Page 22 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Longbourn

Elizabeth

At precisely four o’clock, the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel announced the arrival of Mr. Collins at Longbourn.

Elizabeth, who hadn’t expected such punctuality, raised her brows in mild astonishment.

His appearance, however, inspired less admiration.

He was a man of middling height, thick of form and thin of hair, with a smile too eager and a manner too solemn to be wholly natural.

His clothing, while neat, bore the stamp of an over-anxious wearer, as though he feared at every moment to fall out of favour with propriety.

Upon being shown into the drawing room, he made a deep, theatrical bow to Mr. Bennet.

“My dear sir,” he said, with the pomp of one used to delivering sermons and compliments alike, “what an honour it is to finally meet the gentleman whose name I have had cause to write but not address in person. I come to you, sir, bearing goodwill, duty, and a strong sense of familial regard.”

Mr. Bennet, who had risen but barely straightened his back, smiled faintly. “You are welcome, Mr. Collins. I am relieved to see that you come armed with so many virtues.”

He proceeded to introduce him to the ladies of the house, and Mrs. Bennet, all smiles and nervous excitement, called for Mrs. Hill to see that their guest was served generously.

The meal proved ample, and Mr. Collins took to it with solemn enthusiasm, extolling the virtues of cold meats and apple tart with the same reverence he later extended to Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

It was not long before he spoke on every subject that came to his mind—his parish, the merits of boiled puddings, the colour of his parlour curtains—and all seemed somehow to circle back to his patroness.

“I owe everything to Lady Catherine,” he declared at one point, spoon in hand. “She has graciously permitted me to plant roses beneath my study window. Such condescension is not often bestowed.”

Elizabeth listened, then endured. His voice, while not grating, was made tiresome by the volume of words it carried.

Within the space of that one meal, she knew the dimensions of his kitchen, the habits of his patroness’ housekeeper, and the location of every chimney pot at Hunsford.

What she did not learn, though she longed to, was whether he had ever encountered Mr. Darcy at Rosings.

Given his habit of dropping Lady Catherine’s name in every fourth sentence, it seemed not unlikely—but Mr. Darcy was, oddly, never mentioned.

Mr. Collins' manner, at first, was excessively affable, and his attentions directed almost entirely toward Jane.

Elizabeth, observing with mild curiosity, could not help but wonder how long such preference would last. As it happened, it lasted only until after supper, after which his focus shifted with surprising ease to Mary.

Though he conversed with her at length, the eagerness that had coloured his earlier attentions to Jane had vanished.

Later that night, Jane, with a rueful smile and a touch of colour in her cheeks, confessed her suspicion that their mother had quietly discouraged Mr. Collins from further attentions toward her, deeming Mr. Bingley's interest too promising to risk interruption. She supposed, too, that their mother might have subtly turned him from Elizabeth as well, under the impression that Mr. Lumley’s frequent visits signified something of consequence.

With a soft laugh, Jane remarked that Mama appeared determined to secure the prospects of three married daughters, having seemingly directed Mr. Collins' attention to Mary.

Elizabeth could not say with certainty whether this theory held true, but she found herself surprisingly grateful for Mr. Lumley’s timely attentions.

Had he not been so consistent in his visits, thereby encouraging her mother’s assumptions, she feared she might have been presented to Mr. Collins as the next most eligible candidate.

It sounded more like the sacrificial lamb in her head.

The very notion made her stomach turn. To be the object of Mr. Collins’s regard was an honour she would rather live without.

***

The following morning began with Mr. Collins discoursing most eagerly upon the virtues of his patroness.

To Elizabeth, it had the monotony of a church bell rung too long.

He extolled her wisdom, her affability, her superior judgement in all matters, great and small.

And no sooner had breakfast concluded than he turned—perhaps inevitably—to her daughter, whom he described with such reverence one might think her destined to rule a kingdom.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he declared, “though of delicate constitution, is a young lady of most refined manners and cultivated accomplishments. Lady Catherine herself assures me that her daughter’s pianoforte playing would astonish even the most exacting critic, had she the strength to perform frequently. ”

Elizabeth said nothing, though she found herself, unwillingly, comparing her own qualities to those likely possessed by Miss Anne de Bourgh.

She chided herself for such a sentiment.

