Page 32 of The Shades of Pemberley

By that afternoon, Elizabeth was wild to be out of the parson’s company, and she even took herself to her room for a time in Jane’s company.

Some might call it rude to avoid a guest in such a way, but Mr. Collins was becoming so blatant that she could not help but suppose it was best to be out of his company whenever she could manage it.

The rest of the family thought nothing of it, agreeing with her assessment; what Mr. Collins thought on the subject became apparent when they gathered in the sitting-room before dinner that evening.

“Do you often spend the afternoon in your room, Cousin?”

Elizabeth regarded the man with distaste, certain he could see nothing of it. “Sometimes, I do, though not as a rule.”

Mr. Collins shook his head. “Then let me advise you to think better of it, for it is not good to be slothful. If you retire early, you will sleep enough, then you will be prepared for the day without the need to nap or waste time in other such frivolities. As you must remember, the wife of a parson must be engaged in the parish—to while away the afternoon in one’s room is not conducive to such activities. ”

“Cousin,” interjected Mr. Bennet, appearing quite displeased, “there are yet some few minutes before we are called to dinner. Please come to my study, for there is a matter I should discuss with you.”

For a moment, Elizabeth thought Mr. Collins would refuse. He thought better of it, for he regarded Mr. Bennet and then offered a slow nod. “Very well, Cousin. Yes, I suppose it is for the best that we discuss certain matters.

“Please excuse me, my dear cousin,” said Mr. Collins, rising and bowing low to Elizabeth. “Though I know you are impatient for my return already, I have some business to discuss with your father.”

“Do not hurry back on my account,” replied Elizabeth.

Perhaps it might have been wiser to restrain her temper, thought it appeared Mr. Collins misunderstood her comment.

“I understand. Be comforted that I shall return at once.”

“Ugh!” exclaimed Lydia the moment the door closed behind the two men—Elizabeth was not certain Mr. Collins could not hear her sister’s burst of displeasure. “What an odious man he is! How could anyone long for his return when all they can expect is to be bored to death?”

“Who would marry such a man?” demanded Kitty. “I would not wish his attentions on my worst enemy!”

“Your father will take him in hand,” said Mrs. Bennet, giving her daughters a decisive nod. “This will end his attentions to Lizzy, but I would have you girls all know that you may refuse any civilities Mr. Collins may offer with my blessing.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Mary, her disgust for Mr. Collins as obvious as any of them. “I believe I speak for Jane when I say that nothing would induce me to accept any assurances Mr. Collins might deign to offer.”

Though she listened and approved, Elizabeth could not help the sense of impending trouble she had felt since Mr. Collins’s arrival.

There was something off about the man beyond the obvious deficiencies of character and intelligence.

There was something she did not know, leading her to suspect that her father’s warning to his cousin would do nothing to resolve his objectionable behavior.

AS BENNET TOOK HIS seat behind his desk, he watched his cousin, wondering about the man’s game.

The position Bennet assumed, that of obvious authority, was not by chance, for Bennet had thought he might have more success with the silly man if he emphasized the differences in their situations.

How efficacious this might be in bringing about Collins’s good behavior—if such was even possible—Bennet could not say, but at least the solid bulk of his desk would prevent him from giving in to his baser instincts and strangling the man with his clerical collar.

Mr. Collins, he noted, sat in the indicated chair, his droning voice never faltering for a moment, though he focused on such subjects as Longbourn, the study, the number of books on the shelves, and Bennet’s dedication to his duties.

Interspersed with this, however, there were a few significant comments about Bennet’s choice of literature.

“It seems you are a learned man, Cousin.” Collins sniffed with what appeared to be disdain, adding: “It appears your choice of books is not inspired, for we are told that it is good to be educated but only if we adhere to good books and the learning required by our Lord.”

As Bennet was not eager to receive the lecture of an imbecile, he did not pursue the subject. Directness was necessary, for nothing else would pierce the fog of Collins’s conceit.

