Mary Elizabeth was in full meltdown as the party neared their destination–the Parsonage, a vibrant but pianoless dot blooming on the horizon. After being informed she would suffer her stay without access to an instrument, she stammered “but are you sure abou’dat?” over and over until she lost breath, passed out, woke up, gurgled the Lord’s prayer, passed out again, woke up again, and all the while her fingers stroking the keyboard of a phantom instrument, following the familiar pattern of “The Sussex Waltz.”
The Lucases were no strangers to the Marys Bennet and their occasional fugues. They tended to her in the way they knew to be kindest: giving her space to freak out. Sir William fussed with his pipe while Maria busied herself by observing the scenery as it passed by her window, until suddenly the scenery lurched to a complete stop. She glanced back and forth between Emmy and the driver of the carriage, worried that Emmy had somehow infected the coachman and his resulting hysterics might overturn them, horse and all.
Sir William and Maria looked about in confusion, as they had stalled on the gravel entryway halfway between the main road and the Parsonage. Sir William craned his neck and called out the window to their coachman.
“I say,” he say, “is there a reason we’ve stopped so far from the house?”
The coachman seemed to expect the question. He launched into script.
“Where is Mr. Collins?” he asked theatrically. He pantomimed, searching hither and yon with broad, rehearsed movements, until one hand came to rest akimbo on his hip, the other scratching his head. “Where, oh where, is Mr. Collins?”
Maria needed little encouragement. She launched her torso out of the carriage window to get a better view.
“Is he under the hedgerow?” she asked in a Teacher’s Pet lilt.
The coachman scrutinized the hedges. “No ma’am, not under the hedgerow.”
Sir William was on board now. “Oooh! Oooh! He’s hiding against the back of that Laburnum!”
The coachman dutifully searched around the trunk of the nearby flowering tree. “No sir, not behind the Laburnum.”
The curiosity of this charade coaxed Emmy gently from her tumult. As the Lucases became increasingly more animated, leaving the carriage and directing the coachman around the garden, Emmy breathed deeply, her possessed fingers finally coming to rest in her lap. Her eyes swept the landscape, taking in every detail: the green fence and laurel hedges, which arced across the landscape and parted in such a charming way as to allow for a glimpse of the bustling garden just beyond them; and, of course, the piquant smell of chicken shit (exotic to anyone who grew up in Longbourn’s recent era of aggressive Goose Husbandry). Emmy alit from the carriage to investigate further. She traced the path leading up to the little house, until her eyes came to rest on its mistress, Charlotte Collins. Dumbstruck, Emmy raised her hand in a gesture that could easily mean both “hello” as well as “stop.” Mrs. Collins beamed warmly from across the distance, a smile directed at and received by Emmy alone.
Sir William and Maria were as yet too absorbed in their game to notice Charlotte, and she pointed surreptitiously at a long mound of gravel in the midst of the pathway. It was only about three feet from the waiting hooves of the horses. Emmy accepted this invitation to play from her old friend. Her anxieties melted away. She approached the long mound. It was breathing. Got ‘im.
“Here,” called out Emmy, her eyes smiling and in lock with Charlotte’s, “Mr. Collins is here, in the road.”
Unable to restrain himself, Mr. Collins opened his mouth to speak; a small sinkhole in the graveled path. He sputtered and choked–inhaling all manner of dust and pebble–and sat bolt upright, casting off his camouflage. Maria and Sir William clapped, cheering, while Emmy and Charlotte ran to Collins’s side.
Collins refused Charlotte’s aid, instead undertaking the labour on his own and hissing private objections to his bride. At length, Mr. Collins was on his feet and undressed of his gravelly camouflage. A cheerful facade was resumed.
“I was in the road!” he pronounced through dusty lips, gesturing grandly to his guests. They applauded once more. “Welcome to Hunsford, my dear family!”
The requisite bows were exchanged and any lingering awkwardness quickly gave way to felicitations and excited murmurings about the pleasantness of the house, garden, et cetera. The coachman was celebrated for his part in the welcoming antics, and Mr. Collins sweatily deposited a $5 note (American²) in his hand, which he gratefully accepted after retrieving everyone’s luggage.
“I am going to spend this on a treat for my best friend: my parrot!” the coachman declared. Everyone smiled indulgently. Coachmen often spoke more to speak than to be heard.
“I hope you enjoyed your greeting,” said Charlotte warmly, taking Emmy by the hand. “Mr. Collins wanted to do something special for your arrival.”
“I am usually under the hedgerow,” said Collins, dusting off his knees and winking like Santa Claus.
“I knew it!” cried Maria.
“I enjoyed it a great deal,” said Emmy. “The pathway is so prim and well-kempt, I doubt I would have noticed anything amiss were it not for the coachman and his antics. Everything appears in its place, in perfect accordance with its design.”
Mr. Collins took this for the compliment he knew it to be, and assured his cousin that was precisely his wish. Maria and Sir William agreed heartily, before Emmy added, “Had I been driving the carriage, I would have run you clean over.”
This was received with rather less enthusiasm. Charlotte gave a small reassuring squeeze of Emmy’s hand, before taking her place next to her husband and entering the house first. Sir William doffed his cap and allowed the unmarried young women to enter next before catching Emmy by the elbow gingerly.
“Remember,” he whispered, “don’t be weird.”
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