The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, aligned at last, decided to take the Marys to their Aunt Philips in Meryton. Mrs. Philips, though childless herself, was a fiend for backseat parenting. When asked if she would aid in the Bennets’ marital quest, the reply was swift and emphatic.
“Merry Christmas!”
As for the pretence of the visit, a promise that their aunt “had a sermon waiting for them,” was all that was needed; the Marys clawed at the door like a pack of hounds to be let out, and the mile walk was undertaken in very little time.
There was an additional, unspoken benefit to this visit: the newly arrived regiment peacocking around town. The soldiers were young and virile, energised (in equal measure) by a desire to both wet their blades with the blood of Frenchmen, and wet their something-elses with something else ;). If there were loins to be stirred under the sisters’ starched petticoats, surely this would do the trick.
Upon their arrival, Mary Jane moved to knock upon the Philips's door – but it swung open before her delicate knuckles fell. Mrs. Philips, grinning like a lunatic, welcomed them inside. The young ladies all sat, hands folded neatly, awaiting their aunt’s counsel.
“Well, girls, I’ll get right to it: you know you are not children any longer.”
“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mary.”
“Matthew 18: 1-5.”
Mr. Bennet groaned and poured himself a bit of brandy before Mrs. Bennet pulled him by his elbow outside.
“We’re taking a turn about the town, girls! We will be back shortly,” said she, and she gave a cartoonish thumbs up to her sister before shutting the door behind them.
Mrs. Philips rolled up her sleeves. There were virgins to educate!
“Girls, I will not beat about the bush: young ladies of your situation, who do not marry well and make families of their own, must be a burden on their parents. Your father’s estate is entailed, as you know, to his nearest male relative –”
“Mr. Collins!” said Mary Lydia, unable to help herself, her voice tinged with ecstasy. Mary Catherine broke wind nervously.
“Yes,” Mrs. Philips's nose crinkled, “And as such, when your father is dead, Mr. Collins may turn you all out of the house whenever he so chooses. Your poor mother, after a lifetime of devotion to her family, would be asked to make way for Mrs. Collins – whoever that may be–” a gasp from the girls, “and then where would you all go?”
The sisters opened and closed their mouths uselessly, chirping objections like a nest of baby birds. Emmy, meanwhile, felt a reckoning was at hand. “Marry, or become a burden.” Had not Charlotte levied this same directive at her during the assembly at Lucas Lodge? Emmy had fooled herself into thinking she could continue to evade this fate; God and her aunt, however, had a different timetable.
At length, Emmy spoke.
“Suppose,” said she, “one of us were to become Mrs. Collins?”
If dirty looks were bullets, Emmy’s body would have been lying in a steaming, bloody heap.
“Surely none of us is equal to a man of God,” seethed Mary Lydia, “but anyway, if Mr. Collins did choose one of us as his bride, it would be me, not you, Emmy.”
Mary Catherine broke wind angrily.
“Mary Lydia, if Mr. Collins promised himself to you, I should be as happy as Lazarus (post-cave). I am merely saying I agree with our Aunt. It is time we take this business seriously.”
“Emmy!” Mrs. Philips beamed. “Your good sense nearly makes up for your other deficiencies!”
“Thhank you.”
“I feel,” Mary Jane admitted bashfully, “that I should not mind Mr. Bingley’s continued attentions. Could he like me enough to marry me, do you think?”
Mrs. Philips saw her moment and seized it; with the two eldest faltering in their avowed spinsterhood, the others were sure to follow. She launched into a prepared lecture on the progression of a romance: initial attraction; courtship; marriage; the first sleepover. Charts were produced; a list of “Things Woman Allowed to Say to Man” was reviewed; diagrams which differentiated a gentleman proposing marriage vs. a gentleman bending over (to tie his shoe!) were presented. Upon review of the “Body Parts” worksheets the girls took fucking forever to fill out, Mrs. Philips mournfully realised her seminar,“A Wife’s Guide to Missionary Sex” would need to be saved for a future visit.
