by Leenie Brown
Only his training from the tutor under whom he studied kept him from shaking his head at her pathetic attempt to sway him with her tone and a quick glance toward her daughter.
“No, it was neither happy nor sad,” he replied with what he hoped was a pleasant expression. “I find I tire of reading sermons. It is delightful to indulge in a bit of poetry on occasion. The way some men can convey the beauty of the Almighty’s creation in so few words is one of the great mysteries. A true gift from God it is.” He clamped his lips closed before he babbled further. If she were not looking up at him from her stitching, perhaps he would not feel this infernal need to speak so strongly. She made his heart and mind race so much faster than it normally did when uncomfortable. But, it was an agony he would willingly endure to be near her. He turned his mind to what Mrs. Bennet was saying.
“I had not thought it possible for a man such as yourself to grow weary of sermons. It is most remarkable.”
“A parson is merely a man, Mrs. Bennet,” he replied, stretching out his legs and folding his arms across his abdomen in a most comfortable fashion. “We are educated, of course, in the things of God and the church, but we are at the center of our very being merely men. While learning the things which we must to fulfill our role as guide and instructor is an honour and one of great import, we find all manner of common things to be of interest and even a source of pleasure. My tutor, Mr. James, for instance, liked nothing better than a good long ramble in the fields and forest as well as a hunt. We must be complete, he would say. Being of only one focus is not very useful to anyone, he would also say. A parishioner should feel at ease in your presence. That was another of his sayings. It makes one more interesting as a conversationalist when one breaks bread with his patron or patroness as well as other members of his parish.”
“Indeed!” That one word seemed to be the only thought Mrs. Bennet could form on such a surprising revelation.
“I am not a great hunter.” Collins bowed his head humbly. “But if one wishes to eat pheasant, one must learn to make a tolerable attempt at the sport.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Bennet gasped.
Mary snickered and bent her head closer to her book.
“I quite enjoy pheasant,” Kitty said. “Although I do not like the idea of having to shoot one. In fact, I should not be able to eat it if I did.”
“A tender heart is a welcome thing in a lady such as yourself,” Collins assured her. “I am certain that is why hunting is left to the gentlemen. Our sensibilities are not so easily engaged.”
“I should not mind shooting a pheasant and then eating it,” Lydia declared with a pointed look for her sister and one of disdain for Mr. Collins.
No matter how many times he had assured Miss Lydia that he was not going to remove them from their home when he claimed his inheritance, she did not seem willing to believe him. There was a scoffing, suspicious sharpness to her personality. However, that could be due to the fact that he was a stranger and her father was gravely ill.
“Then bravo for you,” he commented. He would not succumb to her taunts. The scripture did say that a soft answer turns away wrath, so he would endeavour to be kind and compassionate.
Lydia blinked. “You are not going to say it is not fitting for a lady?”
“No.” He opened his book. He knew ladies who accompanied their husbands on hunts. He did not care for such a wife himself, however.
“You are not going to say a thing?” Lydia pursued.
Collins shook his head and shrugged. “I see no need to say anything further.”
Her brows furrowed. “Not a thing?”
Again, he shook his head and added a smile.
“Lydia, do be polite,” Kitty scolded softly.
The reprimand was met with a decidedly annoyed huff.
“I thought you tired of sermons.” Elizabeth held out a book to him. “It is Lyrical Ballads. I thought you might enjoy Wordsworth’s writings.”
Collins snapped his book of sermons closed and took the book from Elizabeth. “Oh, I do. He is quite delightful.”
“He is,” Elizabeth agreed. “Mr. Darcy recommended this particular volume to me.”
The bookplate was inscribed with “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Oh, I could not take his book from you.” Collins held it out to her.
“I have read it,” she assured him, “and Mr. Darcy would be pleased to be able to do you this small service.”
“You are very kind and so is Mr. Darcy.” Collins opened the book. Mr. Darcy liked poetry just as he did? This was good.
“You might be able to join him and Mr. Bingley for a hunt,” she offered. “I shall mention it to him.”
“That would be most pleasurable,” Collins replied.
A friend. He had a friend. A true friend. Miss Elizabeth would not lend him such a precious book and take up his cause by presenting him to Mr. Darcy if she were not a friend.
Mrs. Bennet found her voice with a quick gasp of realization. “Poetry is just the thing. Do read a few lines to us. Would that not be delightful, Mary?” She cast a glance at Mary, who, instead of glaring, completely ignored her mother’s attempts to engage her in the conversation.
