Gossiping Like Women

The Butcher, The Baker, The Greengrocer, The Blacksmith and The Undertaker. (Gossiping Like Woman was short enough to fit in the title box when uploading! The real title was too long).

SUMMARY: Wickham shows his true colours and five Meryton tradesmen prove to be bigger gossips than their wives! And they set things into motion for Darcy (and others) to change his ways much sooner.


This is my first Pride and Predudice fanfiction piece – I don’t claim to be as good as some of the masterful authors I’ve read out there; I welcome constructive criticism. I don’t own the characters you recognise either!

I have no idea how I managed to post this twice! Many apologies.

WARNING: an almost-rape scene. The scene ends at the small row of * * * * *. (I realise not everyone will want to read this, so if it isn’t your cup of tea, don’t read between the * * * * *

Lizzy sighed as Kitty and Lydia ran off giggling to the small congregation of red coats who stood on the corner of the road. She sighed and shook her head, dismayed to see her two youngest (and silliest) sisters flirt and carry on. Mr. Walters, the butcher, watched through the window with a grim smile – and shrugged his shoulders at Miss Lizzy in reply to her obviously disappointed air.

Lizzy smiled back and shook her head as she tried not to laugh at the Butcher pulling faces. Mr. Simon Walters and his family were one of her Father’s tenant families; he was a man of large stature (and waist, to be truthful), and had one of the kindest hearts, the nicest disposition and a secret recipe for his ham curing that made the mouth water.

Lydia’s shrill giggle filled the air, followed momentarily by one from Kitty. Lizzy’s embarrassment and disappointment returned; and it was not unnoticed by the greengrocer, Mr. William Marchbanks. Mr. Marchbanks was another kind man with a friendly smile; he was tall and slim, and his wife called him ‘my string bean’ as an endearment; he called her ‘my darling carrot’ in reply (and due to her red hair).

“Don’t worry, Miss Lizzy,” he reassured her, “They’ll grow up soon enough and all this girlish sillyness will be over.” He didn’t sound too convinced with his proclamation.

“Kitty is seventeen and too easily led by Lydia – surely she can behave like a proper lady at her age? Surely Lydia, at fifteen has outgrown the need to be a little girl?” Lizzy mused aloud with another sigh,

“Don’t worry, Miss Lizzy, things will change! They’ll grow up soon enough.” Mr. Marchbanks supplied, polishing an apple and handing it to the second Miss Bennet.

“Oh! Thank-you! Just what I needed!” Lizzy said, reaching into her pocket for some money to pay for the fruit.

“Nay! Tis not to be paid for!” he insisted, “You were wonderful when My Darling Carrot went into her confinement! Her sister couldn’t come to help with the birth this time – and you came running to help without being asked! We owe you more than an apple, Miss Bennet!” he smiled, thinking of his second child, his son James.

“I’d have done it for any woman of Meryton!” she assured, still trying to press the coin into the greengrocer’s hand.

“I’ve told ye, Miss Bennet, tis not to be paid for – just eaten and enjoyed by you.” He took no for an answer and Lizzy (try as she might) couldn’t make him accept the money.

Mr. Marchbanks went back into his shop in search of some more potatoes to put on the wooden cart outside, his nephew, Matthew, watched the inside shop. The Red coats gathering, and their band, started to walk back to their encampment for their meal; and the bell ringers of the little parish church began their practice.

Lizzy took a deep breath, and with a determined stride she made to walk to Lydia and Kitty, whom were both being ridiculously foolish in their flirtation – when suddenly she was grabbed about the waist and pulled into an alley that led to the yard at the back of the butchers. The bustle of the militia and their band and the clanging of (not quite synchronised) church bells provided very loud cover.

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Lizzy was momentarily too shocked to scream or cry for help; and this was stopped by the ale-reeking breath of someone roughly pressing his lips to hers.

With all her might, Lizzy shoved, managing to push whoever the red coat was away from her; finding her courage, she slapped his face with all her might before attempting to sidestep past him and out into the open.

“Not so fast, Miss Bennet…” cackled a slurring Mr. Wickham, dragging her closer to him and attempting to rip into her dress’s bodice.

