We have an exciting announcement: Tim is a father!

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Newsletter by Timbeaux

a strange comedian's take on confession & fable

By Tim Platt

“I have heard it from none other than her Ladyship,” fawned Collins, “that, in her prime, she could clear a tall fence without so much as a running start. No hands, even.”

“By jove!” said Sir William, pleased.

Blissfully, Charlotte appeared to be absorbed enough in the gentlemen’s reparté as to allow Emmy the privacy of her thoughts. She sat marveling out the window as the carriage rocketed along at a dazzling 8 miles per hour. The landscape of Rosings was a blur of gorgeous color–roses, lilacs, tulips, begonias, palm trees, redwoods, and –queerly enough–bamboo studded the rolling green hills. Emmy would not have been surprised had a gardener revealed Rosings was growing a second sun upon a high vine. The sight of it all took Emmy’s breath (and food) away, as she covertly spit up on her own shoulder, soaking into fabric of the gown she borrowed from Charlotte. “Another sin to pray away!” Emmy thought in her trademark blend of guilt and glee.

“Everyone, shut up!” Collins commanded suddenly. “Shut up and look at this amazing house!”

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Wind, Emmy considered, was not wholly bad. Wind was merely God’s attempt to add a little funk to omnipresence. What good was being everywhere-all-the-time if everywhere-all-the-time didn’t get the chance to groove, baby, groove? She was certain she had read that somewhere– though, like many such theological meditations, she couldn't say be sure of its provenance; whether it had originated from one Mary’s sermons, or one of Mr. Collins’s letters or, she flattered herself, from her own heart.

“Either way,” she thought, “wind be wind, and wind be now.”

Below, the wind continued being. Gusts of English air volleyed pedestrians back and forth across the road, killing them. To continue the earlier metaphor of wind being a sort of divine jazz solo, God’s virtuosity had outgrown His audience’s enthusiasm for improvisation; Emmy was tired of jazz. Resigned, she changed into a lighter-weight pair of socks and considered hunkering down with an un-annotated Bible (her cousin's marginalia had proven too stimulating to be entirely proper).

Emmy settled in with a nice, non-erotic passage from her travel Bible (2 Kings 6:28-29, two moms eat their kids) but she continued to be tested; even without feasting her eyes on the carnage outside, her focus was drawn to it by the additional sounds of horse and wheel, annotated once again by her cousin. Mr. Collins, watching through the window in his study downstairs, loudly announced the model and make of every carriage to enter the windy fray. His declarations (“Phaeton incoming! 1805-ish? Looks Welsh to me!”) rang through the house like a church bell. Emmy strained to hear what reply Charlotte had to offer on the subject–and she could not decide if it was for better or worse that she heard none.

“Now, now, Big Dog⁴,” she chided herself, “we mustn’t fret over every exchange between newlyweds.” She resumed her readings, until:

“Cousin Mary Elizabeth–come quickly! You must see this!”

The thrill of being ordered by a cousin who was also host thrust Emmy out of her seat like a cat in heat. She zoomied to the entrance of Mr. Collins’ study, hungry to obey his passion.

For a moment she lingered in the corridor, wondering if crossing the sacred threshold to Collins’s private study constituted an adulterous act. The little voice inside her head which Emmy always assumed to be her conscience said–

“Get it, girl⁵.”

Holding her breath, Emmy waded in gingerly, and found her cousin absolutely gagging at the sight of a carriage outside.

“The Barouche!” he explained breathlessly, “Lady Catherine’s Barouche! By gum, it’s a carriage from Rosings!”

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“That chair,” Mr. Collins pointed out, “was the favourite of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, Lady Catherine’s late husband, and a man of terrific taste, especially when it came to seats and perches.”

“He died on it,” added Charlotte cheerfully, and Emmy marveled at how many hours Charlotte must have spent in the education of her furniture’s provenances.

Their tour continued, and every corner revealed another precious heirloom. There were:

Anne de Bourgh’s First Pacifier, melted down and recast into a single silver candlestick.

Charlotte’s collection of tsarist propaganda sat upon a paper-lined shelf– formerly a plank of wood Sir Lewis had nailed to his bedroom door to warn off his wife when he wasn’t in the mood for her “advances.”

Portraits of various members of the de Bourgh family, no longer deemed flattering enough to be displayed at Rosings Park.

And, Emmy observed, more.

Charlotte was well acquainted with the histories of each and every item. This made quite a favourable impression on Emmy, and she was relieved to discover that she felt perfectly at ease in Charlotte’s company. Moreover, she enjoyed seeing Charlotte thrive as the mistress of this household. Overcome with a sense of newfound delight at her friend’s domestic happiness, she took Charlotte’s hand once more and kissed it. “I am very happy for you, cousin. Very happy indeed.”

Charlotte smiled quizzically at this new form of address, but returned the sentiment genuinely. They ascended the wooden staircase (“from the very lumber of Rosings’s famous pigsty!), and the party assembled in a small but charming bedchamber. The room was well-appointed; modest but with any comfort Emmy could wish for.

“This shall be your room, my dear cousin,” said Collins. “You will find a Bible on the table beside your bed; I have outlined some passages in it I think you might particularly enjoy.”

Emmy smiled gratefully. “It is lovely. And quite clean” she said.

Mr. Collins nodded in gratitude. “I am glad it is to your liking, Mary Elizabeth. I insist on hoovering the floors with my very mouth.”

“What?”

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The Lucases were no strangers to the Marys Bennet and their occasional fugues. They tended to her in the way they knew to be kindest: giving her space to freak out. Sir William fussed with his pipe while Maria busied herself by observing the scenery as it passed by her window, until suddenly the scenery lurched to a complete stop. She glanced back and forth between Emmy and the driver of the carriage, worried that Emmy had somehow infected the coachman and his resulting hysterics might overturn them, horse and all.

Sir William and Maria looked about in confusion, as they had stalled on the gravel entryway halfway between the main road and the Parsonage. Sir William craned his neck and called out the window to their coachman.

“I say,” he say, “is there a reason we’ve stopped so far from the house?”

The coachman seemed to expect the question. He launched into script.

“Where is Mr. Collins?” he asked theatrically. He pantomimed, searching hither and yon with broad, rehearsed movements, until one hand came to rest akimbo on his hip, the other scratching his head. “Where, oh where, is Mr. Collins?”

Maria needed little encouragement. She launched her torso out of the carriage window to get a better view.

“Is he under the hedgerow?” she asked in a Teacher’s Pet lilt.

The coachman scrutinized the hedges. “No ma’am, not under the hedgerow.”

Sir William was on board now. “Oooh! Oooh! He’s hiding against the back of that Laburnum!”

The coachman dutifully searched around the trunk of the nearby flowering tree. “No sir, not behind the Laburnum.”

The curiosity of this charade coaxed Emmy gently from her tumult. As the Lucases became increasingly more animated, leaving the carriage and directing the coachman around the garden, Emmy breathed deeply, her possessed fingers finally coming to rest in her lap. Her eyes swept the landscape, taking in every detail: the green fence and laurel hedges, which arced across the landscape and parted in such a charming way as to allow for a glimpse of the bustling garden just beyond them; and, of course, the piquant smell of chicken shit (exotic to anyone who grew up in Longbourn’s recent era of aggressive Goose Husbandry). Emmy alit from the carriage to investigate further. She traced the path leading up to the little house, until her eyes came to rest on its mistress, Charlotte Collins. Dumbstruck, Emmy raised her hand in a gesture that could easily mean both “hello” as well as “stop.” Mrs. Collins beamed warmly from across the distance, a smile directed at and received by Emmy alone.

Sir William and Maria were as yet too absorbed in their game to notice Charlotte, and she pointed surreptitiously at a long mound of gravel in the midst of the pathway. It was only about three feet from the waiting hooves of the horses. Emmy accepted this invitation to play from her old friend. Her anxieties melted away. She approached the long mound. It was breathing. Got ‘im.

“Here,” called out Emmy, her eyes smiling and in lock with Charlotte’s, “Mr. Collins is here, in the road.”

Unable to restrain himself, Mr. Collins opened his mouth to speak; a small sinkhole in the graveled path. He sputtered and choked–inhaling all manner of dust and pebble–and sat bolt upright, casting off his camouflage. Maria and Sir William clapped, cheering, while Emmy and Charlotte ran to Collins’s side.

Collins refused Charlotte’s aid, instead undertaking the labour on his own and hissing private objections to his bride. At length, Mr. Collins was on his feet and undressed of his gravelly camouflage. A cheerful facade was resumed.

“I was in the road!” he pronounced through dusty lips, gesturing grandly to his guests. They applauded once more. “Welcome to Hunsford, my dear family!”

The requisite bows were exchanged and any lingering awkwardness quickly gave way to felicitations and excited murmurings about the pleasantness of the house, garden, et cetera. The coachman was celebrated for his part in the welcoming antics, and Mr. Collins sweatily deposited a $5 note (American²) in his hand, which he gratefully accepted after retrieving everyone’s luggage.

“I am going to spend this on a treat for my best friend: my parrot!” the coachman declared. Everyone smiled indulgently. Coachmen often spoke more to speak than to be heard.

“I hope you enjoyed your greeting,” said Charlotte warmly, taking Emmy by the hand. “Mr. Collins wanted to do something special for your arrival.”

“I am usually under the hedgerow,” said Collins, dusting off his knees and winking like Santa Claus.

“I knew it!” cried Maria.

“I enjoyed it a great deal,” said Emmy. “The pathway is so prim and well-kempt, I doubt I would have noticed anything amiss were it not for the coachman and his antics. Everything appears in its place, in perfect accordance with its design.”

Mr. Collins took this for the compliment he knew it to be, and assured his cousin that was precisely his wish. Maria and Sir William agreed heartily, before Emmy added, “Had I been driving the carriage, I would have run you clean over.”

This was received with rather less enthusiasm. Charlotte gave a small reassuring squeeze of Emmy’s hand, before taking her place next to her husband and entering the house first. Sir William doffed his cap and allowed the unmarried young women to enter next before catching Emmy by the elbow gingerly.

“Remember,” he whispered, “don’t be weird.”

² Make no mistake, Collins had done something very bad to get his hands on that kind of American money.

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“Lovely country, don’t you think?” Sir William Lucas practically sang.

“Yes, papa-a-a-a-a-a-a!” Maria Lucas belted.

Mary Elizabeth turned to the two and smiled. She had always been fond of the Lucas clan.

“It is lovely.”

Leaning forward, Sir Lucas patted Emmy’s knee with obvious chastity.

“It is good of you to come. I know Charlotte has missed your intimacy.”