“I think poetry would make sewing so much more pleasant,” Kitty said, filling the brief moment of silence that Mary’s lack of response created.
“If you would find it gratifying,” he looked first at Kitty then her mother so as not to make his intentions too obvious.
“Oh, we would,” Mrs. Bennet assured him.
Kitty merely smiled softly and nodded before returning to her work.
But it was enough. He would climb a Hawthorne tree if Miss Kitty asked him to do so. Therefore, he would read until he was told to stop or until Mr. Darcy arrived, whichever came first. So, without a further moment of hesitation, he began…
“Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?”[1]
He had gotten as far as “The Last of the Flock” before he was forced to cease reading. Taking his marker from his book of sermons, he placed it instead in the book of verse. He had read those sermons numerous times. It was entirely likely that he would remember the exact page. He put the books to the side and rose to greet their guests. Again, he had to stifle a sigh as he watched Darcy lift Elizabeth’s hand to his lips in greeting. That was for what he longed, someone to be so pleased to see him. No, not someone. His eyes wandered to Kitty once again. It had been challenging to keep his eyes anywhere but where she was.
“Mr. Collins, it is a pleasure to see you.”
Collins swung his head toward Mr. Bingley, who had drawn Miss Bennet across the room toward where Collins sat. “I… I believe the pleasure is mutual,” he stammered. Believe? Such a poor choice of words.
“Mr. Collins has been reading to us,” Jane said as she took a seat.
“Indeed?” Bingley looked curiously toward Collins.
“Miss Elizabeth lent me Lyrical Ballads.” His sleeves felt out of place, so he pulled on them. Ah, better. “She assured me that Mr. Darcy would not be offended if I read it.”
“Darcy?” Bingley chuckled. “No, he is forever lending this or that book to me in hopes that I might one day enjoy the activity. However, so far, he has been utterly unsuccessful, though I did read a couple of verses in that book before returning it to the shelf.” Bingley settled easily into his chair.
How did he do that? He made it look so simple to enter a room and be at ease. His clothing did not demand readjusting, and his actions were so fluid and smooth. It was an enviable trait.
“I am not a great reader,” Bingley continued. “I do not despise the pursuit of knowledge, but to sit for hours to do anything is, in my way of thinking, dreadful. Darcy is not so content to be at leisure as he appears either.”
“It is more gratifying to be employed than idle, I will grant you that,” Collins replied, “
but I must admit that being employed in the enterprise of reading, especially something as beautiful as the words of a poet, is one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
Bingley chuckled once again. “I wish I had your love for such things. It would make a rainy evening or a carriage ride much more pleasant.” He looked around Jane to where Kitty sat quietly pulling her needle through her fabric. “What say you about reading, Miss Kitty? Are you a proponent for reading or are you against it?”
Kitty put her work in her lap and cast a quick glance at Lydia, who answered for her. “Kitty enjoys novels.”
“And poetry,” Kitty added. “I also like poetry.”
“But not as much as a truly horrid novel.” Lydia’s look in Collins’s direction taunted him to reply severely. “Do you read novels, Mr. Collins?”
“I cannot say that I find an excess of pleasure in them, for I often find myself wishing to instruct the characters on proper behaviour.” His brows drew together. “There are some that are not so very bad, but then there are others that are most improper. However, I suppose if I were to think on it a great deal as your question is now prompting me to do, I must admit that there is also poetry which is not fit for everyone’s consumption.” He nodded. “Yes, yes, I do believe you are right, Miss Lydia. A novel might be preferred over poetry at times, but the reverse must also be acknowledged. It is not the form but the substance which makes a piece worthy of the time employed in reading it. There are even portions of the newspaper that are perhaps better left unread – indeed unprinted! For instance, gossip is gossip whether whispered behind a fan or scrawled in black and white for all to read.” He stopped speaking as he realized that Miss Lydia was staring at him with her mouth hanging slightly agape. “Yes, I read novels, but not often,” he said in conclusion.
“I have never read an entire novel,” Bingley inserted. “However, I have read portions of them to my sisters on a winter’s evening.”
“You just abandon the story?” Kitty’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Are you not curious to know how it ends?”
Bingley’s lips curled into a smile, and he winked. “I always know how it ends. One does not need to read the full book to know that.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
The look of utter confusion on Kitty’s face was charming. Collins would happily study it for hours.
“I believe he means he reads the ending,” Jane said softly.
“Precisely!” Bingley declared.
“Without reading the rest?”