“It appears you have come to Hertfordshire for a particular reason, Cousin.”

“How astute of you to have noticed it, Mr. Bennet,” said Collins, inclining his head.

“Indeed, it is on the advice and instruction of my excellent patroness that you now have the benefit of my presence, for when she heard of the discord between us, she adjured me to repair the breach between us.” Collins shrugged.

“Though I shudder to think of what my father, who suffered from your betrayal, might think, I could not do otherwise.”

Again, Bennet refrained, though he could argue who betrayed whom .

As a man who did not enjoy company and preferred to keep the objects of his amusement at arm’s length, this interview was already interminable.

So was Collins’s very presence, though the reasons for agreeing to host him for a time were still in force.

Otherwise, Bennet might cut the visit short, send him back to Kent, and instruct him not to return.

“Tell me, Mr. Collins, this business of healing the breach; I assume it is something more than fostering good relations between us. Do you not have something more permanent in mind?”

“To be certain,” replied Mr. Collins. “It is not proper to speak on the subject without disguise; I intend to offer a most particular olive branch , thereby obtaining my happiness and doing what is best for all your family.”

“On the contrary, Cousin, I cannot but suppose that frankness is required in this instance. By ‘olive branch,’ can I assume you mean to make your addresses to one of my daughters?”

“In a word, yes,” said Collins.

Bennet regarded him, wondering at the man’s continued inability to see the truth. “Very well. The choice of whether to accept you will belong to whichever of my daughters you find agreeable, of course. Kitty and Lydia are yet too young, so I must direct you away from them.”

“Oh, that is no trouble, Mr. Bennet,” interjected Mr. Collins before Bennet could come to the point. “I have no interest in your youngest daughters, for I suspect neither is ready for marriage.”

It was the first sensible thing Bennet had heard Collins say since he arrived.

“While your eldest daughter is everything lovely,” continued Mr. Collins, “and your middle daughter shows a pleasing piety, I find myself entranced by your second daughter. If I may be so bold, I consider her quite the jewel of the family, perhaps the entire county. With her as my wife, I cannot but imagine felicity will be mine through all the days of my life.”

The parson stopped and frowned. “Then again, she shows a distressing tendency toward outspokenness, which is unfortunate. I have every confidence in my excellent patroness, for I know she will not hesitate to instruct Cousin Elizabeth on the finer points of proper behavior.”

Collins’s stupid soliloquy fanned Bennet’s simmering temper into an open flame. The “instruction” of which the man blathered was not so much teaching as molding her into what he and his patroness considered a proper woman, and Bennet would never allow his daughters to have their spirits broken.

“Then we have reached the source of our misunderstanding, Cousin,” said Bennet, still clinging to civility, though everything urged him to berate the silly man and throw him from the house.

“Before making your choice, do you not suppose it would have been best to inform her father of this salient fact? What do you suppose that I, as her father, think of a man who settles on a woman mere moments after making her acquaintance?”

“Oh, I am certain there can be no impediment,” said Collins, ineffectually waving his hand while ignoring Bennet’s second comment.

“There is a very good impediment,” growled Bennet. “Knowing nothing of the situation, it makes sense to approach her father and discover if any other connections bar your approach.

“Elizabeth is engaged, Collins,” said Bennet, speaking over whatever the man meant to say. “As another has already spoken for her, I trust you understand that you have no hope of attracting her attention.”

“Cousin,” said Mr. Collins, trying to appear serious but only giving the impression of petulance, “you must see reason. Should I marry your daughter, I will ensure your wife and other daughters’ support for the rest of their lives. Is that not something your dear wife desires?”

“In speaking thus,” said Bennet, his impatience making him curt, “you suppose I have made no provision for them. Even if that was true, Elizabeth is to marry a man of wealth who is intimate with my family and will not hesitate to support them should the worst come to pass. Your charity does you credit, but we already have these matters in hand.”

