Chapter 11
Emmy and Charlotte debate the practicalities of marriage
Charlotte Lucas was not yet ready for sleep. She occupied her father’s desk in his study, having pushed aside his SERIOUS pirate books13 to make room for what her parents called “Charley’s Big ol Paper.” Charlotte called it something else. Charlotte called it her spreadsheet. A grid of hand drawn boxes organised into rows and columns that periodically broke out into mini genealogy charts, with the names of bachelors circled and then connected to various other names from all over the document. Tightly scribbled notes detailing age, industry, salary, and eye colour filled the blank space between the lines. It looked as if a brood of spiders, instead of grounding their webs upon the branches of a bush, spun their fibres between the themes of a novel. But, to be completely clear, there was no spider. There was only Charlotte.
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!