“And I hers,” Emmy was able to say honestly. She had, for months, agonized over their long friendship– wondering where in their shared timeline Charlotte had chosen (it must have been a choice) to conceal her true intentions. Sure, Charlotte’s killer instincts toward securing a match for herself had been apparent since childhood but Charlotte always laughed at the notion– Mrs. Bennet’s notion! – that the two friends were ever in direct competition for a partner. Emmy had always assumed that this laughter was a reflection of Charlotte’s shared amusement at the idea; she feared now that it was a stratagem, a means of lulling Emmy into false security. Worse still, that the laugh was genuine and at Emmy’s expense. That the idea of Emmy’s being a romantic rival to anyone, especially Charlotte, was ridiculous. Emmy chided herself for indulging in such painful ruminations. She was determined to be of good cheer and focus on her aunt’s urgence: to be a good cousin.

“A little birdy tells me,” began Sir William Lucas, “this is your first time traveling by coach. Is it so?”

“Birdy lie,” Emmy said smiling, but still firm, “Indeed, though, it is a rarity. I’m very fond of walking.”

“Yes–yes, I know.”

“There has been occasion for horse or mule–though more often than that I have ridden the back of Mary Catherine, who (now that I think about it) has insisted on piggybacking one sister a week since the Bingleys left Netherfield.”

“Oh yes,” affirmed Maria, “I have also rided the Horse Mary!”

“Well we can certainly stop our cart to ambulate if that is your preference,

Emmy.”

“Not at all! I’m a-lovin’ the seats!”

A pause Emmy found ungenerous forced her hand towards specificity.

“What I mean is–the arrangement of the carriage encourages conversation as lively as dinner or, I imagine, cards.”

She was flailing.

“Because we all face each other, you see. Unlike walking, where you might have to satisfy yourself with the side of your companion’s head.”

The polite confusion of their silence was more mortifying than ridicule could have been.

“And–uh–the windows! Through these holy–uh–holes, we may feast on the full periphery of the landscape, rather than merely what appears in front of our human faces. In that way, the carriage turns us all into horses, with eyes on the side of our head! Birds have eyes like that too, I think? Certainly heron!”

She had begun to spiral.

“Y’all family now! And I’m cool! I’m respectful! I love God.”

At that last one Maria couldn’t help but arch her eyebrows in sympathy, as when one listens to an actor claim his squalid apartment, transactional friendships, and single pair of shoes are all worth it for the chance to be onstage two weekends a quarter. Unfortunately Emmy continued.

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“Oh yes!” Mrs. Gardiner perked up at the name, “Oinky! The Famous Sow Who Wedded A Man!”

“And what a man! One of the best men who ever breathed–”

Mr. Wickham devoured Mrs. Gardiner’s anecdotes, annotating each recollection with details of how he had been inconvenienced or wronged; he made a particularly rich meal of his denied livelihood. He concluded his familiar song of woe, hitting his final note of “I could be the English Pope by now! Au revoir, Papacy. Au saboteur, Darcy.” As the brownish doors–my, were they brown!–of Longbourn finally opened, Wickham scurried in to find Emmy, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner in silent astonishment.

“I say– that man’s charm is rather–and forgive me if you disagree, darling–obfuscatory.”

“I do not disagree, Mr. Gardiner,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, “if ‘obfuscatory’ means ‘idiot’.”

“It does not, baby.”

:::

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Showcasing their blokeish camaraderie by sitting widely on untraditional surfaces, Mr. Denny, Mr. Scot, and Mr. Wickham tossed an apple back and forth as they spread the gossip o’ the realm.

Mr. Denny, cavalier, took a manly bite of fruit.

“You’re not missing much, Snout. The hunting’s all gone for shit! Sure, Bingley let loose a few dozen goose before leaving Netherfield, but we shot all them down real quick, we did.”

Mr. Scot snatched the apple mid-air and snapped at its skin side.

“And that’s not all. There ain't no girls. Ever since the Netherfield Balls dried up we ain’t seen no girls at all, ‘cept of course the two youngest Bennets.”

“They’re still putting on a show drowning salamanders in front of the church?” asked Mr. Snout.

“E’ry day.” replied Scot.

“Those Bennets–” Mr. Wickham chuckled to himself as he caught the apple in his massive hands, “now they are lively. Particular, of course, but so are most girls. That Mary Elizabeth intrigues me, though she wasted the last week lamenting both her stolen Vicar and Mary Jane’s broken heart.”

“How do you know all that?” inquired Mr. Snout, sniffing more juice in Wickham’s anecdote.

Wickham popped the ravaged apple core into his massive mouth.

“Boys, I’ve been lunching at Longbourn.”

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We in the literary establishment have assumed the thankless (unless you count paychecks) mantle of Attendants of the Arts. It is our responsibility to discover and steward exciting and important works, nurturing them from ‘script to shelf. So you can imagine my alarm when the previous editor of this revolutionary discovery, an unpublished rewriting of Austen’s most famous work by her own hand, began to suspect that the work was not authentic but, rather, a piece of fan fiction submitted by two coastal 30-somethings who (though active in a hodge-podge of artistic disciplines) have zero literary accomplishments of which to speak. Were another piece of academic import revealed to be merely Genre Content, we at Penguin (yes this is Penguin) would be forced to merge our noble company with a more suitable purveyor of empty calories, like Kellogg’s. I thus relieved the editor of her duties so that I might see to the matter myself; I have reassigned her to the Non-Fiction Division (let her glut herself on fact-checking and research if she’s such a truth buff!)

I am happy to have done so. It is my professional opinion that Pride & Prejudice: Oops All Marys is most obviously–could only be– Jane Austen’s work. It seems the previous editor, whatever claims she may have made² had not the familiarity with Austen’s private letters and journals to understand what has long been my deeply held belief: Jane Austen, like H.G. Wells or Nostradamus, saw the future with such clarity that she could not help but invent modernity. Passages the previous editor flagged as too-contemporary-to-be-believed are, in fact, further proof of her great genius for innovation. Readers like yourself, of course, will require my editorial perspective to fully process her startlingly colloquial turns of phrase. What you might mistake as a left-field cultural reference from the American 2000s I know to be prophetic suggestions of a world to come, the world we now inhabit; a world with Pokémon.

Let us move forward into this startling work of fiction with renewed vigor and confidence, that it will finally elevate Jane Austen to the level we at Penguin have always believed her to perch: a Master of Futurism. Enjoy Pride & Prejudice: Oops All Marys, Book II.

¹ “This editor types, smirkingly.”

² I hate her.

We’ve done it! We have finished writing Book I (of III!) of Pride and Prejudice: Oops, All Marys, and you have finished reading it—or have you? Well, regardless, we are now offering the entirety of Book I for free. We cannot say this in stronger terms: please tell your friends. You can even pretend it is a gift! 

A thousand thanks (grazie mille) to those who have supported us thus far with your paid subscriptions! You will be the first to read Book II when we resume our normal paywalled updates again on December 4th. Until then, please enjoy 16 glorious, sexy chapters of the finest novel ever written. 

Merry Christmas,

Carly & Tim

Start Reading Here!

“Did I not just live through this at Lucas Lodge?” she asked herself in a panic. “Am I living it again?  Is linear time a mere construct?”

There were, of course, critical details which distinguished this moment from its predecessor: the garden was that of Longbourn, not Lucas Lodge; Mr. Collins was inside the house rather than down on one knee (his entrance had, in fact, prompted Emmy’s retreat outdoors, while the sight of Charlotte is what drove her into the hedge); perhaps most critically is the fact that on this occasion, Charlotte observed all.

“You are not known for your horticultural leanings, Emmy,” she said coolly, “but I do hope you are pruning a low-hanging branch, rather than avoiding a close friend.”

The bush rustled in protest, Emmy’s mumbled retort smothered by its branches. With the practised patience of a primary school teacher, Charlotte restrained her eyes from rolling around her head.

“I cannot hear you clearly from down there, Mary Elizabeth. Do please come out and speak to me.”

In a huff, Emmy crawled out on her stomach, smearing her (braless!) chest with fresh loam. 

“Are you a dear friend?” she repeated, rising from her knees. Her tone was a mix of accusation and vulnerability.

A cold air blew between them, presumably–Arctic? Hard to say. 

Charlotte made the first move.  

“Am I correct in presuming you have heard it from Mr. Collins?”

“I should rather hear it from you.”

“Very well, then, Emmy, here it is–Mr. Collins and I are to be married, and I do hope you can be happy for me.”

“You hope in vain. WAAAAHHH!” Emmy excused herself and began to march toward a different hedge.

“Emmy, please! You are no stranger to my circumstances.”

“And you are no stranger to mine, Charlotte! Or to my feelings about your–” she gagged, “–future husband.”

“Yes, Emmy–feelings which you told me time and time again you would cast aside for the happiness and success of a sister. You said I was a sister to you, practically another Mary–was this false?”

“You art thou a-twisting mine meaning.”

“Am I?” Charlotte countered. “How can you even be sure? Are you even aware of what your ‘meaning’ has been? I have made no secret of my intentions to marry–I have been constant. You, Emmy, are capricious in your views and proclamations–first you say you will never marry, then you say you could marry none but Collins, next you are to forswear Collins and work on Wickham–”

“It was you who put me up to that!”

“Again, you only accept part of what is true! Was your aunt not the first to advise you in pursuing Wickham? Was it not your mother who first warned you away from your cousin for your sister’s sake? You see me as the instigator of your unhappiness, Emmy, but the blame is yours–for you are the one who has surrendered to the designs of others.”

Had this been a boxing match, Emmy would be in a bloodied mess on the floor, with Charlotte’s fist held aloft in triumph (also I guess they would be boys???) However hurt Emmy might feel, though, she could detect no sense of victory in Charlotte’s countenance. Rather than softening, a burgeoning question, plain and true, hardened Emmy’s resolve (like a Pokémon’s skin, after using the move “Harden”¹⁸).

“Do you even love him?”

That cold air again. I really think it’s from the Arctic?

“Oh, Emmy,” Charlotte almost pitied her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If you do not recognise the importance of love, then you shall not miss mine when it is withdrawn from you.”

“Emmy, please–”

“And if you think true love matters less than your ‘constancy,’ then it appears our values have moved further astream than a salmon, adult, from its spawning fields before its uphill procreation quest.”

“What?”

“G’day.”

“Emmy! Please, let us not leave on such terms.”

“You may follow me into the house and collect your congratulations, but do not expect to find yourself welcome as my particular guest. You are a bid ol’botch. Merry Christmas!”

Emmy walked back toward the house, tears in her eyes; she had claimed a cheap victory and she knew it. Also, she meant to say “big old bitch”. 

In the attic, Mr. Bennet had improvised a window. Through the cracked boards and tiles of where-roof-once-be, loomed a catapult. He had ordered from the back pages of one of his funny pirate books years ago, as a “treat” (one of the many financial indiscretions that landed the family in their current predicament), and now, in this desperate moment, he realised its purpose. Consulting his maps of the neighbourhood, he painstakingly positioned the catapult so that its projectile would reach–where else?–Netherfield. 

“Father–” ventured Mary Jane from behind, “there must be a better way.”

“You heard your cousin,” snarled Mr. Bennet, electricity bouncing off his Frankensteinian hair, “Longbourn is lost! You are our only hope and clearly both you and that gun-shy Bingley need encouragement beyond your mother’s traditional methods.”

