#ch: marianne kent

[somewhere-to-be]

Respond, If You Please

Synopsis: After his first novel is published to a positive but underwhelming response and he's dropped by his publisher, Jack Keating receives an invitation to a party at the infamous Belle Rive by the famous Percival Shepley.

I: The Invitation

Jack Keating wasn't supposed to be a writer.

Jack Keating was supposed to be studying to be a doctor - a respectable, earnest profession. He'd lost too many people and he wanted to prevent others from going through that. His determination had kept him up studying late into the night. His grandparents were overjoyed when he got into the medical program. His grandmother had hugged him, weeping tears of happiness. His grandfather had patted him on the back. His little sister had presented him with a gift - a watch she had saved up four months of allowance to buy from the pawnbroker. He was supposed to have spent his next four years at university, the next five as an apprentice, and then work as a doctor, curing people, and saving lives if he could.

He wasn't supposed to have his journal of idle scribblings discovered by his nosy roommate, the privileged asshole who had no concept of privacy or respect for Jack's boundaries, have it sent to a publisher on a comment made by his other drunk friend, and have the publisher an advance so large it would be more than a year's salary as an apprentice.

He had a whirlwind of a fresher year fueled entirely on caffeine. He had balanced between familiarizing himself with anatomical names of every part of the human body with writing a novel of a modern Endymion who invents the potion for eternal youth that comes with the trade-off of being unable to sleep, slowly driving the beautiful man to madness until he kills himself.

And now, more than a month after being dropped by his publisher, when Jack was just starting to find comfort in a future where he would just be a doctor, he received that envelope in his mail. A beckoning back into the world that he wanted to leave behind.

Leighton talks a lot about the undiscovered literary genius he lives with that nobody understands and after reading your book, I agree. We'd love to have you as a guest. - Percy

And there it was along with the letter, a card embossed in calligraphy lettering - an invite to a Belle Rive party. No RSVP required - he'd asked Leighton - who said that nobody turned it down.

"Don't even consider not going," Leighton told him. "I know this isn't how you would spend your average Saturday night, but your books can wait for the biggest moment in your career." "My first book was supposed to be the biggest moment of my career," Jack muttered. He was trying not to be bitter about the experience but he hadn't written anything except for assignments since the reviews came out. He'd tried being a writer, it hadn't worked, it was time to move on. "That was just the beginning. This is going to be the turning point," Leighton declared. He followed it up with a warning given with a friendly grin. "Keating, I will kill you if you don't show up. Actually, Percy might kill me first but I will return as a ghost and then murder you."

As Jack turned and re-read the letter in the bright afternoon light at the desk in their shared dorm space, he was still baffled by how he'd somehow become friends with Leighton, who would otherwise precisely be the type of guy that Jack would hate - still hated. He couldn't stand all of Leighton's friends but Leighton had become an exception. Even though Leighton casually extended invitations to the parties he went to, Jack had always turned him down. For one, he didn't want to be around those pompous dicks, second, he didn't like drinking enough to be able to get himself drunk enough to bear their company, and third, he didn't have the time. Jack's semesters and holidays had been a blur between the publication and his studies.

While Jack had never been one for parties - he had heard of the ones at Belle Rive. Everyone had heard of the Belle Rive parties. Belle Rive was the family home of Barron Holles, who was the only writer that eclipsed Percival Shepley in fame, partly because the stories around him were so outrageous. And a lot of them were said to have happened at parties in Belle Rive. If even a quarter of those rumors held any facts at all, Jack knew he would hate being there.

But Percival Shepley did intrigue him. He was also one of them, of course, but there was no denying his talent with words. Barron Holles, on the other hand, Jack thought was extremely overrated. This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the same critic who'd called Endymion's descent into madness "crass and vulgar" had praised Barron's last book as being "an epitome of wit" when it was barely a step above onanistic fantasies.

So, Jack cancelled his non-existent plans for Saturday night. Leighton lent him a suit that he claimed didn't fit him anymore as he lied and was casually honest at the same time, in true Ashford fashion, "Keep it, actually. You'd be doing me a favor. They're a little tight around my biceps. Boxing is doing wonders for me. Maybe you'd like to join me sometime? It's the usual crowd but you get to punch them."

