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A classic tale with a preternatural twist, Mr. Darcy, Vampyre, is exactly what it sounds like it would be.

I have a confession to make: of all of Jane Austen’s works, Pride and Prejudice is not my favorite. Though the tale of Elizabeth Bennet and her unlikely courtship by the very proud Mister Darcy is arguably one of the greatest novels of all time, I find myself drawn to Sense and Sensibility. That said, any fan of Austen cannot help but be a fan of Pride and Prejudice and like so many, I do love it. Just not best.

By now, it is a story everyone knows: Lizzie Bennet comes from a decidedly middle class family, and Mister Darcy from the wealthy elite. They are two separate worlds, both proud people but in different ways, and they should never have fallen in love, but they did, despite societal constraints. They are married and live happily ever after - or so Miss Austen would have us think.

Amanda Grange tells a very different tale.

Picking up just after the wedded bliss that ended off P&P, Lizzie and Darcy begin their honeymoon tour - a trip that was supposed to take them to the lakes district, but after a mysterious letter, Darcy changes their plans and they move through Europe on their way to see his relative, Count Polidori. The two travel through Europe, from Paris to Venice and other exotic locales, Elizabeth always wondering why, when Darcy seems so attracted to her, he does not visit her chambers at night, and Darcy always seemingly holding something secret from her.

I would be more interested in this little ’what’s Darcy hiding’ dance if the title of the book didn’t have the word vampire in it - oh, excuse me, vampyre (that ‘y’ thing? It’s annoying). Seriously, what’s the point of playing cat and mouse with the reader when the answer is right smack in the title? We all walk into the book knowing Darcy is the undead, and watching Lizzie struggle with anvil-sized clues throughout the bulk of the book (that’s right, she’s in the dark nearly the entire book) makes our beloved sharp, witty Lizzie look, well, stupid. Also, Count Polidori? In that one name, Grange smacks us in the face with a big steaming pile of obvious. If his name is meant to be tongue in cheek, then it stands out ridiculously in this drab and dull tale. If it’s meant seriously, then God help the author, for she has no idea how to be subtle.

For two hundred some odd pages, Lizzie tromps through Europe like an idiot, failing to see what the reader has dangled in front of them since the moment they looked at the cover. On page 237, the word vampyre hits the page for the very first time. That’s two hundred and thirty-seven pages of every single vampire cliché one can think of, from the beautiful people of Paris to the torch and pitchfork paranoid townsfolk of Transylvania (oops, I mean Austria). This book is ridiculous, badly thought out, and, unlike the ad campaigns would have us think (“The story Jane Austen was afraid to tell!” Seriously? Jane would have laughed her head off at this premise) utterly dull and not even remotely cutting edge. Seriously, if you want to see someone have some supernatural larks with Austen’s work, go read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

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