“I no wan’ be ca’pulted.”

“GOD demands it!”

Mary Jane loaded herself into the catapult’s bucket. She leaned back and thought to herself how lucky it was to know what God wants from one’s life, rather than the torturous indecision that had marked her last few weeks. She closed her eyes.

“Excuse me, Miss Bennet?” 

“Quiet, Mrs. Hill–Mary Jane is saving us all.”

“Begging your pardon, sir I have in my hands a letter for Miss Mary Jane–it’s from Netherfield!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so! Give me that!”

Mr. Bennet pawed at the envelope like a gloved man (boxer???) trying to open a bag of chips. Mary Jane took pity on him, removed herself from the contraption, and opened the envelope.

“Open it!” he cried feverishly. Mrs. Hill produced a cool flannel from her pocket and applied it to his forehead. “Is it from Bingley?” 

“It’s–” Mary Jane’s face fell. “It’s from Caroline.”

Mr. Bennet, now incapable of speech, bubbled in confusion.

“The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again.

Mr. Bennet dies?¹⁹

¹⁸ I haven’t been commenting on every anachronism, but believe me I have been clocking them all. More thoughts to come soon! :) - Editor

¹⁹ I’m on it!!! - Ed

As the vicar sang his tra-la-las for the local fauna, he tossed his walking stick into the sky like a baton, where its circular spins briefly eclipsed the sun and then tumbled, with the dignity of a gymnast, back into his be-ringéd hand. Ah, yes–his engagement ring. Originally his mother’s, it had rested in a velvet-lined case until just this morning, when he placed it on his own finger the moment Charlotte agreed to be his wife. She had chuckled at the unusual adornment–a generous response, considering her true horror at the sight. However, Mr. Collins assured her, it was not for the sake of his own vanity; Lady Catherine (who, he reminded her, hated the sight of bachelors) would certainly appreciate having their few, pre-wedding dinners unblemished by bandless hands.

Mr. Collins arrived at the gates of Longbourn–destined to be his gates–and paused. He had faith in his own restraint, and was confident he could share his happy news in a manner that invited the appropriate congratulations, without lingering to indulge in any excessive fawning or self-regard. His thoughts on the improvement of Longbourn–and recommendations for the removal of its current tenants–could wait for a future visit. In fact, he found himself eager to collect his belongings and return to Lucas Lodge, that arrangements for the nuptials might begin at once.

He strutted up the path  past the grazing horses and Mary Catherine’s mud castles, rapped upon the front door, and doffed his cap.

“Bonjour, mi familia—” he began, expecting to be announced to his waiting admirers. He was greeted, instead, by the sight of Mrs. Bennet on the staircase.

She was dressed quite regally for such an early visit, which Collins had to admit was pleasing.

“Mr. Collins!” she roared.

“My good cousin! I must say you look exceedingly fine. Indeed, this garment reminds me of one of Lady Catherine’s dressing gowns. Wherever did you get such a–”

“Magazines!” Mrs. Bennet interrupted. 

“Well now! And for what occasion do you dress so? Have you,” he smiled winningly, “anticipated my good news?” Mrs. Bennet did not indulge him.

“I’m afraid I must speak plainly.”

Collins, detecting a desire to confess, turned on the vicar vibes: “Then speak, my child.”

Mrs. Bennet descended the stairs like Hera (had there been a Greek Myth where Hera descended something other than her high horse). She came to rest three steps from the bottom, bringing her eye-level with Collins, who was tall.

“You haunt Longbourn for days. You stalk our Marys as a lion would a buffet of gazelles, and wave your entailment round like a handkerchief. All this we endured happily, so as to save our family home and grant you a wife. Yet you have proposed to Char–”

Mrs. Bennet was seized by a revolted cough. She could barely get the words out; the traitorous name burned like acid in her throat. She breathed deep.

“Charlotte,” (another big loogie), “Lucas! Charlotte! Lucas! When you had your pick of a litter of Bennets! All my Marys at your beck and call!”

“Not all Marys,” and here Collins mopped a plop of his cousin’s phlegm off his stoic face, “No, Mrs. Bennet, if the Lord grants me memory enough I believe the eldest Mary, Mary Jwayne–”

Mrs. Bennet convulsed: “Jane!”

“–Yes. She was spoken for apparently, by Mr. Bingley. Yet, e’en now I do not see a ring on her finger,” his own ring gleamed as he held it aloft for Mrs. Bennet to see–she made no comment.“So I did not exactly, as you say, have my pick of the litter.”

“But Mary Elizabeth–”

“Miss Mary Elizabeth was chief  amongst my interests, until she too was taken off the table.”

Mrs. Bennet contorted her face in a mixture of fury and self-admonishment. “She was not expressly forbidden–we merely encouraged her sister, Mary, as we thought you might find her the most agreeable–”

“Mary does not want to be a wife. She wants to be a church organist.”

Mrs. Bennet gripped the carved railing to prevent herself from collapsing, or possibly flying into orbit.

“But why Charlotte Bitch Lucas?”

“Because!” crowed Mr. Collins, “she can talk to me about shelves! She can talk to me about something other than morals, or virtues, or the Lord (who don’t get me wrong I’m obsessed with!) She treats me as more than just a Vicar, just a man of God. We talk about wallpaper. We talk about drawer space. We talk about lamp fixtures and window art and mulch. I don’t just want to be married. I want to be a good homeowner.”

“You never wanted to be married,” hissed Mrs. Bennet, “you’re only here because Lady Catherine scolded your bachelor ass.”

“God bless her for doing so. Otherwise I never would have met Charlotte Lucas, the love of my life.”

Game, set, Collins. He donned his cap, bowing curtly to Mrs. Bennet, and moved past her on the staircase to collect his belongings–and if a tiny fart moved through him in his travels, it did so without diminishing his triumph.

“Ah, you are awake,” Mary Jane sat up beside Emmy in bed, ringing out her nightgown. “You had a wet night.”

“I am sorry, I–” Emmy clasped her face in her hands, unable to go on.

“Dear sister!” comforted Mary Jane. She produced a dry handkerchief and clasped Emmy’s nose with it. “Blow.”

“I am not crying,” said Emmy (who blew her nose anyway), “I am embarrassed. Pray tell me last night was not as mortifying as it is in my mind.”

“I wish I could,” sighed Mary Jane. “When I think of how carried away I was over that pea–” and it was evident, as the words caught in her throat, that she was on the verge of tears again.

“What in heaven’s name did Mary mean by playing such bawdy music? And the fishing net! And poor Mr. Snout!”

“Yes. Caroline says they found pieces of knee bone embedded in the pianoforte. They will need to replace it.”

Emmy looked stricken. “The knee or the pianoforte?”

“I don’t believe a knee can be replaced, Emmy.”

“How dreadful.”

The sisters sat silently for a moment, each choosing a different memory from the Netherfield Ball to agonise over. Suddenly, Emmy gasped, leaping out of bed (the mattress squishing, moistly) and hurried to dress herself.

“What is this urgent matter, sister?” cried Mary Jane.

“I have just now remembered–” Emmy panted, trying to pull a dress over her head (no bra), “–I owe our cousin an apology. You see, I deliberately avoided dancing with him–I had the best intentions, naturally–”

“You mean because of our sister, Mary.”

“–yes. However, I fear he may have taken my deference for rudeness or cruelty, and I cannot bear the thought of it.”

“Well,” said Mary Jane, now helping Emmy with a tangled petticoat, “you may have to wait until he has returned from his errands.”

Emmy froze.

“What errands?”

“I know not,” said Mary Jane, “only that I heard Mrs. Hill in the corridor saying she had not seen him return from the ball. She also said, ‘Goo Goo Ga Ga, I'm a baby?’ Mrs. Hill is strange, sister.”

Without another word, Emmy turned heel and marched out of the bedroom.

“Emmy? If you are thinking of hunting our cousin down, I beg you not trouble yourself. He is sure to return soon enough.”

Emmy, caught, set down her rifle.

“You are right, of course. Still, I must go. If I cannot speak to Collins, I must pay Charlotte a visit–for I missed her leaving the party, and she may be able to assuage my fears.”

“Fears?”

“Yes,” said Emmy, “that Mr. Collins was disgusted by our family’s display last night, and that he has resolved to have nothing to do with us.”

She was nearly at the staircase when she returned to add, “Also, that she is Irish.”

***

Emmy could have walked the mile between Longbourn and Lucas Lodge in her sleep–but it is just as well she walked whilst awake, because that is much faster! No sooner did she enter the grounds than she spied her quarry: Charlotte Lucas, stood in the garden; and there, down on one knee, was William Collins.

Emmy took cover in a hydrangea bush–normally catnip for a sniffer such as herself, but so deep was her focus that she daren’t indulge in a whiff. Her cousin spoke in his usual sonorous baritone, allowing her to overhear without much strain at all.

“I came to Hertfordshire, as you well know, with the design of selecting a wife.”

Charlotte nodded; Emmy swallowed a lump of vomit.

“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish–not that I mean to import any laziness or lack of industry! Why, if I am not studying (and forming very strong opinions on) the scriptures, I am writing sermons, visiting the sick and housebound, reading prayers, christening babies, and tending to my little garden–by which I mean both the literal landscape surrounding my humble Parsonage as well as my pubic area.”

Mr. Collins continued in this way, ensuring Charlotte (who smiled placidly) of his devotion to duty, his deference to Lady Catherine de Bourgh (“She can’t stand the sight of an unmarried man!”) and his many other inclinations toward marriage, for nearly forty minutes. Emmy hung on every word. She was scarcely able to comprehend it–he was proposing to Charlotte. She persuaded herself that Charlotte could not betray her family by accepting Mr. Collins; she resolved to leave undetected, so as not to add to the gentleman’s embarrassment with an audience. As expected, once Collins had paused long enough to signify an end to his speech, Charlotte answered–

“Thank you, sir. I am very sensible to the honour of your proposal, but it is impossible to accept. I must decline.”

Emmy sighed with relief, and began to shimmy out of the bush–she stopped in her tracks, however, at Collins’s reply.

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear Miss Lucas, that your refusal of my addresses are merely words of course. I must conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me; I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”

Charlotte smiled. “Exactly so!”

“Splendissimo!” Mr. Collins attempted to leap to his feet, but his circulation had come to a complete halt after an hour on one knee, and he collapsed in a heap–giving Emmy the distraction she needed to bolt out of the bushes and run home, sobbing.

***

Mrs. Bennet, in rare health, found herself standing completely nude by her bedroom window, taking in the glory of Longbourn while allowing it to glorify, in turn, her own God-given nudity (did I mention she was nude?). The pain of the night before had, strangely, stabilised her sensitive nerves. How surprising, she thought to herself, that rock bottom can be survived.  Things could not have gone worse at Netherfield, which means things can only improve for the ‘morrow, and the ‘morrow’s morrow. Resilience, she smiled to herself, feeling every bit the mother of Marys. 

