Emmy found herself in a situation all too familiar: hiding in a bush while Charlotte Lucas stood, beaming like a bride, in the garden.
“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