Page 2 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

It was Friday afternoon when Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn, punctual to the hour he had announced in his first, floridly apologetic letter.

His arrival was heralded by the unmistakable crunch of wheels on the gravel drive, the unhurried clop of a hired horse, and the excited squeals of Kitty and Lydia, who raced to the window to spy on their cousin.

Elizabeth stood back with folded arms, exchanging a wry glance with Jane.

“He has brought only one trunk,” Jane whispered, ever gentle. “He means to stay, but not indefinitely, at least.”

“Small mercies,” Elizabeth replied.

The modest hired chaise rolled to a halt. The door swung open, and Mr. Collins descended carefully, one gloved hand on the handle as though even this commonplace act deserved solemn decorum.

Mr. Bennet stepped out to greet him on the front path, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Mr. Collins, welcome to Longbourn,” he called, with an ironic gravity only Elizabeth would have detected.

Mr. Collins responded with a bow of excessive depth, nearly losing his hat in the process.

He was slightly shorter than average and a touch stout, a young man of five-and-twenty with a grave, self-important air that his stiff black coat and elaborately folded white cravat did nothing to soften.

His features were large and not ill-formed, but arranged with an unfortunate pompous solemnity that declared at once his conviction of moral superiority.

“Mr. Bennet, sir!” he exclaimed in tones of breathless reverence, recovering his hat with a flourish. “It is—I assure you—the greatest honour of my humble life to stand upon this threshold, seeking reconciliation, familial affection, and mutual Christian duty!”

He paused to cough slightly, as if overcome by the grandeur of his own words, before straightening with an awkward stiffness that made his bow seem almost mechanical.

Mr. Bennet offered a polite nod, though his mouth twitched.

“Indeed. We are delighted to receive you, Cousin. I trust your journey was comfortable?”

“Most tolerable, sir,” Mr. Collins assured him with grave satisfaction. “I considered it my duty to bear every mile as a tribute to familial harmony. The road was…somewhat uneven, but such minor discomforts are but reminders of the trials sent to strengthen our patience and humility.”

Mr. Bennet lifted a brow slightly.

“How admirably you bear them.”

At this, Mr. Collins puffed with pride, clutching his hat to his chest in a pose of devout humility.

“I can only strive, sir, to model myself on the example of my illustrious patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who insists upon the virtues of patience, propriety, and correct behaviour in all her fortunate dependents.”

Elizabeth, standing just inside the hall, heard every word and exchanged a look of wide-eyed amusement with Jane.

Next to them, Mrs. Bennet was in a fever of self-importance, smoothing her gown, pinching colour into her cheeks, and directing Hill to stand ready with tea.

“He is our relation, Lizzy,” she hissed, “and our future benefactor. I expect you to be gracious. No smirking. No sarcasm.”

Elizabeth inclined her head with solemn insincerity. “Mama, I shall be the very model of docility.”

Sophocles watched all this from his favoured perch on the windowsill, eyes half-lidded but attentive. His tail flicked once at Lydia’s shrieking, once more at Kitty’s giggling.

When the door finally opened to admit their cousin, Mr. Collins entered with all the humility of a man convinced of his own virtue.

He was of middle height, rather grave in expression, though with a certain self-conscious air of satisfaction. His black coat was cut in a six-years-ago fashion, his cravat was elaborately knotted but still crooked, and he held his hat pressed to his chest like a shield.

“Cousins,” he declared, making a stiff bow so low he nearly dropped the hat, “I am most grateful to be received in this—this amiable abode of domestic comfort. I assure you, I come in a spirit of duty, humility, and Christian reconciliation.”

Mrs. Bennet beamed as if he had offered a royal pardon. “We are so very pleased to welcome you, Mr. Collins. May I present my daughters? Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.”

Mr. Collins performed another round of jerky bows, muttering compliments that grew more entangled with each name.

“Miss Bennet—such a model of decorum. Miss Elizabeth—I am most honoured, truly. Miss Mary—a serious countenance speaks well of virtue. Miss Kitty—most pleasing. Miss Lydia—ah, the liveliness of youth!”

Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Sophocles, observing from the sill, yawned.

Mr. Bennet emerged from behind his guest at this display, offering a dry smile. “Mr. Collins, do come in. You might be thirsty.”

“Oh no, sir!” Mr. Collins cried. “On the contrary, I would say that I am accustomed to travelling and resilient to thirst. In fact, I welcomed every mile as another opportunity to contemplate the blessings of family union, the comfort of forgiveness, and the nobility of Christian charity. Indeed, I spent a full hour composing my sentiments on paper as a meditation, which I may have the honour of reading aloud this evening.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, hoping that he would forget and not do so.

Mr. Bennet’s lips twitched. “A treat we shall all anticipate. Will you not enter the parlour and sit down?”

Mr. Collins obeyed, but before settling properly he performed a solemn inspection of the room. His gaze fell upon Sophocles on the sill, who returned the look with unblinking disdain.

“Ah,” said Mr. Collins uncertainly. “A cat.”

Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Indeed. This is Sophocles.”

“A curious name,” Mr. Collins ventured. “Is he, ah—amenable to strangers?”

Sophocles stretched, rose deliberately, and hopped from the sill to the floor with silent grace. He circled once around Mr. Collins’s chair, sniffed the hem of his coat with grave formality, then turned his back and walked away to leap lightly onto Mr. Bennet’s vacant armchair.

Elizabeth coughed to hide a laugh. Jane pretended to study her hands.

Mrs. Bennet made a helpless sound. “He is very particular, you see.”