Then her bedroom door smashed off its hinges and onto the floor. 

“Mrs. Hill! What on earth?” 

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s Miss Mary Elizabeth! Please take off your fur pants and come downstairs! Also, Goo Goo Gah Gah I’m a baby!”

“Do I understand correctly, Mr. Darcy,” said Emmy, scrutinising her partner’s face, “that you distrust the Divine Vision of Saul?” 

“You mean ‘Paul’, surely?” Darcy returned, smirking.

Emmy moistened.

“As he would come to be known, yes.” 

“Let me see if I remember correctly,” Darcy felt a surge of blood rush to all his important places as he twirled Emmy in time to the music, “Scripture would have us believe that on the road to Damascus, Paul saw a vision of Christ Ascended; that they, in fact, spoke.”

“Christ spoke truly to Paul and gave him the messages we read in the Gospel,” Emmy said with utter conviction. Several feet behind her, Mr. Collins attempted to weigh in on this doctrinal manner, but he was yanked away by Charlotte before Emmy had the chance to notice.

“This is what the scripture says,” Darcy concurred.

“And you doubt the Word of God?”

“Not the Word of God, no–but the fallibility of the men who have transcribed ought not to be taken lightly.”

“I see,” said Emmy, and she thought she might need to excuse herself to go and have a heart attack. Mr. Darcy, taking her breathlessness for arousal, pressed on. 

“Saul, alone, with no party present to confirm or deny his miracle, sees in front of him the resurrected Christ, who goes on to lay the foundations of what would become the Church–a divine privilege not even His apostles were granted. The account invites inspection.”

Emmy thought of Wickham’s cowardly abandonment. 

“I suppose the real miracle is for Christ to have kept his appointment. Not all men are capable of such a performance, it would seem.”

Darcy looked confused. 

“What you mean?” 

“I mean,” Emmy hissed like a cat at a bathtub,“that when a young man says he is going to be somewhere–a ball, say–‘tis only right that he should be there.” 

“It seems,” Darcy said, bewitched, “you speak of events more timely than the Resurrection.”

Here Mary Elizabeth launched into a sermon. Sweatily, she strained to establish the Resurrection was timely because the Resurrection was both now as well as then– and to deny this truth was to assert (wrongly) a limit on the Lord’s forgiveness–that the Resurrection existed (like the Creator, Himself) outside (and within) the human perception of time; that to speak of the Resurrection was to speak of not one single event but, like breath, a series of ongoing repetitions–each occurrence promising recurrence.

“Sure,” replied Darcy, moistenedly.

“But indeed I do speak of contemporary concerns. I stand here a Saul without a Jesus.”

“You talk of Georgie Boy.”

“Huh?”

“You talk of George Wickham.”

“Oh–yes.”

“I am sorry, but not surprised, you have found him disappointing. Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends⁠—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”

“I had taken him for a man of some–weakness,” confessed Emmy. “However, I did not realise the magnitude of the task before me.”

“What you mean?”

“I want to help him be moral.”

Mr. Darcy furrowed his humongous brows. This incredible woman was surprising him at every turn. He had not yet decided to launch into his own sermon of discouragement before the dance suddenly cut short, due to interruption from an ever increasing mass of officers singing Ring-Around-The-Rosie in front of Mary’s pianoforte. 

Standing opposite each other, without appropriate music to tell them who should joylessly circle whom, Emmy and Darcy were almost grateful to be accosted by Sir Lucas. 

“It is indeed lovely as Hell to see two such charming young studs engage each other with passion! Me and me ‘ole family were transfixed by you two. I haven’t seen two dancers talk so much since– well I suppose I’ve never seen dancers talk at all! Perhaps there shall be two weddings in Longbourn soon enough!”

“Two?” Darcy inquired. 

Sir Lucas pointed in the direction of Mary Jane and Mr. Bingley, who were both laughing at a pea that had fallen off a plate and began to roll around exactly where a pea oughtn't: the floor. The rosy glow from both their English cheeks lit the fallen pea with golden sunshine, matrimonially. In the heavenly light, the pea look like baby. 

Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened like a viewer of Law & Order when, three quarters of the way into the ep, the victim’s husband suddenly fumbles a simple question.

“Thank you for the stimulating conversation, Miss Bennet. Please, excuse me.”

Darcy hightailed it towards his friend. Before Emmy could follow, she was accosted by Miss Bingley. 

“I see you were speaking with Mr. Darcy about George Wickham?” Caroline crowed, stowing her binoculars.

“We were indeed,” said Emmy, reflexively scanning the room for Mr. Collins. Why had he not joined Mary at the pianoforte?

 “Let me recommend you, Miss Mary Elizabeth, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner.”

“I am not surprised,” said Emmy grimly. “Though I do not recall the particulars of Wickham’s accounts against Mr. Darcy, I recall he gave them vehemently and with much colourful language.”

Caroline looked pleasantly surprised. “Ah! I am relieved. Your sister had mentioned his coming to call at Longbourn, and I feared perhaps an–unfortunate attachment was taking shape.”

“There was,” sighed Emmy. “Well, sort of. I was trying to improve him, you see. I cannot marry my cousin–” why had she not seen him these past hours?–“but I must marry–and so I sought to apply a rigorous course of Christian education until Mr. Wickham might be endured as a husband.”

“Miss Mary Elizabeth!” cried Caroline, “I confess, your speech has outpaced my understanding.”

“That’s because you don’t read enough,” said Emmy, and set off, despite her better judgement, to find Collins. 

Caroline felt this, and stood in silent admonishment until the sound of a crash and a chorus of screams rang throughout the drawing-room.

“My word! Get Mr. Bingley! Someone has netted Mr. Snout!”

***

The rest of the evening was a chorus of misfortunes. Mr. Snout crashed into the pianoforte, splitting it in half. Mary vomited. Mr. Bennet loudly declared himself to be invisible. Mrs. Bennet’s nerves flared with enough heat to melt the vodka luge, flooding the parlour. Mary Lydia, followed by Mary Catherine, dove into the water and performed a burlesque of a baptism. The pea baby was trampled underfoot. Mary Jane wept. 

Mary Elizabeth froze. This was–humiliating, wasn’t it? The assembled parties stood whispering, pointing at her sisters, her parents, Mr. Snout (“Paralyzed,” pronounced the doctor solemnly). She had a sudden, chilling fear that Mr. Collins had witnessed it all, that he would disavow any connection to such a family.

A scan of the room inspired relief. Mr. Collins was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had missed the entire affair. Emmy spun around the room again in search of the friend whom she had recently called sister. But after what became a 20-minute search of the premises, it became clear: Charlotte had left without saying good-bye. 

“Strange,” Emmy thought to herself, “I did not know Charlotte was Irish. At this moment in our English history, that is a big deal.”

Emmy and Jane, however, remained fixed in place. In unison, and in opposition to the “modus operandi” of a statue, the sisters shared a deep breath. Emmy at last squeezed Mary Jane’s hand affectionately for good luck and, after a clandestine sniff of her underarms, set off in search of Wickham. 

***

The parlour was littered with officers, all nearly identical in their scarlet uniforms–but no sign of George Wickham amongst them. Had Emmy forgotten what he looked like? She shuffled through the officer’s faces in her mind like a deck of playing cards. No matter how many shuffles (magician style!), her memory came up short. she was brought back to reality by Mr. Denny, who appeared to be in a state of mild panic as Mary Catherine and Mary Lydia took it in turns to ask for “tiny kisses”.   

“Pardon my clumsiness, Mary Elizabeth. I am in desperate search of Mr. Snout, whose wisdom on matters of the heart are second only to Mr. Wickham’s. Oh–wait that’s right. Mr. Wickham wanted me to tell you specifically that he will not be able to attend tonight’s ball! Sorry about that! He said a whole lot of stuff that I’m frankly forgetting now but it was really nice! Anyway, I need to talk to Snout about kiss sizes.”

Like a toy top slowing down, Emmy veered into a wall. Wickham in absentia? But he was the centrepiece of her whole plan! 

“Merry Christmas,” she muttered bitterly.

Determined to stay on mission, Emmy heroically advanced to part two of her plan: the Grand Introduction. Lowering an imagined pair of binoculars, Emmy telescoped around the room until  her eyes narrowed in the direction of one gentleman in particular: Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire. Anchored to the wall, Emmy watched as Darcy wove through the assembled crowd–he gave a nod to Bingley, sniffing Mary Jane’s hair; was nearly taken down by an enthusiastic Caroline Bingley, book in hand, like a child pursuing a bedtime story; even rubbed shoulders (his shoulder to the other gentleman’s chin, unintentional) with Colonel Lucas. Strange, Emmy thought, how the imperative of her purpose brought a sense of increased fascination in watching Mr. Darcy and his movements. It was almost pleasant?

“Emmy, am I to surmise that your feelings toward Mr. Darcy have changed for the better?”  inquired a voice behind her.

“Gross!” Emmy covered, “No–whatever gave you that idea?” 

Charlotte chuckled and took her place by Emmy’s side, “The fact that you have not let him leave your sight these last few minutes. I have seen hunters stalking venison with less intensity.”

Emmy broke her gaze and turned to her friend, smiling wryly. “Perhaps ‘tis best, then, that I am unarmed.”

“Emmy, we both know you aren’t going to shoot and field dress Mr. Darcy.”

“We don’t both know that.”

Charlotte did not mask her thinning patience.

“If you are not forming a romantic interest in him, perhaps you can educate me on the nature of your design?”

“Do you promise not to think ill of me?”

Charlotte smiled warmly. “No.”

“I am planning to introduce him to Mr. Collins.”

“Emmy!” Charlotte moved to slap her, but Emmy was, by now, an expert dodge. “You cannot! If there is to be an acquaintance between them, it is for Mr. Darcy to initiate–not for a man of lesser consequence, and certainly not for a young lady! What reason could there possibly be for such an impertinence?”

“It is not wholly without occasion!” protested Emmy, “Mr. Darcy, you know, is–um–the aunt of Lady Catherine de Bourgh–”

“Do you mean nephew, Emmy?”

“Obviously! And because she is also Mr. Collins’s patroness I thought perhaps they might wish to–discuss her?”

“Oh, Emmy.”

Emmy’s face contorted as she held back boo-hoos of frustration. Charlotte led her friend over to the punch bowl and issued a soothing draught. After a few gulps, when Charlotte was satisfied that Emmy was calm enough to be sensible, she pressed on:

“Now–will you please tell me what is the matter?”

Emmy sighed, “I only sought to distract Mr. Collins. He has promised to dance with all his cousins to-night, and he wishes to dance the first two with me.”

“I see,” Charlotte poured herself a glass of punch. “Oh! But what of Mr. Wickham? I expected to see your dance card littered with his name.”

Emmy’s face turned bright red, as red as the coat of the fucker who didn’t show.

“Wickham isn’t bloody pissing FUCK-faced here!”

