Pride and Property, an Austentatious story

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single person in possession of a Wellington property must be in want of a partner. Alas, my parents, Mr and Mrs Bennet, are not members of the landed gentry, as Mr Eaqub, a smart fellow in the distant village of Auckland, calls people who own investment properties. Instead, my parents have wasted their lives educating four daughters, tending to the sick and helping the community.

Last week, Mr Hickey, a mercantile adviser, was chatting to a Mr Campbell, who is wont to frequently ejaculate the word ‘‘marvellous’’ at Breakfast, and said that the only way my sisters and I would ever own a home of our own would be to inherit one from our parents, at which Father chuckled heartily, causing him to aggravate his consumption, or marry someone who owned a small fortune – known in our village of Wellington as a one-bedroom cottage in Miramar.

‘‘But this is Wellington,’’ rejoined Father, ‘‘not some class-ridden English county in the early 19th century. Surely my daughters can own homes hither if they wish?’’ Mr Hickey disabused him. ‘‘That may have been true when you were a bairn, but no more.’’ Although Mr Hickey was issuing a dire warning, Mrs Bennet took his words as advice, and sallied forth to marry off her daughters to men of property as quickly as possible.

My older sister Jane’s countenance changed abruptly when she heard Mother’s enjoinder, such was her unimpressedness. ‘‘I’m not marrying some bespectacled policy adviser in the Chancery just because he owns a cosy rental in Southgate,’’ she protested. ‘‘I don’t even like men!’’

‘‘Then marry a woman!’’ replied Mother. ‘‘As long as they own property in Wellington!’’ She went to her Tinderbox and set Jane up for a tea appointment with Ms Bingley, a young designer who owned a pretty old cottage in Newtown, and they enjoyed lengthy and divers intercourse.

I was next on Mother’s list. ‘‘Mr William Darsoll is a 23-year-old gentleman with great prospects, Lizzie,’’ she reported. ‘‘He lives in a villa in Roseneath with his dog Brightline. He bought the villa himself.’’ I yawned. There seems to be oleaginous scribble daily in the village chronicle about enterprising young persons who have achieved property ladderage.

‘‘How does he afford such a mansion?’’ I inquired. ‘‘He rents out the bed chambers to others to pay his mortgage,’’ returned Mother. I had to concede the idea was capital. Mother was achieving significant rollage. ‘‘Thanks to his limited avocado usage and latte avoidage, and some assistance from his family trust, Mr Darsoll also owns a semi-detached apartment in Berhampore, a village with much slummage in the past.’’

I was impressed. A man with a semi-detached is more than semi-desirable. Alas, I took an instant dislike to William Darsoll when I met him at the church dance. He was handsome, but had a sullen countenance, and I didn’t much like his friend, Mr Quinovic. Together they spoke in a language of which I understood nothing. They kept mentioning Leverage, obviously a village beyond Eastbourne. They were planning to purchase a ‘‘tuarapara’’, which sounded to me like an elegant ornament.

Mr Darsoll then asked how many houses my family owned. I conceded we owned just one but were mortgaged to the hiltage so father was forced to sell and now pays considerable rentage. How Mr Darsoll guffawed. I left the parochial celebrations with considerable disdain for the arrogant cad.

But I changed my opinion when he sent textage to invite me to his Roseneath abode to meet his friends, who were all ‘‘on the ladder’’. I assumed this to mean they worked as fire-personages, but he meant they were all landed gentry. They reside in the distant village of Upperclass, not to be confused with Upper Hutt. How genteel they were as they talked of dear Leverage, as well as other quaint villages including Brokerage, Tenancy, Avoidance, Equity and Greater Deductibility.

I am so glad I accepted Mr Darsoll’s proposal to marry him and his properties. We now each own a large carriage of sport utility and I have a fine collection of wear occasionally used for leisure. Every Saturday our propertied friends visit and feast on viands from Mr Moore and Mr Wilson Esq, and have lengthy discussions about where we might find another tuarapara.

And I am now with child, so soon our discussions will also include whether we should send our issue to the undesirable local government school near the Poorhouse, whither my parents currently reside after Mr Quinovic evicted them, or to the desirable private school some miles away.

I’m glad my Austentatious tale of Pride and Property ends happily, for the person who does not jump on the ladder has neither Sense nor Sensibility. With a perfect husband in Mr Darsoll, and a perfect child on the way, I am perfectly happy. That must be why, throughout our village, we are known to all as the perfect Darsolls.

Mr Darsoll is a ... gentleman with great prospects, Lizzie. He lives in a villa in Roseneath with his dog Brightline.’’