Lizzy let out a scream, crying for help! She kicked and flailed, scratching an angry set of red lines into his face as she did.

“Shut up! Shut up you stupid girl!” Wicham snapped, striking her about the face with the back of his hand. The force knocked Lizzy sideways; the Lieutenant slipped his leg behind hers and shoved, tripping her to the ground and following her down.

“HELP! HELP!” Lizzy screamed at the top of her voice, hoping someone would notice and hear! She continued to struggle, even as Wickham held both of her wrists in one large hand over her head. His knees pinned her skirts to the floor, and her kicking was doing little damage.

“GET OFF ME! LET ME GO! HELP! NOOOOOO!” she screeched as he used a small dagger from his boots to cut through her dress, revealing her stays.

“ARRRRRRRRGH! GET OFF ME! STOP THIS! STOP! PLEASE STOP THIS!” she screeched, still struggling against him as he stared at her. He merely Laughed before striking her again, using her hair to pull her head back quickly, revealing her neck to him.

Lizzy sobbed through the pain, still pleading for him to stop!

“Why me?” she whimpered before her bravery returned and she resumed her screams “STOP THIS! LET ME GO!”

Wickham, realising the militia and their band had moved off, realised he needed to silence her! He wrapped his hands around her throat whist she was in mid scream; in vain, Lizzy attempted to draw breath to continue to cry for help; her small hands dug into his, trying to pry them away.

Dark spots danced over her vision as she slipped into darkness.

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“Finally!” Mr. Walters sighed in relief as the racket stopped.

“Father, did you hear screaming?” asked his son Timothy.

“I thought I were imagining it!” said the butcher, “We’d better go see what’s happening.” He put down his cleaver and the pair dashed through the front door of the shop to the little back alley.

“Good God!” cried Mr. Walters as he saw a redcoat obviously forcing himself upon a woman.

Father and son rushed at Wickham, the senior man using his strength to drag the man away from the poor woman and out into the street.

“Marchbanks! Help!” He cried, as the greengrocer returned with his potatoes.

“What happened?” he shouted, running around from his barrow to inspect the man who had obviously been in a fight.

“Not me! The alley! This scoundrel was attacking a woman!” the butcher yelled, struggling to restrain a flailing Wickham.

The blacksmith, Henry Goodwill, ran from his smithy, five properties down the road on the opposite street. With a firm punch, from an arm used to wielding his hammer, Wickham was knocked unconscious and dropped to the floor like a stone; this occurred just as the Baker, Mr. Knowles, hit him with an empty baking tray. Wickham had both a black eye and a nasty bump to the forehead.

“Thanks, Goodwill! Thanks Knowles!…” The Butcher turned to see the commotion of the alley as the woman was brought out in the arms of the greengrocer.

“Good Lord!” he whispered, recognising the ripped dress and chestnut curls as belonging to Miss Elizabeth Bennet; her face swollen, her lips blue and angry red handprints marring her throat.

“Is she…” the blacksmith said, wide eyed. He gave a firm kick to the ribs of prone man on the floor.

“No… she’s not dead, but she’s hardly breathing!” Mr. Marchbanks shouted over his shoulder as he ran the short distance to his shop, laying her on a bed of potato sacks on the floor. He removed his apron to cover her.

The blacksmith pulled himself together; and began organising the surrounding men and ushering the nosey women (who’d been shopping) away. The Baker, Mr. Frederick Knowles, and his son worked to keep the crowding gossips away.

“Matthew! Go lad and get the Colonel Forster! Quick lad! Run!” he turned to Timothy, “Tim, lad – run to Longbourn! Get Mr. Bennet! Hurry! Tell him Miss Lizzy has been hurt!”

He turned to his own apprentice, his Godson, Gregory Skinner, “Go get the apothecary! Tell him it’s an emergency! Tell him Miss Bennet’s been attacked… don’t just stand there! Go to it!”

Peter Willow, the undertaker of Meryton wandered up to where people were dashing to and fro in panic.

“What in the world is happening?” he asked.

“Miss Lizzy Bennet… this ruffian dragged her into the alley and was going to… he was going to force himself on her! He throttled her!” the butcher whispered, looking down to see that said ruffian was coming around. “Folks like him should be in cages and hanged!”