The crowd briefly hushed, as crowds are want to do when one has had a regrettable outburst. Mr. Darcy’s head floated above the masses to catch a glance at Mary Elizabeth–the woman was an absolute firecracker. Thinking quickly, Emmy coughed into a handkerchief–“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”–which fooled everyone, the ninnies, and she resumed her confidence with Charlotte.

“I cannot believe,” Emmy continued, her hiss lowered to a whisper, “how hard I have endeavoured to conquer these feelings for my cousin, how resolutely I have set my intentions toward Mr. Wickham, only for the sod not to turn up.”

“Emmy,” said Charlotte, gears turning, “why don’t I occupy Mr. Collins?”

Emmy’s repressed boo-hoos animorphed into woo-hoos. 

“My dear friend, you have given me such comfort! Thank you, Charlotte. I do not say this often enough, but I sometimes think of you as Mary yourself.”

They embraced as sisters. Then–for but a moment—as cousins. Emmy felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, wiping the spider web strain of saliva from her mouth, and gulped. 

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Mistah Darcy.”

“Would you care to accompany me on the dance floor, where we shall, per your approval, take turns circling each other in joyless rhythm?”

Emmy almost screamed. But before her banshee wail bore forth, her peripheral vision caught the approach of her cousin, snapping his fingers like a greaser. She presented her hand to Mr. Darcy. 

“Yes, okay. Now though. Let’s go.”

This woman was an absolute firecracker. 

***

Secure with what, from a distance, looked like Mr. Collins's pleasant occupation with Charlotte’s distractions, (from the movement of their hands they were talking about shelves?) Emmy took a moment to scrutinise her dance partner with a renewed, almost anthropological interest. 

“So,” she exaggerated every syllable “do–you–talk?”

“Mmm.”

“Then I recommend you ask some question; or make an observation; or remark journalistically upon an observation you have heard already this evening, while adding your own spin as to why that observation seems biassed or neurotypical.”

“Your intimacy with conversation is comprehensive. I admit I rarely know one such thing to say, much less have multiple stratagems at my fingertips.”

“Stratagem? You think of conversation as warfare.”

Mr. Darcy smiled, “Not in its violence, I should hope. But in its need for precision, yes.”

“You fear the imprecise. You find it beneath you to indulge in soft accidents of a happy evening.” 

“I have not the natural lightness of society that you so generously example.”

“No, it seems you do not. You would prefer the punch bowl be replaced with a round of cannons.”

“I am not the one hanging gladiatorial nets above the piano forte.”

Emmy turned to see her father yanking a weighted net above the instrument, like a cabin boy desperately raising the sail to catch a sudden gail. 

“Let’s talk about books!”

“Fine,” Darcy relented. “You are–a great reader?”

“Not really!!”

TO BE CONTINUED!

Mr. Collins paused only long enough to aspirate a sip of water before continuing, red-faced: 

“You may indeed baulk at my language but, as vicar, I have learned that a familiarity with the vernacular of philistines can be advantageous. The elevated language of the scriptures often requires the employment of metaphor in one’s sermons so that, regardless of the parishioner’s station, the meaning of The Word may be comprehended; thus, low language can serve as the Trojan Horse in which enlightenment is welcomed within the thick walls of the idiot–I mean, the brother. 

What’s more, Lady Catherine de Bourgh insists her clergymen comprehend the gossip of the realm. So, in that way, vernacular is not only a Trojan Horse, but also a regular horse; a regular horse that carries rumour to its lady, and I the nimble messenger on its back. Bravo!”

Mr. Bennet began to clean his glasses. Mr. Collins saw this as his cue to bring it on home. 

“The point I am making, of course, is that this invitation to the Netherfield Ball is most surely a fine thing for our party to accept.”

All five Marys–having scurried into hiding at the arrival of said invitation, peeked their heads out.  Mary Lydia, emerging from a nearby cellarette¹⁵, cautiously raised her hand.

“So it would be moral of us to attend the ball? To– dance at the ball?”

“I am so far from objecting to dancing myself that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening. I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Mary Elizabeth, for the first two dances especially. Our walking conversation was cut short, but, like the Lord himself, Your Cousin, having taketh away, now giveths.”

Whether or not the Marys actually transformed into gulls is subject to debate. What is certain is that they flew around the room squawking, knocking books off shelves, snapping food out of the hands of their parents, and shitting–before swarming out the door.

“Was it something I said?” queried Mr. Collins. 

Mr. Bennet, again, took to cleaning his glasses. 

“Yeah.”

***

In the aftermath of their (symbolic, or whatever) transformation, each sister took to separate corners of the house, in order to recover in quiet and contemplation. In just a few weeks, status quo– which at this time was still more Latin than idiom¹⁶–had been completely upended at Longbourn. Before, each Mary had been content with their prayers, their pianoforte, and their dreams of a cousin, spurred on by his lengthy letters. Today, they were on the verge of an actual ball, with actual suitors, with an actual cousin who promised lengthy dances.

The allurement of walking arm-in-arm with Mr. Collins across the ballroom of Netherfield, coupled with the encouragement of the “adults” in the family, had a startling effect upon the Marys: new dreams within reach, their old dreams began to lose their lustre. The world outside of Longbourn beckoned–for the first time, the Marys wanted more than spinsterhood. 

***

Mary Lydia, noticing that all were occupied with internal turmoil, seized her chance to nab the unguarded piano forte. She strained to focus on her sheet music, but the familiar notation began to take on an abstract quality that drew her imagination away from song: a whole note morphed into the the face of an officer; a quarter note into an officer standing at attention; an eighth note into an officer standing at attention with a (she licked lips as she gulped) flag! 

She had been as passionate about Mr. Collins as the rest of her sisters–why then, with her parents’ interference effectively taking all but her sister Mary out of the race for “Mrs. Collins,” did she feel a sense of relief–nay!–opportunity? 

“I wonder,” she whispered to herself, “if Mr. Denny, Mr. Welsh, Mr. Scott, or Mr. Snout have ever considered delivering a (gulp) sermon?” 

Then there was Mr. Wickham, whose inclination towards religious speech she need not question. Had she not, at her Aunt Philip’s table, overheard of his thwarted attempts to become a vicar?

***

Mary Catherine was in the stable with the horses. Long an admirer of St. Francis’s love for the animals, she shared his fascination–particularly with those beasts humanity had deemed “of use.” How wonderful, to be useful! She rarely felt as if she had any use at all.  She was not as confidant as Mary Lydia, nor as wise as Mary; she was not as articulate as Mary Elizabeth, nor would her hair ever match the degree of combédness Mary Jane’s exhibited. A horse, though–a thing to be fed and loved and (gulp) rode–perhaps a horse’s life was the thing for Mary Catherine. 

Before, she had justified this secret inclination as an example of her commitment to the path St. Francis had blazed. Now, though, Mary Catherine felt as though there was nothing at all holy or even practical about wanting to be a horse; she was as distinct from a saint as a pencil (round and pointy) from a bowl (round but in a different way and also not pointy at all). 

“No one can know this,” she sighed to the horses. “I would bring shame upon my family, the first to ever do so! I must become normal to save our souls–but how?” 

A lightbulb¹⁶ went off. 

“I will mimic the most normal person I know: Mary Lydia!”

***

“Two dances?” Emmy screamed internally. “Why must he tempt me so, and just as I had resolved to set my sights on Wickham?”

Emmy walked the garden roundabout in a tortured loop, carving a trench with her effort. She was determined to indulge in her evangelical impulses, and tame the handsome Wickham into a match worth enduring. Still, the strategy she had concocted (cornering him at the juice bowl and telling him about the redemption of Paul) relied heavily upon Mr. Collins’s continued distraction with her sister, Mary. She feared that even a short dance with Collins–touching hands, gazing into his eyes, breathing in his dank musk–would lead her to abandon all sensibility. Collins must remain occupied!

Perhaps she could persuade Mr. Bingley to invite Lady Catherine? Surely that would divert her cousin. She reached into her mind like a sack of chicken feed for a morsel of useful information. Finally, she grasped one: hadn’t she heard that Mr. Bingley’s closest friend was, in fact, related to Lady Catherine? An introduction between the two would be sure to entertain both parties till “last call.”

“I will introduce my cousin to Mister– ummmmm– to that guy.”

***

Mary Jane dismissed her maid; she would comb her own hair today. Staring straight into her reflection, Mary Jane dragged the comb through her locks–slowly at first, then building into a frenzy until she was working her scalp like a woman possessed. It looked less like she was combing hair and more like she was brushing a spot off Lady Macbeth’s–uh–hair. She became so frightened of her own power that she uncharacteristically flung the comb onto the floor. She then stood, apologised to the comb, and replaced it upon her vanity, where she buried her head in her hands. 

The whirlwind of Mr. Collins’s visit had allowed Mary Jane a respite from all she had been feeling prior–but she could no longer rely upon this distraction. She would be returning to Netherfield, and this time she would be healthy. What would Mr. Bingley expect of her? Mr. Bingley was kind, considerate, patient, rich, and handsome. His attention towards Mary Jane had startled her– no, she corrected herself–  his attention had pleased her. More than any other of her sisters, (except Mary, the lucky duck) it seemed as though Mary Jane could honour her parents’ wishes with as little compromise as possible. Why did she feel so reluctant to fulfil this destiny? 

Deep within Mary Jane’s profound emotional understanding (if you missed it, that’s on you) she suspected that Mr. Bingley was only meant for a part of her; that she was an incomplete match for his magnanimity. Her desire, her pleasure, and her duty required her to enter the ball willingly; a rehearsal for the nuptials that were sure to follow. The other part of her, however–the silent and contemplative maiden, which she had nurtured these many years–feared extinction in the face of such wedded bliss. It should be no surprise that such contradictions in so delicate a young lady frequently inspired coma.  

***

“I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements,” proclaimed Mary, “provided I may still have my mornings to myself. Society has claims on us all; and I am sure that, when entered into judiciously, intervals of recreation and amusement can be weathered with cheer, or something close to it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet stared at their middle daughter in bafflement. 

“Yes. Well, my child, we have not asked anything of your mornings.”

“But, by placing expectations on this nightly scheme, you must admit that the serenity of its opposite hour is under threat. You see–”

“Girl, would you for once hold your tongue and listen?” Mrs. Bennet was sure she hated her daughter at least a little bit. “We require your full cooperation. You must secure Mr. Collins’s proposal, but your responsibilities do not end there!”

Mr. Bennet laid out a map of the Netherfield Ballroom. 

“The scheme is as follows: once you have had your dance with Mr. Collins, where you must tempt him with the charms of your–uh–readiness, you must take to the pianoforte.”

“Not a problem.”

“But instead of playing songs of dance–”

“I would never.”

“–or songs of contemplation–”

“Hm.”

“–you must play songs of the tavern. Officers will be drawn to the pianoforte like moths to a flame. They will sing with such good cheer that they shall not notice the fishing nets I will have placed above the pianoforte.”

Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes, but there was no point in turning back now. She had lost the coin toss, and the scheme was Mr. Bennet’s to decide.

