Leenie B Books, $0.99, ISBN 978-1-989410-67-7
Historical Romance, 2020
Hmm, the cover of Leenie Brown’s Moonlight, Mistletoe, and Mary looks adorable and maybe I should…
His breath puffed out in a small cloud of mist. He was safe. It was only his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and not his host’s youngest sister.
Wait. What is this?
Ever since Darcy and Elizabeth had become betrothed, Caroline Bingley had made every attempt to charm Richard into considering her as his future mate. However, that was not going to happen. For, what he wanted and what Miss Bingley was were diametrically opposed. She was shops and soirees. He wanted a hearth and a good book – or a night sky and a blanket.
Oh my god, I’ve accidentally grubby-pawed onto one of those fan fiction things written by and for people that are convinced that there is only one book and one author in existence and guess what that is. I’ve done my best to stay out of that scary corner of fiction because the occupants in that place can be rabid as well as frightening, and it looks like I may have stumbled into that scary place by accident.
So yes, Caroline Bingley wants to mount, sorry, I mean, converse and have tea with Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, the cousin of the Fitzwilliam that got away. Hey, it’s still a Fitzwilliam, so that counts, right?
Anyway, forget Caroline. Let’s instead pay our love-starved attention and direct our amorous affections to the dicky fizzy colonel, who believes that he is a content lifelong bachelor.
His stance is certainly challenged when he meets Mary Bennet. Can these two overcome the machinations of the Bingley clan to ensnare Dicky Fizzy into matrimonial ruination with Caroline?
Anyway, this is a pleasant collection of English sentences constructed to represent winsome conversations and polite traipsing through pleasant pavements and tinkling tearooms. These characters are respectably stereotypical as only the British can be.
We are spared of the unpleasant toils of human copulation so that our bucolic awe and admiration of such gentrified gentility of a beautiful period of days gone by will not be soiled by the vulgar and base lust-soaked, bestial copulation of torrid, heated flesh—a mighty haft of an engorged phallus blazing into the heated petal-clasped core of…
Oh wait, I got confused and thought I was singing my certainly sincere praises to some Kathleen E Woodiwiss wannabe.
That’s right, I’m supposed to singing exultation to Jane Austen and the legion of feminine scribes moved by her brilliant tour de force to recapture the same story over and over in a more accessible manner for the modern audience that probably only watch those movies and TV series over and over and name their shower handles Mr Darcy.
Naturally, there is only one best book ever in the entire extensive works of words penned down onto manuscripts since the dawning of human civilization, and while this one doesn’t come close to achieving the same level of transcendental linguistic-emotive divinity of the original author, this particular author must be praised for not only continuously spreading the gospel that Jane Austen is immortal and divine for blessing humanity with her selfless story of Mr Darcy and what’s-her-face, she also embodies a microscopic aspect of that divinity that is Jane Austen and by reading this story, we too welcome and absorb the atomic genius of the original and one and only author.
This author helps to keep the beatific image of Mr Darcy rapaciously ramming his red, lurid phallus holding what’s-her-face’s hand as they walk gently down the clean and pleasant-smelling streets seared into the theater in our brain, and as long as we see that image, humanity will be uplifted, elevated, and hoisted for the better.
For this, we should be grateful to this author and every other author out there that toils hard to recreate and recapture fragments of the best story ever, over and over, from dawn to dusk, from beginning to end, amen.
There, I’ve said my piece, without any pride or prejudice. Peace out!
