Chapter Five
Mary Elizabeth tends to her sister at Netherfield, while contemplates a future away from Longbourn. We learn Mr. Bingley's vocal range.
Say what you will about Mary Elizabeth Bennet, but that bitch had a real pair of stems on her. Compelled by the notion of a sister in need, Emmy trod past stream and fence she would have, in luckier times, stopped to smell. Today, the urgency of her mission did not allow such indulgences. Few knew Mary Jane’s temperament as well as she–left unabated, a religious sulk could keep her abed through the end of her marriageable years, leaving Mr. Bingley to over-ripen like a pumpkin in his parlours. Sidestepping a fallen log so mildewed she couldn’t help but whiff, Emmy finally caught sight of Netherfield.
Ah, Netherfield Park. The Caviar of Estates. The Baron of Abodes. An absolute elephant of a house. Emmy could not remember ever gaining entrance to such a grand dwelling. “A home this grand–perhaps it requires two wives?” thought Emmy, and the notion pleased her. She approached the wooden doors, two stout planks which dwarfed even Longbourn’s stately entrance (also humongous). . The footmen ushered her towards the inner chambers, pushing open yet another(!) set of ornately carved doors, which creaked to reveal a cinematic4 half oval of darkness, split by the statuesque regality of Caroline Bingley, with the obsidian severity of Mr. Fitzwilliam f-ing Darcy at her fucking flank.
As Emmy curtsied, and before she had the chance to offer a greeting, the painted expression of sympathetic concern Miss Bingley had politely applied gave way to genuine shock.
“Good heavens, Miss Bennet,” cried she, glancing from Emmy’s sullied petticoat to her tousled hair, “did an animal drag you here?”
Emmy, confused by the fuss, looked at Caroline with Pity.
“No, ma’am, I walked.”
“You walked?” she squawked.
Darcy, for whom etiquette often outpaced reason, picked up the baton.
“Mary Elizabeth. We are here to accommodate your concern. My friend now sits at your sister’s side, sight-singing from scores of her choosing. He is a tenor.”
Darcy paused for applause that never came. He was surprised, but continued his introduction.
“Mary Jane has kept to bed. She struggles to sleep. Perhaps you wish to rinse away some filth before you are brought to her chambers. One of the men can bring you a bucket. In the meantime, trust that Mr. Bingley–the tenor–” still no reaction, “—is attending to her needs.”
“I need no clean. I mean, I thank you for your hospitality, but I am anxious to see my sister as soon as possible. Would you lead me to her?”
Darcy gestured to a footman, who followed Emmy with a damp towel, mopping behind her dusty footprints.
When Emmy was finally out of earshot, Caroline Bingley returned to herself.
“She walked?”
“I think it’s cool,” whispered Darcy, ashamed.
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