“The nets will drop. The officers shall become so entangled that their only chance of freedom will come from the three scissors we will provide Mary Elizabeth, Mary Catherine, and Mary Lydia. With their lives saved, they will be obligated to propose.” 

“This is an ungodly scenario.” 

“Ungrateful girl!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “You are about to become Mrs. Collins! An attachment I have laid before you on a silver platter!”

“Judas too betrayed his conscience for silver.”

Mr. Bennet held back his wife’s charge.

“Mary,” he spoke calmly, “should you wish to be mistress of Longbourn one day–a Longbourn for you and your cousin to mould into your own image, a Longbourn where your access to the pianoforte is uncomplicated by competition–then you will aid us at the Netherfield Ball.”

Mary peered out the window (curtains closed).

“Is Ring-Around-The-Rosie a tavern song?”

“Sure, Mary.”

¹⁵Editor’s note: This is a period-appropriate replacement for what Ms. Austen’s original word choice, which was, “some kind of fucking cabinet”.

¹⁶Editor’s note: What?! I’m beginning to think this was not written by Jane Austen…

¹⁷Editor’s note: Lightbulb must have meant something else back then. 

A knock on the door of the study roused Miss Lucas from her project.

“Emmy?”

“I snuck through the window.”

Charlotte met her friend by the door and guided her to the sofa. She returned to her seat, positioning the chair away from the desk so she could face Emmy. 

“What on earth is the matter?”

“I apologise, but I could not return home in this state,” said Emmy, uncharacteristically scene-stealing. “Not with him at Longbourn.”

“With whom at Longbourn?”

“No. I don’t know a Whom. Him.”

Say what you will about Charlotte Lucas, she knows how to shut down a vaudeville.

“Emmy, who are you trying to avoid?”

Until this moment, Emmy had managed to successfully suppress the sea of emotions churning inside her. Now, though, they began to swell. Her despair crested like a wave in a midnight storm, spraying towards the moon it wanna fuck (because the moon a vicar). Her strength gave. Salt (no water?!) evacuated from her eyeballs.

“My cousin!” she sobbed. “Mr. Collins!”

“Oh! But why on earth would you want to avoid him? I thought you were quite looking forward to his visit? Am I mistaking him for another unwed cousin of yours?”

Charlotte reached back to her spreadsheet, anticipating the need for a new entry. 

Emmy choked and sniffled, shaking her head. Charlotte rose from her seat, moved to get Emmy a tissue, realised they hadn’t been invented yet, and sat back down.

“You are not mistaken,” Emmy managed, finally. “I was certain his visit would be the literal answer to my prayers! A solution to–” she hiccoughed, “all m’problems!”

“Then whatever is the matter? Has he disappointed you in some way?”

“He is perfect. More handsome than I ever could have envisioned through his letters. He is tall. He is mid-20s’d”

Charlotte nodded, impressed

“–And so genteel! And wise, kind, and true. There is nothing in his manner that anyone of sense could possibly find wanting. It is only–”

Emmy paused, uncertain she could speak this next truth aloud; and so the two sat in silence for nearly fifteen minutes. Charlotte napped. Then:

“It is Mary.” Emmy said solemnly.

Charlotte shot to attention. She scuttled to close the door, making sure none in the Lodge were eavesdropping on such a monumental confidence.¹⁴ She resumed her seat. 

“Go on, Emmy.”

 “It is Mary. My mother and father wish me to stand back and let her have him.” She sniffled. “My Apollo. My cousin.”

“Whyever would they do that? What about you? What about Mary Jane?”

“Mother is sure that she and Mr. Bingley are practically engaged already.”

Charlotte’s confusion gave way to admiration. She nodded in silent approval of Mrs. Bennet’s stratagem.

“Do continue.”

“I was told that Mary would be the ‘most difficult’ of us to marry, and that–since Mr. Collins is so keen to marry one of us–we must guide him to the sister who is least likely to marry well on her own.”

“Yes, I see–”

“I knew our prospects were cause for concern to our parents,” said Emmy, tracing the lace of her hem with her finger. “Until that day, though, I never understood us to be thought of as quite so hopeless.”

“Dear Emmy!” Charlotte grasped her friends hands, smiling charitably. “Welcome.”

“To–the Lodge? House?”

Charlotte took a beat. 

“Yes. To Lucas Lodge–my father’s home. I know the pain of being a woman of a certain age, unwed still, without a home of her own.”

“You speak with glee,” Emmy frowned.

“I speak with relief. Spinsterhood, with all its charms, is no solution to our predicament. The first step to any solution is recognition.”

Emmy looked plaintively out the window; the curtains were drawn. Damn.

“Tell me what happened, Emmy.”

“To-night we dined at my Aunt Philips’s–on the walk there, my cousin and I (despite my modest protestations!) shared a true connection. We spoke at length, and had a natural and stimulating rapport–he gave me reason to feel there is substance to my feelings for him, beyond a mere infatuation. But then, once we arrived for dinner, I was sat next to a Mr. Wickham from the local militia.”

“Ah, yes, I have met him,” said Charlotte, alert at the introduction of another prospect. “He called on my father with some of the other officers. He is handsome!”

“He is,” conceded Emmy, “though he spent the entire dinner prattling on about some betrayal of him by Mr. Darcy.” She frowned. “He wouldn’t stop talking about betrayal. It was, like, enough already.”

“That is ungentlemanly. He really spoke of nothing else the entire meal?”

“Well, actually, he did disclose that he had his hopes set on a living as a clergyman.”

“Oh?” 

Emmy narrowed her eyes at her friend, a bit of their natural playfulness awakened. “I know what you are up to.”

Charlotte grinned. “Then I needn’t say anything.”

“My aunt insinuated the same thing; that I ought to see Mr. Wickham’s plight as a possible project for myself, and invest my time in his betterment.”

“That is–not what I was thinking.”

“What then?” Emmy scrutinised Charlotte. “Oh, Charlotte! You don’t mean–!”

“Do I mean that you should accept the interest of a handsome young soldier, and allow yourself to move on from apparent heartbreak with your cousin? Yes, I certainly do! You would be killing two birds with one stone.”

Emmy recalled that her aunt had recently shared a similar aphorism regarding birds in bushes. Why the fuck were her girls bringing up fucking birds all the sudden?!  

“Emmy,” Charlotte persisted, “happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. You may find yourself happier with Wickham than you ever could be with Collins. There is no way to know, for you cannot marry them both.”

It was late, and Emmy was growing cranky. “I can do whatever I want!”

“All I am saying, Emmy, is this: if Collins is out of the question, and you are as intent on finding a secure marriage as you seem, let Wickham be your man.”

Emmy sat back in her chair, pouting. 

“Please–promise me you’ll consider it. The truth is, it is the duty of every woman–Mary, or not–to be an instrument of her own domestic happiness.”

Mary Elizabeth did consider it, at length.

“Besides,” added Charlotte after another nap, “perhaps Mr. Collins will not choose Mary after all. We cannot say what may come to pass.”

***

By the time Emmy arrived home (Uber?) the entire house was a-slumber. Only her heart remained restless. Aw!

¹³ This seems to have been the only remaining evidence of Austen’s abandoned effort to make Mr. Lucas and Mr. Bennet “foil characters.” Mr. Bennet likes funny pirate books, Mr. Lucas likes serious ones. I actually think this is interesting but Austen clearly did not.   

¹⁴ No one ever was.

Mr. Denny, boyish and bright. 

Mr. Welsh, a Scot. 

Mr. Scott, a Welshman 

Mr. Snout, a hog-man. 

Mr. Wickham, easy and gorgeous.

A brief interval followed, during which introductions were made; Mr. Collins was amiable as Apollo and even condescended to compare the Philips’s drawing room (favourably) with Lady Catherine’s lesser toilet; a wretchedly misunderstood compliment that, once explained (“Rosings Park is very grand indeed, and Lady Catherine’s bodily functions impeccable.”) was taken more or less in the spirit in which it was given.

Emmy found herself overwhelmed–it was too much! The sting of her cousin’s recent rebuke (he wanted to slow down on their walk) was still keen; and yet how could she not wish to hear him speak of her own bodily functions with the reverence granted to Lady Catherine’s? In a haze of horny rejection, Emmy observed as the officers, flanked by Mary Catherine and Mary Lydia, gamely endured their review of Mrs. Philips’s courtship lessons. Mary Jane stood serenely in a corner, either praying or sleeping (open eyes). All the while, Mary stood by Collins’s side proudly, as if greeting guests at a wake.

Flushed and uncomfortable, Emmy squeezed through the clutch of guests to sit on a nearby chaise (“Almost as accommodating as Lady Catherine’s servant’s milking bench” - William Collins). She miserably contemplated a future as Mr. Collins’s sister-in-law until George Wickham swanned over.

“May I join you, Miss Mary Elizabeth?”

There was no time for an answer; before Emmy could coin the phrase “It’s a free country,” the bell was rung for dinner.

All took their seats at the long table. It was deliciously cramped. Mr. Collins boldly established himself at the head, and gestured Mary to the seat at his right. She bowed, accepting the position, and in her zeal presumed to bless the meal, ending on a sung benediction that might have, in fact, been improvised. Everyone was stunned by Mary’s appalling manners–even the soldiers, who had literally killed people.

“Cousin,” chastised Mr. Collins, “surely you must have intended to leave the formal prayers to our gracious hosts, or indeed to myself as a clergyman? I worry that any blessing given in so improper a manner might, in fact, have the opposite of your desired effect, and condemn us all to Hell (Catholic).”

A lesser woman might have watched Mary’s humiliation with relish! Mary Elizabeth, however, expert in the art of coming to a sister’s aid, could not help but try to salvage her honour.

“Mr. Collins, I can only vouch for Mary’s enthusiasm and good intentions. I am sure she merely anticipated your own prayers, and sought to bolster them with her fervour. Please do not think poorly of her.” Pin a halo on our girl’s head!

Mary turned desperately to Mr. Collins.  

“Cousin, my sister speaks truly.  Please allow me to make amends. What make good apology?”

That was all Collins needed. 

“The hierarchy of apologies breaks down into eight distinct categories, within each of which I have condescended to add fifteen subsections to address scenarios both practical and academic.  Now the first apology was, oddly, our own Sunday. God meant his day of rest to be an apology to Himself–”

Emmy sighed. Her intervention had been a successful one. She had, again, givenway to Mary in the pursuit of their cousin (and it broke her damned heart, I’ll tell you what). 

Determined to find some cheer in her unlucky circumstances, Emmy looked to her neighbours. To her right, Mary Jane smiled tranquilly, making eye contact with, from what Emmy could discern, either a platter of fish or a ghost. Directly across was her Uncle Philips, occupied by the interrogations of Mr. Denny–who, delicately, pursued an explanation of the many letters Mary Lydia (staring at him like an owl from across the table) had sent to him last week. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Philips, but the drawings seem–and stop me if you’ve heard this before–a pantomime of lust?”

“May I join you, Miss Mary Elizabeth?”

