Murder! At Rosings
Recently, in an act of great condescension that my ridiculous cousin won’t stop babbling about, the “esteemed” Lady Catherine de Bourgh invited me, Elizabeth Bennet, along with a full table of Churchills and Dashwoods, to her estate at Rosings Park for the weekend. The party was quite tedious really until one of them went and got themselves decapitated in the water closet late Friday evening. Then, I must admit, the discourse became a great deal livelier.
On Saturday, during a four-course dinner, Lady Catherine’s still-headed company attempted to work out who was responsible for Mr. Thorpe’s topless state. (For anything less than four courses wouldn’t be stylish enough for such a scandalous discussion.) Though insipid comments on the exemplary potatoes and silly romantic sentiments abounded, we eventually achieved enough common sense between us to come to a correct conclusion on why and how Mr. Thorpe managed to become considerably shorter.
I received an award for Best Actress and Mr. Collins obtained one for Best Actor. Certainly, he deserves ample recognition for his many efforts to provide the ladies with elegant “unrehearsed” complements but why I should be given an award for simply being myself is beyond me. Still, I suppose it is a small kind of accomplishment.