Leighton also insisted that Jack went together with him and Marianne, who he had been seeing for a month now, twice as long as anyone else he had dated before. Being the third wheel to the new couple was still much more preferable to arriving at that party on his own, so he'd said yes to joining them in Leighton's car.

When he first saw Belle Rive - which was more of a mansion, no, a palace, lit up in bright lights against the darkness of the woods that surrounded it - Jack had a feeling that he was stepping into a world so different from the one he lived in that it might as well have been the mythological Mount Olympus and he was a lost human who'd be hunted by the gods who hid their cruelty behind their gorgeous, benevolent facades. Or, that was just Jack's underutilized imagination making sense of his nervousness at being in a place where he didn't belong - that part held true, no matter what Leighton and Marianne's reassuring words told him.

[bethanydelleman]

Each Jane Austen Hero Writes a “Wentworth Letter”

We all love Wentworth’s famous declaration of love:

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.” Persuasion

What if Austen’s other heroes wrote similar declarations of love?

Charles Bingley to Jane:

(“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.” Ch 10)

Fitzwilliam Darcy to Elizabeth:

Scene: Darcy is back in London after not being able to speak to Elizabeth at the Longbourn party (Ch 54). He begins to write Elizabeth a letter

Miss Bennet,

I cannot be a slave to opportunity; I must speak to you by what means are within my reach. Angry and resentful I might have been after we parted in Kent, but that has long since taken a more proper direction. Upon your arrival at Pemberley, my object has been to show you every civility within my power. I have loved none but you. I went to Longbourn to attempt to penetrate your feelings. Please tell me if you feel as your did last April, a word, a look, will be enough to silence me forever.

I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it. You alone have brought me to Netherfield. For you alone, I deliberate and arrange. Have your bright eyes not perceived this? How can your quick understanding not comprehend my wishes? I can hardly write. You are too good to trifle with me. If you do believe in true attachment and constancy among men, believe it most ardent and undeviating-

(The letter is left unfinished as Lady Catherine is announced…)

 Edward Ferrars to Elinor Dashwood:

Scene: Marianne has just noticed the hair ring that Edward is wearing, he lies and says it is his sister’s hair but it is really Lucy Steele’s (S&S, Ch 18). He writes this letter:

Miss E. D.

I can no longer be silent; I must reveal the truth to you that I have hidden for too long. I love you, more completely and wholly than I myself believed possible. Yet, I cannot offer you a heart that is completely your own. Long before you were known to me, I bound myself to another. I am engaged to Lucy Steele and have been these last four years. I know you could not love me if I betrayed my honour and therefore, I must live in agony, without any hope of future happiness. Weak I have been, inconstant I have been, but you are too good, too excellent a creature. I could not help but love you.

I was young and foolish when I proposed to Lucy and I have learned better since. You have taught me what an amiable woman can truly be, but it is too late. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. Why did I come to your home without any hope of securing you as my own? I cannot think and plan, I can only exist in acute misery. I must go, certain of my terrible fate. When next I enter your mother’s house, I fear it will be sealed forever.

Your friend, E. F.

 Colonel Brandon to Marianne Dashwood:

Scene: Marianne is in bed sick and Elinor has requested that Colonel Brandon retrieve Mrs. Dashwood. This letter is written before the horses are ready. (S&S Ch 43)

Miss M. D.

I write this in haste before I depart. You are too ill to be seen or spoken to; I cannot remain in silence so I shall speak to you by what means are within my reach. I love you with all of my soul. Dare not believe that there is no such thing as a second attachment! That I have loved before does not diminish the strength of my affection for you. My love did not have an early death. I would offer myself to you with a heart all your own, despite the tragedy that almost broke it, many years ago. Is it not more wonderful that a fire, extinguished thoroughly by disappointment, may be reignited? Believe when I say that a first flame, alluring as it may be, is little when compared to a deep-rooted admiration.

