Submitted for the November 2023 prompt: Feasts with the Beasts

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single farmer in possession of a drove of pigs must be fond of bacon. To this end, one Elizabeth “Lizzie” Boarwick (of the Berkshire Boarwicks) was summarily packed up and shipped off to Wickham Estate.

 

A genetically modified free-range pig, Lizzie had lived a life of idyllic charm in the English countryside with her parents and four female littermates. Once the family had secured the marital union of her eldest sister to their neighbour's prized boar, Lizzie was summarily auctioned off to one Farmer Wickham for chicken feed and five acres of land. Her Mamma had told her it was a decent match and a fair price for the second eldest daughter.

 

Lizzie awoke when they pried open her crate. Her broad backside chafed against its wooden frame as she squeezed out. Her cloven feet scuttled, pushing aside mud and hay. Her cotton dress was no longer pressed, and she had lost her shawl. After arranging her bonnet, she rose to survey her new domain. The sty was a far cry from her lovely Hertfordshire cottage.

 

Unwashed masses of porcine patrons converged on Lizzie as they made their way to a feeding trough. She attempted to make good conversation, but they grunted and snuffled about her. She desperately held her head up high, trying not to cry.

 

Earlier attempts to genetically modify pigs to make them more delectable led to the incurable sentience of some particularly intelligent breeds. It rendered them unsuitable for eating, trapped as they were within Regency-era concerns of property and matrimony. Despite her surroundings, Lizzie still hoped to make a good match for herself.

 

"Miss Elizabeth Boarwick, if I may presume." Came the posh drawl of a giant boar striding his way toward her. “The name’s Pigwilliam Darcy.” He said with a small bow.

 

"Mr. Pigwilliam Darcy, well met, good sir," Lizzie replied with a curtsy. At last, someone with some sense and sensibility. "I believe I have been deposited in the wrong abode."

 

They were surrounded by a surge of their ravenous lesser cousins pushing them farther back toward the sleeping areas. Most were simple affairs with metal grids to let the muck fall through. Lizzie sniffed at the thought of bedding in this dirty hovel, her snort falling on Darcy's ears.

 

"If you're the new Berkshire Wickham has been talking about, then you're in the right place," said Darcy, escorting her to his double-wide sleeping quarters covered in Persian carpeting. Lounging within was a comely young Saddleback with fine spots and a lovely frock.

 

"How do you do, Miss Boarwick. I have heard much about you! I'm Georgina."

 

Lizzie accepted the cup of tea proffered, disappointed that Darcy did not stay. After a delightful conversation, she went to look for him. As Lizzie rounded the pigsty, she was met with the most glorious meadows. It abutted a large, magnificent, stately manor house. Glory be! She sighed deeply, but not before almost running into Darcy conversing with a human before him.

 

"She's tolerable but not tempting," said Darcy.

 

Horrified, Lizzie backed away, tripping over a farm implement and falling headlong into the gully below. Two handsome blue eyes peered down at her from beneath a straw hat as she struggled to rise.

 

"There, there, my beauty. You gave us quite the scare." Farmer Wickam helped her stand while straightening out her frock. "Ain't you a wondrous sight. Smart GMOs are in high demand."

 

Smart. He called me smart. Lizzie fluttered her eyelashes. "Why, thank you for your kind ministrations, Sir. I am most grateful for your care and concern. Unlike some boorish brutes." She looked for Darcy but was disappointed that he had abandoned her again.

 

"So, you've met Darcy? I had high hopes for him, yet he refused me even his sister. The name's George Wickham. Shall we take a turn about my estate?" Wickham ushered Lizzie to follow him. Dare I dream that Mr. Wickham, with his ample property and rustic charm, could be my suiter?

 

They strode through the sweet-smelling grasses. Lizzie's stomach rumbled.

 

"Might I ask if we could get some food? I'm terribly hungry from travelling."

 

"Of course, Lizzie darling, so am I. Please follow me. I have refreshments in the shed." Wickham pointed to a rusty structure ahead. A large chopping block lay in front, an axe driven deep into the centre.

 

As they neared, a sharp smell of offal came mixed with a ferrous tang of blood that Lizzie recalled from her forays into London. Her mother told her to look away lest she see the horror-evoking sights of their unmodified cousins strung up within. Wickham's charm was more sinister than Lizzie realised. She tried to back away and was met with the sharp slap of a crop.

 

"The smart ones are the tastiest!" Wickham drove Lizzie towards the shed. Just as he was to strike her again, he was barreled over from behind by Darcy. Wickham's body flew five feet. His head landed with a crack on the butcher's block.

 

"Stand down, Farmer Wick-ed! After your attempt on Georgina, I refuse to see another consumed by your ungodly appetite!" Darcy placed his massive frame protectively in front of Lizzie. Wickham's body twitched twice, then lay still.

 

"Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth," said Darcy, rising to his full height, his eyes sparkling. "Seems we got off on the wrong hoof. Shall we stroll around my property?"

 

"Your property?" asked Lizzie, befogged by the statement.

 

"I'm a poor whist player and lost Porkberley, this very estate, to this cur. Please forgive my earlier arrogance; 'twas only to save you from untimely death."

 

Lizzie took Darcy's forearm in hers as they took a turn around his sumptuous grounds. Snout to jowl, they clung together, Lizzie's wounded pride healing with each step.

 

"Darcy, is there a place for us in this greedy world?"

 

"Dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth, they are teaching machines to think. What, if any, polite society will be left after that?"