I only remember a young boy who boasted about drinking wine every day when he grew up.”
“Charlotte does have other brothers, mama,” sad Mary, “and there is no reason why she shouldn’t have one called Lewis.”
“Well, if she did, I would have been sure to have snagged him for one of my girls!” said Mrs Bennet. “No marriageable man for miles around could possibly have slipped through my radar.”
“But mama, I never have problems finding my own husbands,” said Lydia. “And I’d be more than happy to help Mary and Kitty find husbands too, if Rita would only write that part. I am very adept, and well she knows it. It is high time she stopped ignoring all my best abilities.”
Lizzy threw Lydia a reproving glare. “Mama! Think of poor Anne. She was deprived of Darcy.” Lizzy had trouble saying her husband’s name without sighing. “She needs some sort of recompense. After all she is not as truly insipid as she is so often made out to be.”
“But why does it have to be on my time, in my story?”
“I do not think it is precisely your story, mama,” said Lizzy.
“Not my story! How can you say that? Of course it is my story! Everybody knows it is my story – if only Charlotte would remember that! Oh Jane! Where is my hartshorn?” Mrs Bennet began flailing about on her cushions. “It is called Poor Mama, is it not?” she wailed.
“Yes, mama, it is,” said Lizzy. “But you are not the only mama. Why there’s Lydia, and Jane, and even Charlotte.”
“Don’t mention that vixen’s name within my hearing,” cried Mrs Bennet.
Lydia, firmly entrenched in a large, overstuffed chair, eyed Lizzy smugly. “But then, I had the first child, except for mama. And except for Charlotte, who came into the story already having given birth…” Lydia really did not care about anyone else, of course. She was the mother of all mothers, according to her husband, and that was good enough for her! “And you, Lizzy are not even with child yet!”
“Fordyce teaches us that we must be patient with our lot in life,” Mary said piously, secretly glad not to be in Lizzy’s situation. She was perversely pleased to see this most pandered to of all her sisters miserable. How many times in their lives did they get to see Lizzy thwarted? In every story she was the smartest, the pertest, and the prettiest, even though Jane was supposed to be.
“I’m inclined to agree with mama in this case,” Kitty grumbled. “I have yet to have a decent role in this story, but Charlotte gets to watch that slimeball cousin of ours stick his spoon in the wall and attach herself to the Colonel! It’s not fair! He should have been mine!”
“I know I should not mind if the Colonel looked in my direction,” Mary muttered under her breath, "Kitty gets him in plenty of other stories, while I will probably have to settle for Uncle Phillips’ clerk. Maybe I ought to wander over to ‘Chrysalis’ and ‘The Last Miss Bennet’ and see what is going on with Trowbridge…” Her entire countenance was brightened by the thought of a pair of grey eyes. Or were they gray? It was hard to keep stories straight, let alone the difference between American and English/Canadian spellings. Nope. They were defiantly grey.
Georgiana, who had been shyly listening to the conversation the entire time, said nothing, although under Lizzy’s tutelage and good influence, she was beginning to feel more like one of the Bennet sisters, and they were almost always outspoken. Besides, the colonel was her cousin, and she thought he and Mrs Collins were a good match. She and Anne took turns passing little Miss Rose back and forth to keep the tot entertained, and kept their own counsel. And she was well and truly happy for Anne and her new beau, even if he was not one of the original characters from the book. Let’s face it, there were not enough eligible gentlemen to go around. She rather hoped that Rita would invent someone for her. A kind and caring gentleman, loyal, trustworthy, honourable, and above all, hot. Georgiana blushed at the thought.
Elizabeth had also slipped into a reverie, (she was glad that the author had not said revelry for she felt she was not up to that) for two reasons. One, she was exhausted from appearing in so many stories and having to wait out so many more, such as this one. Two, she was uncertain yet if Rita was going to add her to the many brood mares in this story. Why, look at poor mama! Even she got knocked up again before Lizzy could push out one kid. Jane had delivered twins, somehow giving the impression that her husband was more virile than Lizzy’s own dearest love. Which everyone knows must be an absurdity of astronomical proportions. It was all Rita’s fault! And the very worst of it was that she was indeed increasing – how could she not be, she was married to Darcy, for heaven’s sake – and she was having to come up with more and more artful ways of hiding the fact until Rita finally got around to writing it into the story. Her shelf, for one thing, was difficult to keep from bulging seductively above her bodices. Wickham, Denny, Saunderson, and Chamberlain had been leering at her. Even Rita’s husband Dan had given her second and third looks.
Just then a stifled cough was heard and then a bumping sound and then Mr Collins fell headlong out of a closet.