“Hmm.” Said the undertaker, a small and quiet man by nature; he calmly removed his tape measure from his pocket and quickly measured the redcoat. “I’ll be back with a cage.” He said in a soft voice before walking briskly back to his funeral parlour.

Mr. Walters placed one large foot on Wickham’s chest as the blacksmith ran to his shop for a length of rope to tie him up with.

The on-looking crowd (who didn’t actually know what had happened, but were speculating wildly) watched in bemusement as the undertaker and his son carried a half-finished coffin up the street.

“You wanted a cage, Walters; unfortunately, it hasn’t got a lid yet… I hope Mr. Harris won’t mind.” Said the quiet man as he and his son dropped the wooden box to the floor.

“Aye! That’ll do nicely! And I’ll apologise to the man at his funeral on Wednesday.” He grabbed Wickham under the arms as the blacksmith grabbed his legs. He was unceremoniously thrown into the coffin. The two men pinned the struggling soldier down as Mr. Bennet arrived on his horse at full gallop.

“What happened!” he demanded.

“Go into Marchbanks’s shop, sir, he’ll tell you.” The butcher said with a bow (a difficult feat when pinning a drunk and angry man into a coffin). Mr. Bennet dashed into the shop and let out a cry of anguish (and several curses).

“I hope I shan’t be making another coffin this week.” The undertaker said quietly as he shook his head.

“Ooh! I’ve got a lid for this cage! Go into the back yard and fetch the chicken coop! Tis just wood and mesh, not heavy at all.” The butcher said, nodding politely as Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Mary Bennet came running down the street; they were almost over the threshold of the greengrocers before they both turned, dropped into small bobbing curtseys and chorused:

“Mr. Walters, Mr. Knowles, Mr. Goodwill, Mr. Willow.” They then dashed into the greengrocers, Jane screamed as Mary ran back to the door with her hand upon her heart, gasping for breath.

“Pull yourself together!” she chided herself, “You’ll be no use in a tizzy!” after a deep breath, she pulled up her sleeves and rushed back in to help – the apothecary hot on her heels.

The undertaker and his son returned with the chicken coop, and it was quickly positioned over the struggling Wickham; the butcher sat down upon one corner, and the other three men followed suit; keeping the makeshift lid on as the redcoat pushed and pummelled at it with his bound hands. He swore and cursed at the top of his voice.

Mr. Goodwill stood, and motioned the undertaker to do the same. He opened the little door and tied his handkerchief as a gag. “Shut your foul mouth, you scoundrel! There’s ladies present!” the little door was replaced and the persons sat back down.

Wickham continued to rant, though the awful language was much muffled.

“Ay! What about the chickens?” asked the undertaker’s son.

“Went in the shop window this morning; all sold by eleven. I think you’ll be having one for your dinner tonight, your Mother bought one early this morning.” The butcher replied.

“Oh. I didn’t want any to escape.” Said the lad.

“If they escape your Mother’s cooking pot, I’ll be surprised!” the butcher laughed, trying to make light of the bad situation with a small joke, “I know their legs keep moving once their head’s off… but I don’t think they’ll make a runner once they’re plucked and sold!”

The blacksmith chuckled, noticing several more soldiers and the Colonel running toward them; the other redcoats were beaten to the fray by Mary King.

“What’s happening? What’s going on? I demand you release my fiancé this instant!” she shouted, hands on hips.

“You’re better off without this monster, Miss King.” Mr. Marchbanks said, coming out of his shop. He turned to the other men, “We’re going to move her to my house, it’s the closest. Walters is getting us one of his really big trays to lay her on to act like a stretcher.” The aforementioned large tray was fetched by the baker and his sons and rushed into the greengrocers.

“Let my Wicky go! He’s no monster! What’s happening?!” she cried, noticing his caged, bound and scratched state.

“What happened here?” The Colonel asked, “Why is this good soldier bound and caged like an animal?”

“Because he is one!!” The butcher yelled, before dropping his voice to a whisper, “He was going to force himself on a lady, he was choking her when we dragged him off her!”

“Come now! It can’t be as bad as all that!” the colonel said.

“My Wickie wouldn’t do that! He’s a good man!” Miss King screeched.