Emmy turned to her left. 

It was Wickham: already seated and clearly pleased with his own callback. He was indeed of an appearance so charming and tight that Emmy herself felt a brief flutter of feeling she had only experienced when in the tub. The bath tub. He resumed his earlier conversation with pleasing courtesy, inquired after her health, and asked if she had been a Mary long. 

“My whole life.”

“And the other Mary, the one who shouts prayers–she is your sister, yes? You came to her aid quite admirably.”

“Yes, we all five sisters are sisters.”

“Ah, right. How silly of me to ask. Say–did I happen to see you in conversation with Mr. Darcy? On the thoroughfare?”

Emmy searched her mind. Deep in its cavernous folds, she was able to remember who the fuck Wickham was talking about. 

“Oh, yes! Alongside Mr. Bingley and his sister.”

“The Bingley twins!” he exclaimed incorrectly. “I do not have the pleasure of their intimacy. Darcy is intimately known to me, though I cannot claim it  has been much of a pleasure.”

“Oh?” Emmy found herself incapable of matching the gentleman’s understanding or enthusiasm, and turned helplessly to her uncle, who had donned his spectacles in order to decipher an absolutely filthy drawing of Mary Lydia’s. 

“He is a–oh, I shouldn’t say.”

Emmy’s eyes traced an unfortunate path to the head of the table, where Mr. Collins was instructing Mary on all the factors that distinguish a Ceremonial Apology from a Political one. She sighed again.

“I see you are put out by my reticence, Miss Mary Elizabeth! Perhaps I should continue?”

“No thank–”

A dam inside Wickham burst.

“You may have observed on the thoroughfare how Mr. Darcy reacted to my arrival in town. Perhaps too, you (as many have) observed how cold, unwelcome, prideful, arrogant, fucking FUCK-faced ASSHOLE he was being, but guess what? I care not. If he has a problem, he can suck it. I will not be shamed into hiding my face in the very town I am stationed–literally stationed to protect him and all ya’ll’s from Napoleon himself.”

“Oh–!”

“And why should I feel shame? It is Darcy who wronged me–I’m Mr. Wickham, by the way.”

“Yes, we met.”

“You see, I grew up with Darcy. Yeah. You heard that right. I grew up with the lout. Betcha didn’t expect that. His late father was the man–the best man that ever breathed–which is why I would never make Darcy’s betrayal public knowledge. Oh there I go again, talking about his betrayal. Well, since the ‘cat is already out of the bag’ as the colonists say, I might as well tell you the full story. I want to be a vicar.”

Clerical aspirations! Emmy shifted from a “fight or flight” response to a “stay and listen” response.

“You wished to be a vicar?”

“Always have. Yep, I was vicar-bound ‘me ‘ol’ life until–oh God, I shouldn’t talk about this.”

“Please, tell me.”

“Darcy’s father, who was the best man who ever breathed, put in his literal will that my journey through the church would be supported. God, if Darcy had respected his father’s wishes I could be the English Pope by now! But then–ah I probably shouldn’t talk about this.”

“Please.”

“–but then Darcy got jealous of–my lifestyle, I guess?? Anyway, he betrayed me. More wine? Ah I probably shouldn’t. But then again-”

Was Emmy allowed to drink wine? She took a sip, letting it wash down her throat as a sort of balm. Wickham’s interest in a life of sermons made him more attractive, certainly, but she could not navigate the tale of woe he was trying to lead her through. Emmy supposed, with some disappointment, that he might simply be deranged. 

***

On the street outside, final goodbyes were extended by both parties. The Bennets and Cousin were to make their way back to Longbourn while the officers would hurry to catch the end of their battalion’s daily French lessons. Denny, reassured by Mr. and Mrs. Philips that Mary Lydia’s drawings were nothing to be troubled by, agreed to pose for her in the near future. Mary Catherine, having exhausted the list from her aunt of “Things Woman Allowed to Say to Man,” had learned to please Messrs. Welsh, Scot, and Snout by laughing girlishly at every anecdote they related; they promised to call again soon (a victorious fist pump from the Philipses). Mary Jane stood quietly and might have actually been hovering over the ground. Mr. Collins, the last to exit (he was inspecting the moulding around the foyer) did so with Mary in tow, practising her apologies. 

Mr. Wickham sidled next to Emmy and, with a delicate masculinity she had only observed in squirrels, took her hand between his palms. 

“Your ear has been most sympathetic to my many woes. I beg you not to let my tragic tale influence your own opinion of Mr. Darcy. It is only right for each to reach their own conclusions with the information they have available. I, of course, have already formed my own conclusion which, if you recall, is in the negative. How could it  not be considering what I have suffered!!”

After a moment of exhausted silence, Emmy replied honestly: “Sure.”

“Of course. You get it. You’re cool. I’d ask you not to gossip, but I honestly don’t think that’s a sin. I used to…but I don’t anymore. I bid you andieult.”

“Adieu?”

“Si.”

Mr. Wickham softly kissed Emmy’s hand and was gone. 

Emmy was left feeling more confounded than ever. The outrage of being spoken to, of being touched with such unwelcome familiarity; the presumption that a kiss (her first!) would be at all appropriate pre-wedding night–and bestowed by one so bizarre! Did this man actually seek to preach the word of God? Emmy thought of the people in her life who claimed religious fervour; there was no mistaking it! Mr. Collins adored a sermon, and Mary had almost prayed herself out of a marriage proposal. True, Mr. Collins would often wax poetic about Lady Catherine de Burgh, but after all she had been the one to grant him his parish–it was ultimately still in praise of the heavenly Father! Wickham, on the other hand, seemed more occupied with Mr. Darcy than any God she had ever prayed to.

“Do not think your act of lady-chivalry unnoticed, dear cousin.”

Emmy was startled to find that Collins was beside her–she began to feel the effects of the wine.

“A fine display of sisterly affection. Yes, I found it very pleasing indeed! I daresay I am a lucky man in the cousin department.”

He tipped his hat and, turning to Mr. Philips, offered some final comparisons to Rosings Park. 

“He does go on about that house,” Mrs. Philips (who was beside Emmy this entire time, you simply failed to notice) said. “By the by, Emmy, I noticed you were having quite an animated conversation with Mr. Wickham over dinner.”

Emmy sighed (third time). 

“To speak plainly, Aunt, I do not know what to think of Mr. Wickham.”

“You did not find him pleasing?”

“He is handsome, yes–and he spoke of his interest in a religious vocation, which I do like, but–” Emmy’s words trailed off as she ogled the man she considered to be the superior clergyman.

“He is not your cousin?” offered Mrs. Philips.

Emmy smiled sadly.

“My dear, allow me to suggest that, perhaps, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Mr. Collins might seem like two birds, yes, but he is in the bush of probably marrying your sister; Mr. Wickham, however, seems eager to eat from your palm. Perhaps you may see this as an opportunity–seek the company of Mr. Wickham, and improve him as you see fit. Tame your own bird.”

Mrs. Philips nodded, satisfied with her own wisdom, and returned to her home where she probably forgot about Mr. Collins immediately.

“Emmy!” called Mary Catherine, yards ahead. “Are you not returning with us to Longbourn?”

Emmy stepped forward in a daze, her head swimming with different bird-shaped men. 

“I am off to Lucas Lodge,” said she, “to speak with Charlotte.”

Carina: One thing that I do know about Pride & Prejudice, besides having read Oops All Marys, is that Colin Firth looks hot in like a wet white shirt at some point in a TV version, and there's like a hand flex and something about being bewitched body and soul—all of which I know only from the fact that my Instagram algorithm has started showing me a lot of memes of this since I started hanging out with the two of you.

Carly: You're welcome. 

Carina: So I have a two-part question; part one is individual for each of you. Actually, you can also answer it about each other if you'd like. We'll start with part one. What about each of you is most similar to Austen's Mr. Darcy? 

Carly: “My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.” You burn a bridge with me, it's fucking dust. I'm not going back. You have to work hard to get there but once it happens, like you're dead to me. 

Tim: Yeah. You do take care of your family. 

Carly: Here's what I think about Tim: I think Darcy has a set of principles that are specific to himself–it's the sort of thing where, like, Bingley can rib Darcy [because they’re close], but if you trip one of the things he’s serious about–you both don't want things that you feel passionately about to be made light of. 

Tim: Yes, I think that's true. Darcy doesn't hate to be ridiculed but he is quite sensitive to it...he takes himself pretty seriously. 

Carina: And you take yourself very seriously? 

Carly: There are certain things. Like comedy [as an artform], I would say that you feel passionately about that, and then “the jester” sort of leaves. 

Tim: Yeah, I would say there are some principles I don't find a lot of humor in, even being a pretty humor-forward person, and, like Darcy, I will snap into place when that becomes an offering to discuss. 

One thing about reading this book over and over again is that Darcy is subjectively portrayed through Elizabeth [Bennet]’s perspective, so he's always positioned in the negative; not as an antagonist but like a snob, a jerk, a challenge. But the more you read the book, the more you see Jane Austen's descriptions of Darcy and how those are slightly in contrast with Elizabeth's; so the more you read, the more you see how Elizabeth has like created this character, so there is a version of him which is snobbish and rude. But he also does really try to venture socially with her numerous times and is shut down. He singles her out as a person who he can be social around, and I do relate to being in social spaces where it's like: I don't feel comfortable here but I've sort of decided that one person, for whatever reason–maybe it's like a shared interest or shared friends–but I'm like, “Okay, I am choosing to be closed off to other people, but this person I'm allowed to be open with.”

Carina: So if you're saying that, in the book, he's largely presented through Elizabeth's lens of perception, is part of what makes this infamous letter so compelling is that it's a moment where he gets to present himself?

Carly: Absolutely.

Tim: It's an amazing literary moment, where he's like, "Well, I'll address what you've said: some of it you're right about, but [now] I'll tell you my version," and his version is quite compelling. And then it's like, "Some of the other stuff you said–well, frankly, there's some pretty huge gaps, and you've been lied to. Here's my side of that. If you don't believe me, here are other trustworthy people [who will confirm this]." 

There's a great chapter after Elizabeth reads the letter, where we see her [initial] emotional reaction to [its contents]. Then she reads the letter again, and she has a different emotional reaction. She's like, "I did not know myself before this moment, I have been changed." Because of this other person's views, perspectives and honesty. He's quite brutal.

Carly: And someone she had deliberately dismissed as being capable of any kind of emotional intelligence. 

Tim: And he really steps up.

Carina: So you think that the epistolary mode in that point of the novel allows Darcy to present himself to the reader and also to Elizabeth versus like being filtered through Elizabeth? 

Carly: It's huge. 

Carina: So are you guys excited to write your version of the letter?

Carly: Yes! We've already written drafts of it. I don't know if we're gonna continue with this concept, but we have toyed with the idea of putting in two versions (for reasons that we will maybe keep secret for now).

Carina: Yeah, it seems like it should be kept secret. 

