Mary Elizabeth awoke the following morning with an unshiftable sense of dread. Sunlight shone soberingly through the window, falling across her bed linens, which were, to put it bluntly, absolutely gummy with sweat.
“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!”