“It was probably naught more than a young lady risking propriety and sneaking a kiss or two!” the Colonel chuckled; the laugh died upon his lips as Miss Elizabeth Bennet was carried out of the greengroacer’s wrapped in her Father’s great coat. Her face was already badly bruised, one eye swollen shut and her lip split. Her body was covered, but her Father’s coat didn’t hide the angry handprints about her throat.

“Aye!” The blacksmith said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Naught but a bit of kissing, is it?” he was sorely tempted to thump the Colonel.

“Good God!” the officer whispered.

“It is a LIE! He wouldn’t do that! He’s an honourable man!” Miss King screeched. The on-looking crowds fell silent as Mr. Bennet, Mr. Marchbanks, young Walters and the apothecary carried the makeshift stretcher as quickly as they could to the Marchbanks’ house. Jane and Mary ran on ahead to warn Mrs. Marchbanks.

“Oi! Is that the man who calls himself Wickham?” asked the owner of the pub, “He owes me fifty-three pounds! And he owes over a-hundred more to the men he was gambling with! And my daughter’s in the family way! He said he were going to wed her as soon as he could! She’s barely gone thirteen!”

“Aye? Honourable is he, Miss King?” spat the butcher.

“Gentlemen, take him away. Miss King, I think you should return to your home.” The colonel said. The officers bound Wickham more securely and marched him back to the encampment.

The crowed of onlookers stood shocked before returning to their homes to talk over the day. Miss Lizzy Bennet was well liked and well respected; she was also a very strong woman… if this would happen to such a strong lady, what chance did the rest of them have against such men?

Lydia complained loudly that all this was stopping her meeting with the officers, and that poor Mr. Wickham shouldn’t be treated so roughly. She paid little notice to her badly injured sister.

Kitty stood in silence, tears streaming down her face. “I should have stayed with Lizzy! I shouldn’t have followed Lydia to the officers! This is my fault!” she noticed the Apothecary had left some things in the greengrocer’s, she picked them up and carried them carefully, as quickly as she could, to the Marchbanks’ home.

Lydia continued to flirt with the other soldiers who had arrived on the scene; they looked upon her with pity and disgust; as did the rest of those who had remained to witness things.

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The butcher, the baker, the greengrocer, the blacksmith and the undertaker sat on the upturned coffin, facing the outside of the greengrocer’s shop, their backs to the street; they awaited any news of Miss Lizzy’s health, and to take their minds off the upset, they began to discuss a few people of the community.

They did not notice the Netherfield party walking behind them.

“The eldest three Bennet ladies are all gentlewomen, to be certain.” Commented Mr. Walters.

“Oh yes! The eldest is the sweetest angel ever to grace this earth! She’s so kind and gentle, so giving to others.” Replied Mr. Knowles, passing a loaf of bread down the line of tradesmen.

“Aye! She helped nurse my sister while she was ill – fetched all her shopping too. And only an angel could be so beautiful!” said Mr. Goodwill.

At this, the Netherfield party stopped to eavesdrop; with the pretence of admiring the greengrocer’s from behind the men. Nor did the traders they see Mr. Collins walking toward them from the opposite direction.

“Ha! She’s not as beautiful as my Grace!” said Mr. Marchbanks with pride, “Why, I shall have to be fighting the dancing partners away with a stick and making sure that a proper gentleman proposes to her!”

Mr. Bingley bristled at this, nobody could be more beautiful than his Jane! His sisters smiled, they’d be able to use this information to convince Charles away from Hertfordshire.

“Aye, your Grace is a beautiful little lass… but she’s just turned three! I don’t think you’ll have to beat away dancing partners and proposals for a good while yet!”

“Not like Miss Bennet! I’ve never seen a man so in love as her Mr. Bingley! I’ve never met a finer and more pleasant man! So polite! And Miss Bennet is as in love with him as he is with her… but she’s so blooming modest and proper! He’ll never know she cares for him if she doesn’t start wearing her heart on her sleeve!” said the undertaker; as Jane’s Godfather, he knew her a little better than the other traders.

The men all smiled and agreed. Mr. Bingley grinned from ear to ear, and part skipped back to Netherfield, leaving his sisters and Mr. Darcy to continue eavesdropping.