After a period of silence, Mary Catherine raised her hand.
“Do we have to?”
“Girls, if each of you refuse the call, you will be without home.”
Each Mary, addicted to the appearance of reason if not reason itself, let the words of her aunt intermingle with her individual prejudice. Mary Jane felt an affirmation, though not unresisted, that her unnameable feelings for Mr. Bingley just might be of benefit to her family’s (if not her own) soul. Mary Elizabeth, looking to avoid further scolding, thought through the litany of gentlemen in her acquaintance as to narrow down any for whom her aunt’s lessons might be applied. Bearing in mind that none were so ideal as Mr. Collins, she vowed to – at least – consider others. Mary, immune to shame, observed that it would be good for her sisters to open themselves to proposals so that she, and she alone, would receive their cousin upon his occupation of Longbourn. Mary Lydia and Mary Catherine, in concert, imagined the prospect of a party where they actually spoke to men. They gripped each other’s hands while, as if sharing a single mind, fantasised the moral education they might deliver to a young man in a (*slurp*) red uniform.
Mrs. Philips clapped her hands.
“On with it, girls! The streets are overflowing with officers. Practise upon them! Onward ho!”
The girls stayed put. Mrs. Philips was not unfamiliar with her nieces’ common freeze. Like a moth in its chrysalis, the Marys often required a degree of stillness to digest their lessons. Confident in her best efforts, she sat herself in recline as she resumed her needlepoint – a doggy! Mr. Philips, encouraged by the quiet, emerged from his study and began to respool his fishing rod, an activity that Mr. Bennet jumped through a window (closed!) to join.
With the same indignant glare a child fires over a meal of salad, Caroline Bingley endured the thoroughfare.
“So, this is Meryton,” she offered, “What fine – door knobs.”
“A silly compliment, Miss Bingley,” countered Mr. Darcy, “though, not without perception. The doorknobs are well maintained – however, that is perhaps due to how rarely they are touched. The activity of London society may thrill our sense of station but it does so at the expense of our doorknobs’ youthful glow.”
“I say, Darcy, must every observation be a lecture? I, for one, am perfectly charmed by country living!”
“So you’ve said, Charles,” Caroline watched in disgust as a pigeon choked down an olive.
“And I have yet to be swayed in my good opinion!” Bingley replied mirthfully. “Why, every direction I turn offers some new pleasing view! The stout masonry of the buildings, the prim little gardens–”
Bingley then spotted the familiar silhouettes of the Bennet family, and he laughed triumphantly.
“And dear friends ‘round every corner! Good day to you, Mr. Bennet!”
There, indeed, was Mr. Bennet, fishing rod in hand. The girls, having finally been chiselled from their aunt’s sofa, were close behind, anxiously surveying each passing gentleman; Mrs. Bennet had stayed to converse with Mrs. Philips, and – depending on whichever topic she was bitching about – might be detained several hours.
Bingley stood beaming at their approach while Caroline summoned a more congenial demeanour. Darcy sighed, already put out.
“Mr. Bingley, what a pleasant surprise!” said Mr. Bennet. “We were just taking a– stroll (yeah, that’s it) yes, a stroll!”
“Bit of fishing? Nothing like it!” Bingley pointed at Mr. Bennet’s glistening rod. “I’m eager to fit some in, myself, but there always seems to be something else to do!” He could no longer resist greeting the eldest Bennet sister.
“Hello, Miss Bennet,” he said warmly.
Mary Jane attempted a casual smile, cracking her lips open and releasing a rivulet of drool. Mr. Bingley was transfixed.
“You remember my sister, Caroline, of course! And my good friend Mr. Darcy.” Darcy bowed dutifully. Mary Elizabeth made a mental note. “Not imagined after all,” she thought.
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennet,” Caroline said, nodding in acknowledgment of the whole party. Mary Lydia, determined to “win” her aunt’s lesson, charged to the front of the pack.
“Hello, Miss. Bingley! Hello Mr. Darcy—married?”
“Excuse me?”
