Side characters aren't supposed to hijack the protagonist's spotlight and hold the main story hostage. They're supposed to stay confined to the background, like the good little human-shaped white noise makers they are.
Well, for whatever reason, it...
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THE CHAMPAGNE DRIPS over Mr. Darcy's impeccably chiseled face; his left eye twitching as though preparing to fly from his socket. I do a poor job masking a bubbly-laden burp behind a silk glove. Jane's face has gone as red as a matchstick tip and the look in Lizzie's eyes is telling me she's torn between the hilarity of it all and her propriety. The latter wins out, for now, and she cements a believable mask of censure on her face, but I'm sure I'll hear her real thoughts back home.
In the wings, Lydia snickers, which means Kitty snickers. Their shrill giggles hit me like the worst surround sound ever. Mr. Bennet doesn't seem to care one way or another as he attempts to flag down a server, but Mrs. Bennet looks green around the edges and on the verge of collapsing. Quick, someone call for Hill, we need smelling salts, stat.
I'm left staring down a man who, for obvious reasons, wants to see a noose affixed around my neck, the incriminating evidence of the spilled champagne flute still clutched in my hand. I wish I could flag down a server, rid myself of it, and feign ignorant.
"What champagne flute do you speak of, Sir? I see not a one, save those making their rounds and being served to those guests who have refused the call of the dance."
"Me? Heavens no. I haven't a clumsy bone in my body, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I bid you ado."
"Are you sure I'm the culprit? Forgive me for casting doubt, sir, but I warrant it's hard to see with so much champagne dripped into your eyes."
Then one passable curtsy later, and I'd be out the door, home free. But, unfortunately, that is not the case.
So, wondering how Mary Bennet managed such a fuck-up so early in the story? Wondering how anything I did affected the text at all? You and me both.
Here's what I do know: the story began as it normally did - it is a truth, yada, yada, yada. Mrs. Bennet goes on for pages about someone renting out Netherfield Park. Won't stop going on about it. Mr. Bennet pokes fun at her because its his right as head of the household, and because its one of a few things he derives pleasure from (the others being his good brandy, seclusion in his library, and a nice, long smoke).
Lydia and Kitty are off in the margins prattling on about ribbons and bonnet reconstruction and officers(they're always on about officers). And I'm in the corner, with Fordyce's sermons in my lap, a pair of grease-caked glasses sliding down my nose. They make it impossible to see, not that I have a desire to read Fordyce. Because again, Christians just love talking about Hell and how you'll go there and they won't because of some crap about grape juice and crackers.
Lizzie's rolling her eyes hard, so hard I'm surprised she's not scanning her brain to make sure all the working parts are in proper working order. She never did like the mother character. And sure she's obnoxious and cartoonish, and that's the point with satire and all that, but, at her core, I think Mrs. Bennet cares for her children.
