The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 7

by Beth Brower

I can see my gravestone once I’ve died of the subsequent mortification. Emma M. Lion Not Equipped to Navigate Her Own Life

Silence among friends forms a pleasant shape.

My entire morning was spent entrapped (entrapped I say!) in the drawing room with Arabella, Aunt Eugenia, and Cousin Archibald, my two elder relations discussing in detail the letter that he and Matilde crafted regarding my many faults.

“Don’t look like a lizard, Emma. Young ladies shouldn’t be so reptilian.

“You have friends above your station, I see; moderately acceptable in a man, abominable in a woman.”

“Your praise is too high, Lady Spencer. Shall we discuss the most effective bedtime routine to keep Emma looking sweet and subservient?”

Fluffy knitted things and gaudy pieces of wool-work should be abolished by Act of Parliament.

“When one’s life is threatened by the abysmally ridiculous, one needs large quantities of ink.”

“The Accord of Parameters, drawn up in Dormitory A at Fortitude, sets the boundary based on the age between one Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, with five years reasonable accommodation,” I answered. “I signed it with all the rest of the girls—and the horticultural mistress, who I now realise must have been no older than I am now. I digress. As to their ages, Elizabeth is not yet one and twenty, Mr. Darcy is twenty-eight.”

As for you, Emma, whereas last year you were meant to look miserable and possibly consumptive—a thing you never quite managed,” said with accusation,