“I knew we should have put shelves in it!” cried Mary. “If only to prevent eavesdroppers like you.” She shot him a glance that showed the full extent of her disgust.
“What are you doing here anyway?” asked Kitty. “You were killed off - you have no need to hang about like the rest of us.”
Lydia only giggled loudly.
Mr Collins got to his feet and dusted himself off, all the time trying to appear nonchalant. “I may yet be needed.”
“But you are dead!” cried Mrs Bennet indignantly.
“I heard that my Charlotte is about to jump headlong into marriage and with Lady Catherine’s nephew, no less. Not only does it pain me to be so easily forgotten, but I cannot help but think about how very seriously displeased my illustrious patroness will be. I mean to prevent it at all cost.”
Lydia had fallen out of her chair by this point, her laughter quite uncontrollable.
“And how do you intend to accomplish this?” asked Lizzy, raising one of her eyebrows.
“By storming into the church at the last moment when the parson asks for someone to speak or forever hold his peace! It happened to me once in a story when I was marrying you, cousin. It works only too well.”
“But that was a different author,” said Lizzy. “Rita would never write that into her story for fear of charges of plagiarism, and you cannot do anything without it being written.” She wanted to add, you fool, but she bit her lip instead. Authors were always making her bite her lip. It was becoming quite tender and bruised and she wished they would desist, but it seemed those silly authors all thought Darcy appreciated the red swollen effect the nervous habit had on her lips. Whatever. "Besides," she added, returning to the present moment and addressing her greasy cousin, "this is not a ghost story."
"Blast that Rita and her braised kidneys!" said Collins with feeling, waving his fist in the air. His tirade was suddenly interrupted when a lovely young lady walked into the room, commanding not only Mr. Collins' attention, but everyone else's as well.
"Hello everyone," she said with confidence.
"Um, hello," said Mrs Bennet, appraising the elegant young lady. "And who might you be?"
"Emma Woodhouse."
Elizabeth stood up and faced Miss Woodhouse. "You are in the wrong green room, this is not an Emma story."
"I do believe she's in the wrong computer altogether," added Mary helpfully, "Rita doesn't even write Emma stories."
"Well, no one is perfect," said Emma. Then she mumbled under her breath, "But she might do so if she'd ever finish this one!" Turning to Lizzy she added more audibly, "Don't worry, I'm not here to poach on your story. I have plenty of my own -- sure, you have more, but I have always felt quality is of much greater value than quantity!"
"It's not her story!" cried Mrs Bennet.
"Of course it isn't, my dear Mrs Bennet," said Emma, walking over to the woman and placing a comforting arm across her shoulders. Elizabeth just rolled her eyes. "I have come to cheer you up. Look on the bright side. Your dear authoress just posted recently, that should give you some hope that this story will progress more speedily henceforth."
"Oh yes, it was very kind of her to post just now, wasn't it?" replied Elizabeth with no little sarcasm. "Just in time to foil the plans of her loving esisters who were painstakingly crafting a tale for her birthday centered around the very fact that she had not posted in an age!"
"Well, they'll get over it, I'm sure," said Emma, waving her hand dismissively. Then turning back to Mrs Bennet, she continued, "Just as soon as she dispenses with all those silly Lucases, I'm sure Rita will return her attentions to you and your darling babe -- they were no more than a subplot she needed to tie up. And why should you care for a plain, penniless second son when the gentlemen that will undoubtedly be invented for your remaining single daughters are only limited by the boundless imagination of your talented authoress? Though," she added thoughtfully, "I should not be surprised to find a match between Rose and Little Thomas in the epilogue."
"God forbid," cried Mrs Bennet, who had begun to calm down during the course of Emma's speech but returned to all her nervous flutterings at the end of it. She sprang violently from her chair and began pacing to and fro waving her hanky anew.
"What are you doing reading P&P stories, anyway?" asked Elizabeth suspiciously, ignoring her mother's rantings.
"I read everything by the Bennetgirls," replied Emma snobbishly. "Don't you?"
"I do," said Kitty.
"Absolutely," confirmed Mary.
"I read all their stories too," added Jane.
"Oh yes, me too," giggled Lydia, "though I have a preference for a certain few which feature myself as the heroine."
Just then Lydia stopped and stared at the door as it opened, her jaw hanging open as she gaped at the scene before her.
Several men, two of whom were her brothers-in-law and one even her own husband, in very becomingly tight breeches and well-fitted coats had entered the room. The last one, whom the others were calling Dan, was the hottest of them all. He entered bearing an enormous, beautifully decorated birthday cake with just one little candle in the center (who's counting?) On top of the cake was inscribed in the most elegant quillmanship:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY RITA!
We love you!