“My apologies! I know you two are not married to each other, because of the form of Miss. Bingley’s prefix, but “Mister” offers no such clarity. Are you married to a woman, Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy glared at Mr. Bennet disdainfully as one might wordlessly admonish a stranger for not picking up after their beagle. In a military about-face, Darcy turned to admire the nearest doorknob.
“My apologies,” Caroline said in a tone which made it clear she was the one due an apology. “Mr. Darcy and myself aren’t quite as acclimated to your country – directness as my brother, here. We come from a society which prioritises tact.”
“Tact,” all five Marys echoed in unison.
Mr. Darcy’s eye twitched involuntarily. Mr. Bennet, not given to blushing, instead lost colour. The family could not afford to be found wanting in their manners. On the back foot, he turned to the tried-and-true strategy of foisting his most becoming child on the gentlemen.
“Ah, yes! Mary Jane was just confiding in me on the difference in country and city manners. Is that not so, dearest?”
“Excellent! I remember being quite enlightened by your thoughts on the subject, Miss Bennet! Have you made any discoveries since?” Mr. Bingley waited in ecstasy.
Mary Jane opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Even her Aunt’s encouragement could not induce Mary Jane to ease in front of a crush. Where Bingley had expected a short sermon, he received a large exhale that Mary Jane expertely drew into song with a breathy, almost sultry:
“Amen.”
As usual, Mary saved the day.
“Tact indeed is a virtue, though we must never allow it to substitute for Truth. Had God Himself covered the commandments in pretty obfuscations for politeness’ sake, we all would have a diminished understanding of His word, indeed.”
“Amen,” said Mary Jane again.
Before Mary brought the whole encounter to its reverent knees, Emmy, for whom her Aunt’s encouragement had invigorated urgency, cut in.
“Yes, the Virtues. Magnificent things. How kind of you, Mr. Bingley, to remember Mary Jane’s enthusiasms.”
“Quite! Hard to forget that night at Lucas Lodge. I think of it often.” His eyes caressed the curvature of Mary Jane’s bowed forehead.
“Mr. Darcy,” Emmy ventured. He turned his face towards her like an owl.
“Yes?”
“How did you find the assembly at Lucas Lodge?”
“It was sufficient.’
“Did you witness any fine lectures?” Emmy persisted.
“I did not have the good fortune,” he replied, turning back to the doorknob.
“How unlucky. You might have benefitted from Mary Jane’s aforementioned talk of politeness.”
Mr. Bennet closed his eyes, helpless in the face of his favourite’s candour.
Darcy smiled. “I’m sure my time in the country will afford me many opportunities for such lectures.”
“I want – to get married?” Mary Catherine guessed, looking towards her father for approval.
“Like a nun!” Mary Lydia, loudly.
Before Mr. Bennet was able to turn and ask exactly what the hell his youngest was talking about², the scene was interrupted by the sound of lads. Everyone turned to see a sea of soldiers pour into the road: fit, well dressed, and down to be sucked off.
“Ah, the regiment has come to town! How capital! How–”
Mr. Bingley stopped himself as he observed one particular soldier with some degree of perturbed familiarity. His memory stirred. This was one man, perhaps the only man, to whom he must not offer salutation. The soldier met Bingley’s gaze and smiled with a beatitude as brilliant as an anglerfish’s esca. Bingley, susceptible to even the suggestion of cheer, froze like his Mary Jane. Darcy hissed.
Caroline, who as usual perceived all, stirred her party to remove.
“Forgive us the hasty exit; it is time for our nap. We hope to call at Longbourn soon. I’m sure it will continue to prove educational for us all. Merry Christmas.”
Caroline gathered her men and led them away. She shuddered off the residual strangeness of the encounter, finding a modicum of relief in the thought that Mary Jane, her brother’s obvious favourite, chose to contribute the least.
“There’s a woman who will have no trouble finding a match,” thought Mr. Bennet. “Now to my real work; stand back, Marys!”
Mr. Bennet drew his fishing rod, hooked a wedding band to the lure, and cast it into the soldiers.