Anne had never met her, had never spoken a word in her hearing, and had certainly not caused her any offence.

Her heartbreak belonged wholly to Mr. Darcy.

To harbour resentment against Anne would make her no better than Miss Bingley.

After his ramblings, Mr. Collins spent the better part of the morning trailing after the young ladies in an effort to grow more acquainted with them. His attention dwelt mostly upon Mary, who bore it with shy solemnity.

After luncheon, Kitty proposed a walk.

“Perhaps we’ll walk as far as Aunt Phillips’s house and back,” she said.

“I am sure she shall have some news about the officers returning from Bolton,” added Lydia, eyes bright with mischief.

All the sisters, save for Jane, who chose to remain indoors, agreed to the outing. Mr. Collins, to everyone’s surprise, volunteered to join them.

“It would be an excellent way to become familiar with the neighbourhood and, indeed, spend more time with my charming cousins,” he said, his gaze drifting toward Mary, who promptly looked at her shoes.

Mr. Bennet gave his approval with such alacrity that Elizabeth could only suppose he too desired a respite from their cousin’s endless recital of Lady Catherine’s excellence.

The party set out from Longbourn for the village, where Kitty and Lydia, leading the group, dashed from one shop window to the next, exclaiming over bonnets and ribbons.

Mr. Collins ambled behind them with Mary, though Elizabeth, bringing up the rear, could not determine whether their conversation contained substance or mere politeness.

She pitied Mary. If Mr. Collins were to make her an offer, and she—out of deference to duty—were to accept, how would she endure such a life?

Accomplishment was Mary’s aspiration, and Mr. Collins embodied its absence.

Suddenly, Kitty and Lydia crossed the street with a flurry of excitement. Two gentlemen approached them, one of whom Elizabeth recognised at once. Golden curls framed a face too handsome and too familiar to be mistaken. It was the same man Lydia was speaking to at the Lucas Lodge ball.

As the gentlemen joined the group, Lydia made introductions.

“This is Mr. Denny, and this,” she said with a flourish, “is Mr. Wickham.”

Mr. Collins immediately launched into a solemn address about the value of the militia, adding what Lady Catherine had said on the matter and how, under divine and noble guidance, the war with Napoleon might yet be won.

Mr. Denny, after bearing this with admirable patience, returned to entertaining Kitty and Lydia, while Mr. Wickham fell into step beside Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began in a voice of polished civility, “I must confess myself astonished. That I should have made the acquaintance of Miss Lydia, and yet not have been introduced to her sister sooner, seems quite a failing.”

Elizabeth replied, “We are but five sisters, sir. I dare say Lydia does not make a study of listing us all when engaged in merriment.”

“She has spoken of Miss Kitty,” he said with a smile, “and as you see, we are somewhat acquainted. But I observe only four of you present. May I suppose one is already married?”

“My eldest sister, Jane, remains at home. She was somewhat fatigued and thought the air might not revive her spirits.”

At that moment, Kitty declared they were bound for Aunt Phillips’s house, just beyond the marketplace. Mr. Denny announced they were expected there for tea.

“How fortunate,” cried Lydia. “She did not mention it to us, but Aunt never turns anyone away.”

Kitty, ever pleased by company, observed how delightful it would be to take tea in the presence of officers.

Mr. Collins added, “As long as your relations are willing to receive me, I shall be most happy to accompany you. I believe, Miss Mary, that your aunt shall welcome a guest connected to your honoured father.”

Mary nodded with a nervous smile.

“Your aunt has already proven a source of kindness to officers new to Meryton. For that, I am grateful.” Mr. Wickham said to Elizabeth.

“Aunt Phillips has a generous heart,” she replied. “And I dare say society must show its appreciation to those who serve.”

“Well, not everyone shares your sentiments, Miss Bennet,” Wickham said with a half-smile.

Elizabeth frowned. “Have you found Meryton inhospitable?”

“Not at all,” he said, and turned the conversation.

Aunt Phillips’s home soon came into view.

Mr. Wickham left their company briefly to greet other militia officers.

Aunt Phillips greeted them all with warmth and was quickly introduced to Mr. Collins.

The latter, upon praising her drawing room, could not resist adding that its size, though adequate, was considerably lesser than that of Rosings Park.