You alone have brought me to Cleveland, for you alone I hope and plan. Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I can hardly write. I am almost overpowered when I think of how much wrong has been done to you. You are too good, too excellent a creature! I would do you justice. He was never worthy of you- but I shall not dwell on resentment. If you can still believe in true attachment and constancy among men, believe it most fervent, most undeviating in me.

I will go, uncertain of my fate, but I will return. A word, a look, will be enough to decide if I shall remain in your company or quit your society forever.

Yours eternally, Colonel Brandon

 Mr. Knightley to Emma:

Scene: Mr. Knightley is in London, writing a confession of his feelings to Emma, when he finds out that Frank Churchill is engaged to Jane Fairfax.

Emma,

I could no longer listen to you and Mr. Frank Churchill’s flirtations in silence. I went to London to teach myself to forget you. It is impossible. Tell me I am not too late, that your precious feelings are engaged forever. You are too good, too excellent a creature- perfect in spite of your imperfections! I would not have stayed away these ten days if I thought you indifferent to him. I can hardly write. I cannot imagine Hartfield without you.

He is engaged to Miss Fairfax? Abominable scoundrel! He has deceived us all, but you will hear nothing but truth from me. Shall time heal the wound? Do I have hope of succeeding -

(Mr. Knightley put down his pen and ordered his horse instead, despite the rain)

 Edmund Bertram to Mary Crawford:

Scene: Edmund is visiting London where he sees Mary Crawford several times in large groups. He writes this the next day.

Miss Crawford

You pierce my heart! I can go on no longer in silence. Your friends are wrong. They are completely unaware of the nature of love. Every word they say oppressing me- do not say that happiness is based in fortune. Do not think that mercenary goals are virtuous! If only I could detach you from these mercenary and ambitious friends! They are corrupting you and encouraging your weakness of character. You were better at Mansfield, everything proper and caring as a sister. The habits of wealth and luxury are too strong here in London. Only you would have brought me here. I can hardly write; I am every instant remembering something which makes me grave. You do us no justice! There is true attachment and constancy among men.

You are the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. I offer myself to you with a heart completely your own. Tell me that I am not too late; I regret every day that I did not come to the point before you left the Parsonage. Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I have loved none but you.  For you alone, I think and plan. Can you accept the house I mean to fit up for you and the income that will furnish such a second son? I live between hope and agony. I will go to Mansfield, uncertain of my fate.

Edmund Bertram

 Henry Tilney to Catherine:

Henry is never uncertain of Catherine’s affection, so this one is just for fun.

Scene: Henry has just arrived at Fullerton and is listening to Catherine argue with her brother (not James, a different one) about whether men or women love the longest. Basically, the same conversation Wentworth overhears Anne and Harville having. He cannot join in because he lost his voice.

Catherine,

I can no longer listen in silence. I need to be a part of this conversation. If only I had not lost my voice! This is agony! I have so many helpful examples to bring to the discussion. You cannot comprehend how disagreeable it is to be silent. I am every instant hearing something for which I have a rebuttal. Why is no one bringing up Romeo and Juliet? That is a true example of how both sexes can feel passionate love. And Cordelia’s love for her father in King Lear, another excellent example of woman’s constancy in the face of opposition. But you just dismissed the Bard’s entire compendium and all literature in general; it could have really helped your argument. More robust than women? Does he not consider what your mother has endured? You know how very highly I think of all the women in the world, especially those with whom I happen to be in company. Never mind, I shall survive. I am capable of not contributing.

I am slightly worried from your manner of speaking that you are doubtful of my love for you. Too good, too modest a creature! Catherine, you alone have brought me to Fullerton (really, what else could?). I am bound to you by both honour and affection. I would not have waited these two hours but that your brother will not leave us alone. I offer myself to you with a heart all your own. You must be made aware, however, that my father does not approve and I have told him my feelings explicitly. That was the cause of my voice failing. For you alone I ranted and stormed.

I know that your heart is mine, but if you wish to assure me of that fact, it can never be repeated too often. I shall sit quietly now, certain of my fate.

Yours affectionately, Henry