The biggest thrill of a young woman’s lifetime is often a carriage ride to a lake. Mary Elizabeth may not be lake-bound, (stay tuned!) but she was certainly in a carriage, watching the trees zoom by the coach window like Jonah identifying ocean life through the gills of a great fish, his new home¹. She grasped Charlotte’s letter like a handkerchief in wait, squeezing and releasing in anxious repetition.
“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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