It is a truth not quite universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in need of a wife, a femme-presenting woman who identifies as queer, a married non-binary person, a polyamorous married couple, some life partnership friends, with whom he may or may not have sex, and a nesting partner.
Mrs. Bennet was highly encouraged to read in the local newspaper that Mr. Bingley, a tech tycoon (steam-driven flyswatters) with 6,000 a year had moved to the neighbourhood. The newspaper, the Aspidistra, which considered itself an arbiter of style and a spotter of trends, had written admiringly of Mr. Bingley’s membership in the daring new London social experiment, the polycule, though it seemed to have some difficulty explaining exactly what a polycule was. (“Polysaturation is different for different people,” it quoted one young woman.)
Mrs. Bennet, whose only reason for living was to see her five daughters married to wealthy men devoid of sexually transmitted diseases, thought the concept was “very nice, I suppose, for Jacobins, Jews and Gypsies,” but when Mr. Bennet, a grumpy man who knew everything, explained to her what a polycule actually was, Mrs. Bennet fainted dead away.
She revived just in time for the spring ball. In the carriage on the way to the ball, Mrs. Bennet’s oldest daughter, the lively and not-bad-looking Elizabeth, informed her mother that the youngest daughter, Lydia, had fallen in love and run off to India with the 201st Pith Helmet Regiment and that the next eldest, Catherine, had eloped with Mr. Thorncake, a dyspeptic churl despised by everyone but who had 5,000 a year and a two-headed calf.
“How perfectly splendid,” Mrs. Bennet said. “That’s two down. And what of the remainder?
Elizabeth conveyed the information that Yvonne was playing the field, Shirley had captured the interest of Mr. Bingley, and she, Elizabeth, was flirting with Mr. Bingley’s handsome but rude friend, Mr. Darcy.
“Why can’t my daughters ever meet a man with a first name?” said Mrs. Bennet.
Mr. Darcy had a mere 3,000 a year, but he had inherited it from his father, a Cornish duchess. This meant Mr. Darcy outranked any man who had made his fortune in the vulgar pursuit of trade and was entitled to boast about it between the hours of 4 PM and 9 PM on weekdays.
“My relationship with Mr. Darcy is currently in the cute pretend-to-despise-each-other stage,” said Elizabeth. “But tonight I hope to progress to the heavy-petting phase. Oh, look, there’s father!”
Mr. Bennet, who disliked being separated from his armchair, had hired four strapping brutes to carry it—and him—to the ball. No sooner had they set it down than Mr. Bennet was surrounded by Mr. Bingley, his friend, Mr. Darcy, and a dozen members of their polycule.
“But what is the advantage of the thing?” Mr. Bennet was saying.
“Freedom and choice for women,” said a beautiful young woman in a green dress. “I have a husband, who is my nesting partner, and I have four life-partnership friends whom I call my wives. I do have sex with my wives, but we’re not romantically involved. But I love them. No one tells me what to do.”
“But women are silly people,” said Mr. Bennet, genuinely puzzled. “They must be told what to do by men, or they will run into a wall and hurt themselves.”
At that moment, there was a loud noise. Mrs. Bennet had run into a wall and hurt herself. Her daughters rushed to her aid. She would return to consciousness in mid-summer, if things went well.
Mr. Darcy then stepped forward and addressed Mr. Bennet, who was snickering at the plight of his wife. “I should like to marry your daughter, Elizabeth,” Darcy declared, even though your family’s ranking is vastly inferior to mine.”
“Damned sporting of you,” said Mr. Bennet.
“I am not a married man,” said Darcy, though in my polycule, which is the same one as Mr. Bingley’s, I do have a husband, a girlfriend, three mistresses, a radical transmasc, and a French maid. But no wife.”
“You must be a bloody busy fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, “but are you a happy one?”
“Quite honestly,” said Mr. Darcy, “the polycule has provided me with a degree of sexual satisfaction I never dreamed possible. But the scheduling is maddening. I must employ a special secretary just to keep track of my many appointments. Some nights, I retire in a state of utter exhaustion.”
“And you say this polycule phenomenon has captured the smart set in London?” said Mr. Bennet. “Because it seems a just a tad advanced for early-nineteenth-century Britain.”
“‘Tis bound to!” said Mr. Bingley with great enthusiasm. “I would not have published such an article in my beloved family newspaper, the Aspidistra, had I not believed in the success of the polycule!”
“You are the publisher of the Aspidistra?” said Mr. Bennet.
“And the editor,” exclaimed Mr. Bingley with great pride. “I write the equine-disease column as well.”
The orchestra, which up to now had been stuffing its pockets with pickled sardine pops and other tasty delicacies, struck up a lively quadrille and the men and women lined up to dance. Mr. Darcy stood opposite his fiancee, Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet asked his armchair for the dance.
Mr. Bingley did not notice that Mr. Bennet had absented himself, so inflamed was he with his topic. “Our country stands on the precipice of a golden era,” he proclaimed. “Not only will she rule in business, imperial conquest and oppressive conditions in mines and factories, but with our brilliant new young Queen setting the example, we shall at long last take the lead in progressive sexual practices.”
Very good! Funny as hell. Former English teacher me.
Long live the Queens, the Theys, the Wes, and all the rest. Cheers! Good day, Sir.