While Mary Elizabeth Bennet may have physically exited the room, her name lingered on the lips of Caroline Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst (whom we have not forgotten exists). All flaws and foibles were accounted for; her droning speeches, the ferocity of her piano playing (their instrument had practically buckled under the force of it), her excessive bathing, the near-hysteria of travelling–on foot!–to tend to a sister who was being very well cared for by their own apothecary. This particular sin was, perhaps, the most affronting, and most frequently discussed.
“When I think of the state of her petticoat, Louisa,” Miss Bingley began again, “and her hair! It is no wonder she returns so frequently to bath6,” she raised herself up to add the smackdown,”...and I ain’t talking the city!”
“Yes, and to travel alone! Could their parents not spare another Mary? There are enough of them, surely.”
“Careful, Louisa! You might summon them all here, you know, and then what would become of us and our pianoforte?”
The two laughed heartily. Mr. Hurst, looking up from his plate of ice-cold snacking mutton, said moistly: “Dash my wig, how many are there?”
“Five, dearest. You had the pleasure of meeting them with the rest of the family at Lucas Lodge.”
“I thought I kept seeing the same one,” he mumbled, and greasily fingered a deck of playing cards.
“They are not so identical,” said Bingley, “apart from being very agreeable young women.”
“Upon my word, Charles!” cried Caroline. “I know you favour Mary Jane, and I do not blame you–she is a dear girl, and I do wish she would recover from this nasty cold–but can you really be so blind as to not see the alarming similarity between them all?”
Mrs. Hurst agreed: “I declare when I first saw them all next to each other, I thought a chain of paper dolls had come to life.”
“I am surprised at you both,” said Mr. Bingley. “Perhaps they bear a greater resemblance than most sisters–”
“In manner, appearance, and nomenclature,” reminded Caroline.
“And what of it? Darcy, surely you agree with me?”
Darcy did not answer; he appeared to be weathering some kind of internal tumult. Standing by the fireplace, arm slung over the mantle, head in hand, he was unable to banish the thought of five Mary Elizabeth Bennets submerged in a tub, spilling this way and that, like a vase of tulips.
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