So the next topic that I want to talk about is horny innuendo because there is a lot of it in your version. I pulled out some notable ones. 

Carly: Yay!

Carina : Because I haven't read Pride & Prejudice, but I have watched Bridgerton, and innuendo seems to be a really big hallmark of Regency-era romance, because, like, you can't be explicit about things. 

So, specifically I want to pull out the description of the five Marys “submerged in the tub, spilling this way and that, like a vase of tulips”—which Carly (not Tim) wrote. It's the best sentence they've done so far. Tim is trying to write an impressively good sentence and still hasn't done it, but he might get there. 

Tim: My blood is boiling. Which is rare. 

Carina: I also found some glistening rods...

Carly: [To Tim] That was you, right? Or was it me?

Tim: That feels like it could be either.

Carina: There was also some sinful heat generated by the close proximity of kneecaps.

Carly: That's me! Oh my god, am I the horny writer of the two? 

Carina: And then my favorite, which I know that Tim wrote—

Carly: Oh, this one's really good. 

Carina: Quote: "Am I allowed to write that, as far as the dining room chairs are concerned, it was monsoon season at Longbourn?" I have a lot of questions about this, but the first question that I want to ask is: You've gone and broken the fourth wall specifically by asking for consent, which is very modern and hot. And so my question is, whose consent are you seeking? Are you asking for the reader's consent, the ghost of Austen's consent, the Marys'...?

Carly: I thought you were asking for my consent.

Tim: Practically, the way we write is: one of us moving forward with the text, and then the other person going in–after a meeting, usually–to edit, rewrite, fill in the blanks of certain spots, and then proceed from there. So there are things that we both put in to test the waters. Like, “I'm gonna go for this idea, and I'm expecting some of it to get rejected.” And some of that stuff gets through.

Carly: I liked it so much as-is! I don't think I even brought it up.

Carina: So you've chosen to empower the boring woman in your retelling of Pride & Prejudice. And you've chosen to like, do this really, like horny retelling with the boring woman at its center? So I'm curious to know your take: is the boring woman more or less empowered than the exciting woman?

Tim: The boring woman in this (the Mary), we joke, is called towards spinsterhood and is thrilled by spinsterhood and wants nothing more than spinsterhood. So the way that we are able to maintain the plot structure of romance is to have each Mary’s “other” character take over for a little while, like: “Oh, well, (they don't say this explicitly) I need to turn on my ‘Jane’ so I can move forward,” or, “I need to be more ‘Elizabeth’ so I can move forward.” 

I think those tensions about which person you are at this moment, and which person is going to be helpful for the plot, which person is gonna be helpful for your family, which person is going to be helpful for our tyrannical comedy desires—it’s a constant back and forth. 

Carly: She's more moralizing and tedious than “boring,” I would say–but we like framing her as the “boring woman,” because I think that's the joke of her. But also it is interesting that, in the context of Pride & Prejudice, “boring” means “romantically irrelevant”. 

Tim: I guess we are sort of playing with a joke of, like, “Isn't it crazy that the boring woman gets to have a love story here,” you know?

Carly: And also, “Isn't it boring to want to pursue your own interests instead of a guy?” And the answer is, yeah, Mary is boring no matter what.

Tim: I mean, part of the reason this project has legs is because we had the thought: “Oh, what if she was in love with Collins who is a boring, tedious, blowhard? What if he was the center of her desires?”

Carina: I mean, what it actually sounds like to me is that you've made “Mary Prime” and Collins sort of the standards for heteronormativity, and the other Marys are kind of the queer characters. 

Carly: Yes. Print that. 

Tim: Yeah, that's what we did.

Carly: Happy Pride.

Regular Marys updates will resume next week!

xo

Carly & Tim

Carina was one of the first people to read Oops All Marys, and her guidance was instrumental in our inclusion of an introduction, so it was really gratifying to speak to her about this project! Plus she’s very cool, and has a book available for pre-order. We love her!

Carina: I guess some important context for the interview that I would like to get out of the way is that the first chapter of Oops All Marys begins with the sentence: "Reader, you are understood to be a knowledgeable and enthusiastic scholar of Austen's work, the possession of this text confirms it." And that is a direct quote.

I have never read Pride and Prejudice. I've only ever read one Jane Austen novel and it was Northanger Abbey, which was supposed to be a joke. Right?

Carly: Is it supposed to be a joke? 

Carina: It’s supposed to be a spoof? It's her making fun of the form of the Gothic romance novel. 

Tim: Yeah, I think so. 

Carina: So I guess my very first question is: Do you think that Oops All Marys is a good introduction to Austen's work in general? And how should readers like me who are not knowledgeable and enthusiastic scholars of Austen's work, approach your texts, if at all? Should I be reading this?

Tim: I think one of the reasons why she is so enduring as an author is because her narratives are so flexible. I do think that part of the reason why we felt like we could touch this thing is because there is an Austen extended universe of people who engage with Austen stuff so it was like, oh, cool we have a riff on this, and we know there's an audience there. But just playing with the beats of her narrative and the beats of her characters.

Carly: They're like the prototypical rom com. You have Darcy, who is the guy who seems like an asshole when you first meet him but actually, he's like, he's The One. You have the headstrong, plucky heroine, you have like the schmoozy guy, Wickham, who seems too good to be true, and totally is. I think that's part of what makes her work really accessible, even if you're interfacing with it in the stupidest way possible, which is reading our book.

Carina: So just confirming that you think Oops All Marys is the stupidest Austen interpretation? Because I'm loosely aware of something called Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which sounds more stupid. 

Carly: What I think our adaptation has going for it is we are embracing the silliness. And I'm not sure—genuinely not sure—if the other ones are. 

Tim: I have not read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. But I like reading the novel over and over again. 

Carina: How many times have you read Pride and Prejudice?

Carly: You've lost count. 

Tim: I can't count. 

Carly: I've read it, like twice, completely through and then piecemeal countless times. Certain chapters, certain moments. I've read so many times, I mean, the Collins proposal, the Darcy letter, the Netherfield ball. Like I've read those so many times.

Tim: I feel like there's plenty of times when I'm like halfway through a very thick book that I need a break from and I'll just like, start at the Darcy letter and then just go to the end, and then go back to the book that I was reading. 

Carly: I feel like I'm really tickled by the question of like, is it a good representation of her work? Because part of me is like, yeah. It’s not quite like a SparkNotes. But it is like, digested one step. 

Carina: Like if you want to consume Austen the way like a baby bird would...

Carly: Yeah! 

Tim: Yeah. 

Carly: Which like, really hits for both of us because we like birds. 

Carina: And worms? Yes? No? 

Carly: No. 

Tim: Yeah! 

Carly: But I like spaghetti. 

Tim: Worms are super valuable. 

Carina: This is an important question for Tim only because I already know Carly's answer: eating bugs, yes or no? 

Tim: Oh! Um, I would eat some of the dry crickets and stuff like that.

Carina: Chapulines, delicious. 

Tim: Yeah, this sort of dried crunch.

Carina: Do you think that Carly would be bettered as a person if she tried eating a bug?

Carly: Hey, this is just like, for when this is transcribed, I'm never going to happily eat a bug. And if you try to convince me—

Carina: This isn't a question for you. This is Tim's question. 

Carly: If you try to convince me I will block you. 

Tim: Well, honestly, my feelings about this like is that in the age of climate change—

Carly: See this is exactly what I don't want! 

Tim: —anyone who is interested in the natural world has gotta get comfortable with bugs. Like, be it consumption or as like a naturalist, like, that's...

Carina: It's an inevitability. 

Tim: It's an inevitability. 

Carly: I think this was a really hostile question. 

Carina: This was not planned, it was just a natural outflowing of the conversation! 

Carly: Getting back to the question I did like—

Carina: Would you assign this in a freshman literature class? 

Carly: “This”? Ours? 

Tim: Yeah. 

Carina: I would. 

Carly: I think it would be fun! I would do it alongside [the original], I don't think I would do it on its own. 

Tim: I think it's funny, I think it's accessible. I think it'd be a great access point for high schoolers. I also love Austen's language–I find Austen's language very accessible, but it also asks you to really—

Carly: Tune in. 

Tim: If we're going like, Hemingway to Shakespeare, if you're a high school student, this is going to feel closer to Shakespeare. 

Carly: I also think that part of the joy of the project is like being good little children and writing in that language so that we then earn the opportunities to say, like, "this fucking guy." 

Tim: Yeah, I mean, we're just starting our Collins moments, and you don't know Collins which is such a shame, but he is a blowhard, he is moralizing, he is dull. He fancies himself not only a wit, but a person of value and substance. And so his language is just like, long flowing and many-claused and you know, obtuse for no reason. 

Carly: It was a really, really, I think, great joke in Austen's original version where Collins is talking about, like, "I love giving these sorts of compliments to young women." And Mr. Bennett is like:

“May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

And Collins replies:

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

Carina: So jumping in here, I'd love to know, unrehearsed: what do each of you think is the best compliment to give a young woman? 

Carly: Um. I gotta think about this.

Carina: Nope, unrehearsed! 

Tim: Can we narrow down the age range? 

Carina: Appropriately dateable in relation to the age of the compliment giver. Young but appropriate. 

Tim: “I just want to say that I find you to be totally charming.” 

Carly: That's cute!

Carina: That's a good one. 

Carly: I think it's always nice to know that someone is thinking of you a lot. So if I was giving a compliment to a young woman that I was like, into, and was age appropriate, I would be like," Oh, I thought about you today." I feel like that's so nice. Who doesn't like that? 

Carina: And how similar or dissimilar are those two compliments to the ones that Collins gives? 

Carly: Extremely? Well, no, he would say "You were uniformly charming...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Tim: Also, he tends to compliment people in a way that allows him to refer back to things that give him status. 

Tim: So one thing about Collins that we love in the book is that he's always talking about his patroness, Lady Catherine de Burgh, and how amazing she isn't how good she is. 

Carly: She is the one who makes him able to live at this nice house and who has given him the position at the church that he preaches at—

Tim: —and he is invited to dine with her like twice a week—

Carly: —which is huge—

Tim: The comedy feels like: "I'm invited to dine at Rosings like twice a month." Which is like, "oh my god." There's a moment in the book where he meets, like, the Bennett's aunt and uncle—

Carly: —the Philipses—

Tim: and it's like, "Oh, your beautiful home reminds me of one of the smaller rooms of Rosings Park." 

Carly: And they're like, "What's your problem?"

Tim: And he's like, "Oh, Rosings Park is Lady Catherine de Burgh's..."

Carly: "You have to understand that Rosings Park is very grand. And they're like, "Ohhhhhh, okay." 

Tim: And they're like "Oh, so it was a compliment." "Yes, and it's a place I've been many, many times. So you see, I know enough to be able to make this grand compliment."

Carly: Compliments are a platform for him to dive into what he really wants to talk about, which is himself. 

Tim: Yeah, he's amazing. 

Stay tuned for part II soon! Regular Marys updates will resume in 2 weeks!

xo

Carly & Tim