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The undertaker offered his opinion once more: “Though I am honoured to be Miss Jane’s Godfather, I think my favourite Miss Bennet is Miss Mary; I’ve spoken much with her… why, she spent morning, noon and night with Mr. Harris until he died. He’s no family to speak of, and Miss Mary kept him company – right up to the end.”

“She’s a quiet lass, very studious. She helps a lot with the church and community. She stayed with my Mother when she passed on, rest her soul… aye, she’d make a good wife for a clergyman – she’s the right attitude for it.” Chipped in Mr. Goodwill.

“I hear that a clergyman’s at Longbourn! Some cousin or other, he’ll inherit it… I heard he wanted to seek a wife here too!” said the Baker; Mr. Collins, standing close by, chose to listen to what was being said, rather than make his presence known.

“Ha!” Laughed the undertaker, a very rare sound for such a quiet and solemn man, “He’s completely ridiculous! He rambles on and on and on! He can’t shut up about his noble patroness and I’ll wager that his compliments and comments are rehearsed every night before he says his evening prayers!” the undertaker looked cross,

“He dared to tell me how to do my job! The nerve of him! I was trained by my Father to be an undertaker, and his Father trained him, and his Father trained him… and so on for as many generations as we can remember! And the simpering fool tried to tell me I was doing it wrong? What would he know? He probably wouldn’t be able to tell his backside from his elbow… well, not unless his noble patroness, the Lady Catherine De Bourgh, told him which were which!”

The five traders burst out laughing; it had been the rudest and least complementary speech the undertaker had ever made! Not to mention the only time they’d seen him speak with any other emotion other than severity!

“I think Miss Mary would be good for him! She won’t stand for any nonsense – heck, look how she can ignore and admonish her silly younger sisters! She’d set him to rights and be good for his parish with her attitude!” said Mr. Marchbanks.

“Aye, a man like Collins can’t see he’s being a fool. I don’t think he realises that we all either laugh at him or ignore him! I know its bad manners – but I can’t take such an idiot seriously!” said the Blacksmith.

There was quiet for a little while as the loaf of bread was once again shared between the men. Mr. Collins was given much to think about, and he returned to Longbourn; merely nodding to the people he passed on his way.

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“None of us saw this coming, did we?” said the baker, “That Mr. Wickham was so polite and pleasant! He seemed to be so proper!”

“Aye! Proposing to Miss King, and the barman’s daughter… getting the barman’s daughter in the family way! For goodness sake, she’s just turned thirteen!” Goodwill paused for a moment, “And then he tries to force himself on Miss Lizzy! And he nearly killed her! He was strangling her!”

“The Bennets yet might need your services, Willow, the apothecary wasn’t hopeful.” Whispered Marchbanks.

“Good Lord!” whispered the undertaker, silently praying that the Bennets would not be paying him for his services for a long, long time.

Behind them, Mr. Darcy stood as still as a statue, a cold fear had encompassed his heart at the words! Wickham had dared to try and rape his Elizabeth! He’d strangled her!

‘I should have made Wickham’s character known! I should have exposed him! It’s my fault!’ he thought, slipping easily into a depressive mood.

The traders paused before speaking again.

“Miss Lizzy would make someone a wonderful wife; she’s so lively, so strong, so confident, so clever! Her Father’s been teaching her how to run an estate for years! She’s one of those ladies that should have been born a lad!” said the butcher.

“How about that Mr. Darcy? He’s of a fair fortune and single!” said the baker.

Behind them, Mr. Darcy’s eyes lit up – just as Caroline Bingley’s face turned to a snarl.

“Don’t. Be. Daft.” Snapped the blacksmith, Lizzy’s Godfather, “The man is the rudest, most stuck up snob you’ve ever seen! Stood at the assembly and looked at us as if we were all something that had come out of the back end of a horse! I’m surprised his head fits in his hat! His head is so filled up with pride!”

“He insulted Miss Lizzy, you know! Said Bingley was dancing with the most pretty girl in the room, and that Miss Lizzy was ‘barely tolerable to tempt him’! My wife overheard him! As did Miss Lizzy and Miss Lucas!” said Mr. Marchbanks.