“Though I can say nothing of this man of whom you speak,” said Collins, his tone dismissive, “there is no reason you would reject my offer in favor of some nebulous possibility that may or may not come to pass. Every circumstance is highly in my favor, from my connection to a noble family and position as the rector of a prosperous parish to my future inheritance of this estate. I am certain there can be no objection.”

“Perhaps you did not hear me, Mr. Collins,” snarled Mr. Bennet.

“Elizabeth is engaged ! The only reason she is not now married is because a matter arose that demanded her fiancé’s attention in a distant shire.

The wedding is now planned for the first week of April, and as you have heard of this, including the engagement ball, you have proposed to attend—without an invitation, I might add—I cannot imagine why you would continue to press your suit. ”

“I—”

“Not another word.”

Bennet glared at him, and he noted Collins had listened at last, though he could not say if the man would desist. The set to his jaw and the mulish glint in his eyes told Bennet something of his determination, which was out of the common way.

“So that I am understood,” said Bennet, “I will repeat myself. Elizabeth is engaged and thus is not at liberty to receive any assurances you might offer. While I congratulate you on your happy situation, it is not one that she will share with you, and , I might add, should you turn your attention to my other daughters, please understand that I will not consent to an engagement unless it is their choice. Thus, you are welcome to keep your fortunate situation, so long as you leave Elizabeth alone. Am I clear?”

When Collins opened his mouth, Bennet spoke again, certain the man did not mean to oblige him.

“If you do not comply, you may pack your trunks and return to Kent on the morrow. I will not endure a man who persists in the face of all that is decent. Now, will you stop importuning Elizabeth, or shall I sequester her with her sisters until your departure on the morrow?”

Even after all that, Bennet was uncertain the parson would choose the correct course. In the end, however, he offered a curt nod, though he said nothing. Bennet gave him one decisive nod.

“Very well. Let us return to my family, for I suspect the call to dinner will arrive shortly.”

“ODIOUS DOES NOT EVEN begin to describe Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth in an undertone to her father.

“It must run in the family,” was his dry reply, “for his father was among the most objectionable men I ever met.”

Distracted, Elizabeth nodded, though keeping her attention on Mr. Collins.

The parson sat by himself in a chair, speaking to no one; this suited her family, for they did not engage him in conversation, more than one of her sisters appearing relieved at his silence.

While Elizabeth wanted to believe that Mr. Collins would desist, the way his eyes often found her spoke of half-formed plans, though what he meant to do she could not say.

The notion had been growing in her mind since his arrival, telling her that there was something she did not know, something that provoked him to act the way he did.

His silliness might have done that, but a voice whispered in Elizabeth’s ear that it was not that simple.

“Would it not be best to send him back to Kent regardless?”

Even as her father considered it, Elizabeth knew what his answer would be, though colored with the utmost reluctance.

“There is no proof he means harm, though his behavior has not been the best. For good or ill, Collins will be the master of this estate—thus, it behooves me to at least keep cordial relations with him.”

With a sigh, Elizabeth nodded, knowing her father was correct.

“If, however, he does not stop, please inform me and I will remove him from the estate. Now that I have warned him, he has no other excuse.”

“I shall tell my sisters,” replied Elizabeth. “Do I also have your permission to kick his shins to keep him quiet?’

Mr. Bennet chuckled and threw her a fond look. “Yes, perhaps that would be for the best. If you bruise his legs, you may silence him for a time. You may even offend enough to send him from Longbourn altogether.”

“I thought you wanted to keep cordial relations,” said Elizabeth.

“Perhaps I do,” replied her father. “If he becomes too unendurable, I shall settle for distance.”

Elizabeth’s laughter rang out through the room.

Mr. Collins appeared to consider it a personal affront, though Elizabeth was certain he could not hear them from where he sat.

Elizabeth decided she did not care about his offense.

Now that her father had spoken to him, Elizabeth had no intention of enduring his attempts to woo her and would leave the room at once if he should choose to raise the subject again.