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Thomas Bennet pulled out his watch and pushed the button to pop open the cover. A miniature of his wife, painted shortly after their marriage, greeted him. Four o’clock was fast approaching.

He had vague recollections of meeting his cousin when he stayed with them for a fortnight during their childhood. That is the father of the one who was shortly to appear on his doorstep. The father had been a skinny lad with a rather large head atop his shoulders. He and the boys from the village had taken to calling him Pompion behind his back. He shook off his reverie as the clock in the drawing room struck four. Looking out the window behind him, he saw a hired coach coming up the driveway. With a sigh of resignation, he headed for the door.

The passenger perched atop the carriage seat gazed at him momentarily before raising a hand to wave in greeting. When the carriage came to a stop, he watched in ever-growing disappointment as the man awkwardly climbed down, huffing and wheezing as he did. His cousin landed on the ground with a grunt, even though the fall had been less than a foot. The man had inherited his father’s head, which was made somewhat normal in proportion by his bulky torso.

“I believe that solves that question for poor Lizzy,” Mr Bennet muttered. However, he was not sure she would rule out this poor specimen of a man by appearance. She still would have the choice of the quiet solitude of a country parson’s wife or the public life of a countess.

“I hoped you did not mind my informal first greeting. I deduced from your manner of dress that you could not be the butler. I thought a friendly wave might break the ice that has existed between our families.” He said in a nasal tone.

“Not at all, Cousin William.”

“However, it would do me ill justice not to render you a proper greeting.”

Mr Bennet was about to tell him there was no need for formalities, but the young man was already in motion.

“Reverend William Collins at your service,” he said, sweeping his hat off his head and bowing. The beginnings of a balding pate greeted him. Thin wisps of hair adorned the top of his head and progressively grew longer and thicker as they descended.

“There is no need for such formalities. We are cousins, after all.”

“You are the epitome of kindness, cousin Thomas. A far cry from the recollections my father would tell me.” He said, popping his hat back on his head.

The driver was unloading two small bags from the back of the carriage.

“I shall take care of the coachman,” Mr Bennet declared, reaching into his waistcoat.

“Do not trouble yourself. My patroness, a lady full of generosity, gifted me a travel stipend, and I have already paid him a fair and handsome price.”

From the look the driver gave him, Mr Bennet doubted the man had the same thought.

“Come in then. I am sure you are weary from your journey. The servants will take your belongings up to your room.”

“How many servants are in your employment?”

“Ten year round. The number grows during planting and harvest times.” He replied. As soon as his cousin was through the door, he turned and flipped a coin at the driver, who deftly snatched it out of the air and knuckled his forehead in appreciation.

“Ten! That many? The estate must be doing well.”

“The estate is productive. I shall give you a tour at some point in your visit. You do ride, do you not?”

“Umm, no. My patroness lives in walking distance and more often than not, orders a carriage to take me back to the parsonage. Her benevolence knows no bounds, and I find myself the most fortunate of men for her to have chosen my humble soul to guide her flock.”

Mr Bennet agreed that he was most fortunate to have found such a position at his age.