“No! He never did?” asked the undertaker.

“Is he blind, then? Can’t he see how wonderful Miss Lizzy is? Aye, she’s not so beautiful as Miss Bennet, but few are!” replied Mr. Knowles.

“Except my Grace!” said her proud Father.

“Aye, that little lass of yours is a treasure, and she’ll blossom into something beautiful.” Agreed the baker, “That’s the last of the loaf, shall I get another one?”

“Nay, I’ve a chicken to eat when I get home, apparently.” Said the undertaker, looking to the butcher.

“If it hasn’t escaped, that is.” The butcher laughed back, “Your lad’s not got much sense has he?”

“He’s an undertaker’s son! How should he know what’s what with a chicken coop?!” Mr. Willow defended his son.

“Surely he noticed there was nothing in it!” the butcher said.

Mr. Darcy was making to leave, but the men began talking once more…

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“Tell you who of these Netherfield lot I don’t like…” began the baker, “…That Miss Caroline!”

There was a mumble of agreement before the butcher replied, “If that Mr. Darcy looked at us as if we were something that a horse had done, then she looked at us as if we were the entire muck pile from Goodwill’s stables!” he scoffed.

“She thinks she’s so brilliant with all her London fashion! Well she can take her blooming fashion back to London for all I care! She wouldn’t know what proper manners were if they bit her on the nose! She’s so rude and insipid! An arrogant madam!” snapped the undertaker.

“My! Aren’t you all opinionated today?” said the greengrocer, turning to the undertaker.

“I don’t suffer fools! And she’s just as foolish as that twit, Mr. Collins! She follows that Mr. Darcy around like a lost puppy! Simpering and complementing him on the most inane subjects! She can’t shut up about his sister! She contradicted herself eight or nine times to agree with something he said! She doesn’t realise he doesn’t care what she says!”

The undertaker sat in a more ‘ladylike’ pose and put on a high voice, “Ooh, Mr. Darcy, how I dote upon your sister! She’s so talented and wonderful! She plays the piano beautifully. How I dote upon her! She has the best designs for a table! Isn’t she wonderful, how I dote upon her! She’s so fashionable, how I dote upon her! We had so much fun together at Pemberly – we are practically sisters because we are so alike.”

The men all laughed at his impression. Behind them, Mr. Darcy had almost forgotten the insults against him and was fighting back a laugh; Miss Bingley fumed in stunned silence.

“I wouldn’t let her within ten feet of my daughters! How can Darcy let such a witch near his sister! By all accounts, Miss Darcy is but sixteen! Young ladies are easily influenced at such an age.” Said the Blacksmith.

“Tell you what! Why doesn’t Darcy marry the witch! They can be proud and miserable together with their ten-thousand a year! And they’d take their pride, bad manners and misery away from here and back to Derbyshire!” commented the butcher.

“They think they’re better than us with their money and fashion! They’re just as bad as that Wickham monster!” hissed the baker.

“I’ve seen to many different types of people after they’ve left their mortal remains behind… and those of money and fashion are no different to the rest of us who work hard for our living!” said the undertaker.

“Aye, we’re all the same in God’s eyes; he won’t care about a fancy frock or the colour of the wallpaper; he won’t notice a large estate and lots of money!” said the greengrocer.

“Aye! Those two are a match in their snobbery and misery!” chuckled the blacksmith.

“Good grief! Gentlemen! We’re gossiping like our wives! Surely we’ve better things to do than sit here…” Mr. Marchbanks said, “…Sit here on the top of Mr. Harris’s coffin and gossip like women!”

The remaining members of the Netherfield party walked away, they too (like Mr. Collins and Mr. Bingley) had much to think on.

“Heck! I’d better get this finished and Mr. Harris put in it!” the undertaker said, jumping to his feet.

“Aye, I’ve some bacon to slice.”

“I’ve my shop to put back to rights after what happened.”

“I’ve horses to shoe for that Mr. Bingley.”

“I’ve to clean my ovens and trays ready for the morning.”


The five tradesmen parted ways, the blacksmith helping the undertaker carry the coffin back to the funeral parlour. They did not know the changes they had put into motion while they had been ‘gossiping like women’