Mr. Collins looked discomposed. “Indeed. I am fond of animals myself, provided they are of a meek and agreeable disposition. My esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, allows no dogs in the house, believing them too boisterous for refined company. Cats, I suppose, are preferable in moderation.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced. “Sophocles has very decided opinions about moderation.”

At this, the tomcat, from his new throne, blinked once, yawned, and settled down, his gaze directed firmly away from Mr. Collins.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “We shall, I trust, not press our guest too hard today. Mrs. Bennet, perhaps some refreshment?”

Tea was served, with Mrs. Bennet fussing over spillage and Lydia giggling behind her cup. Mr. Collins took sugar with ponderous deliberation, extolling the moral virtues of simple sweetness in the diet.

Elizabeth nearly choked.

Sophocles did not move again but watched the whole scene with bored grandeur, tail flicking just enough to signal his withering verdict.

When Mr. Collins eventually offered thanks, bowing again with pious solemnity, Mrs. Bennet all but glowed with pride.

Elizabeth, however, caught Sophocles’s cold, unwavering stare fixed on their cousin’s back as he moved toward the window to praise the view of the lane.

She scratched his head lightly when he returned to her side.

“Yes, I know,” she murmured so only he could hear. “You will not be persuaded. Nor, I suspect, will I.”

Sophocles responded with a soft rumble, dignified approval that needed no words.

***

Dinner at Longbourn that evening was as carefully prepared as Mrs. Bennet’s nerves could make it.

The silver was polished until it gleamed, the best tablecloth was pressed and spread, and Hill and the maids were instructed in hushed tones to mind their manners as though they might be under royal inspection.

Mrs. Bennet took her place at the head of the table with an expression of fixed triumph, beaming at Mr. Collins as though she might adopt him on the spot if it would hasten an engagement to one of her daughters.

He, for his part, unfolded his napkin with a flourish that suggested he had observed the habit in a grander house and was determined to replicate it exactly.

“Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Collins began, inclining his head, “I must say, this is a meal most genteel and, if I may, a tribute to your maternal care.”

Mrs. Bennet glowed. “You are very kind, Mr. Collins. We are only plain country people, but we make do.”

Elizabeth traded a look with Jane, who lowered her eyes quickly to her plate to hide a smile.

Mr. Collins, apparently encouraged, pressed on with renewed solemnity.

“Indeed, I make it a point in my ministry to commend frugality and domestic order. Such virtues are, I find, often neglected in the households of the idle rich—though of course Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself sets an example of generosity combined with prudent management that I can only attempt, in my humble way, to emulate.”

Mary perked up. “Lady Catherine is your patroness, sir?”

“Indeed!” Mr. Collins’s chest swelled. “She has been most condescending in her attentions. She has even, on occasion, deigned to advise me on the arrangement of my parsonage furniture. It is remarkable how a woman of such consequence can possess so much understanding of domestic detail.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. Across from her, Mr. Bennet did not so much as blink, but his eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

Sophocles chose this moment to enter the room, padding across the rug with all the dignity of a magistrate about to pass sentence. He paused beside Mr. Collins’s chair and sat, tail curled neatly, ears twitching once.

Mr. Collins, noticing him at last, stiffened.

“Ah,” he said. “The—ah—cat.”

Elizabeth’s voice was mild. “Sophocles likes to observe our guests.”

“I see,” said Mr. Collins uneasily. “I suppose—I trust he is harmless?”

Sophocles blinked once. Then, with pointed slowness, he turned away from Mr. Collins entirely, rising to leap onto the empty chair beside Elizabeth and curling up with a disdainful flick of his tail.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I imagine he has delivered his opinion.”

Elizabeth smiled down into her plate.

Mary, attempting to rescue the conversation, asked about Mr. Collins’s sermons, which produced a fifteen-minute discourse on the virtues of extemporaneous prayer versus prepared homilies, complete with quotations.

Kitty and Lydia lost interest at once, and began whispering about officers under their breath.

Mrs. Bennet made several sharp hushing sounds that only made them giggle harder.

Mr. Bennet listened with grave politeness, inserting only the occasional and devastating question: “You find prepared sermons preferable, then? I see. But spontaneous prayer has its charms, does it not?”

Mr. Collins grew more flustered with each answer, especially when Mary nodded earnestly at his every word.

Sophocles, untroubled, settled his head on Elizabeth’s arm and purred.

Elizabeth stroked his fur absently. She was too well-bred to yawn but felt the weight of the evening pressing heavily.

Finally, when the servants cleared the last of the pudding, Mrs. Bennet insisted on tea in the parlour.

Elizabeth rose, smoothing her gown, with Sophocles jumping lightly to the floor to follow.

In the drawing room, Mr. Collins resumed his lecture on Lady Catherine’s great condescension, describing in detail the number of chimneys at Rosings Park, the height of the windows, and the splendour of the glazing.

Elizabeth tried to listen. Truly she did. But her gaze drifted to Sophocles, who sat at her feet now, tail flicking with unmistakable judgment each time Mr. Collins mentioned “her ladyship.”

When he praised Lady Catherine for instructing him on the placement of shelves, Sophocles actually rose, stretched, and walked away altogether, vanishing behind the sofa as if he could bear it no longer.

Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and they both dissolved into silent, helpless laughter, half-hidden behind their cups.

Mrs. Bennet, oblivious, was nodding along vigorously.

Mr. Bennet watched his daughters, eyes crinkled, but said nothing.

And so the evening wore on, Mr. Collins oblivious to everything but his own importance, Mrs. Bennet glowing with plans, and Elizabeth reminded with every flick of Sophocles’s tail that some judgments were beyond argument.