From her tone of voice, there was no denying the fact that Kitty found such an action to be an atrocity of the greatest sort.
“Yes,” Bingley replied simply.
“I fear I cannot approve of such an action.” There was a stern, almost governess-like, tone to her words.
Bingley merely shrugged. “If the ending were enticing enough to excite my curiosity to discover the rest of the tale, I might read the remainder. Perhaps I am reading the wrong books, but none have excited my curiosity in such a fashion, and I am an admittedly curious person.”
Collins’s brow furrowed. He would never have possessed enough courage to admit such a thing as not finding any novel the least bit interesting. Even if he did find all novels dull, which he did not, Collins would not have been so ready and nonchalant in admitting to it. How did Mr. Bingley proceed as if he did not care what any of the Bennet ladies thought of him?
“We cannot all enjoy reading,” Jane said to her sister.
And Miss Bennet seemed not to be put off by such an admission? Collins looked between her and Mr. Bingley before glancing across the room to Mr. Darcy. If he could learn Mr. Darcy’s strategies to draw a lady into liking a gentleman, then he might also be able to learn to be as affable as Mr. Bingley, might he not? He pursed his lips. He would need to find a time to approach each of them, and, seeing the way in which Kitty greeted Captains Denny and Saunders as they entered the drawing room just then, the sooner the better.
* * *
from Postulation and Reply by William Wordworth ↵
Chapter 3
Collins peeked out of his bedchamber’s door, looking up and down the hall. Mr. Bennet had not gone below to his study today, and Bingley and Darcy had been in the master’s chamber for three-quarters of an hour.
He tucked his watch back into his pocket, silently closed the door, and placed his ear against it, listening for the telltale click of a door latch and voices breaking the quiet of the corridor. Kitty had spared him a glance or two after the officers arrived, but no more than two. He could not wait any longer to seek help in swaying her opinion. He had been at Longbourn for a week and one day complete, and while she had grown friendlier toward him on the day her father was taken ill and he had offered comfort, she had not increased her attentions to him in the days following. He did not possess the skills needed to win her good opinion. He needed help. He needed…
Finally! There were the sounds for which he waited.
Closer. Louder. Collins threw his door open and stepped into the hall in front of Bingley and Darcy.
“Come.” He motioned frantically toward his room as he once again looked up and down the hall to see if anyone else had entered it. “Please,” he begged the startled men. “I am in desperate need of advice.”
The two men shared a look, Bingley shrugged, and they turned into his room.
Collins expelled a great breath, straightened his sleeves, took note of the empty hall once again, and then joined the gentlemen in his room. “Please be seated.”
He had arranged the two chairs that were in the room so that they faced his bed. As his guests sat themselves in those chairs, he himself took up his position on the edge of the bed and prayed he did not make an utter fool of himself — or worse — offend with wayward words. He blew out a breath again and fiddled with his sleeves. He could do this. He had practiced the words for half an hour. He was merely speaking to his reflection in his mirror or parishioners in pews.
He smiled tightly and muttered his thanks for their acquiescence in attending him in his room. “How is the master today?”
He would have to broach his subject eventually but perhaps a few moments of small talk would be useful in slowing his racing heart.
“He seems no better nor any worse,” Darcy replied.
“Good, good.”
“He insists that I continue with my plans for the ball I promised Miss Lydia I would host,” Bingley added.
Collins’s brows rose. “He does not plan to attend, does he? I should think such a thing would be far too great an exertion for one whose heart is weak.”
Darcy was smiling at him and not in the most pleasant fashion.
“No, of course, he does not,” Collins said in reply to his own question. “It was a foolish thing to think.” He sighed. “My tongue runs away with me at times.”
“We are not offended,” said Bingley. “But, I know I, at least, am curious to know with what we may help you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, you are. It is not the usual way of things for a gentleman to usher you into his room for a secret meeting.”
“It is if the gentleman is my cousin,” Darcy replied with a smirk.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Did the man have any other cousins? Surely, he must. Colonel Fitzwilliam was a colonel, after all, and not the heir to Lord Matlock.
“Yes.” Darcy’s lips were twitching as if he wished to chuckle.
Embarrassing himself, seemed to Collins to be well underway. Hopefully, he could refrain from offending. Then, he might be able to consider this meeting a success.
“I,” he began and then rose from the bed before continuing. He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “I will one day be the master of this estate. I do not wish for it to be soon. How could I? The loss of a father as wonderful as Mr. Bennet will cause my cousins,” he blew out a breath and shook his head instead of finishing his thought. He paced to the wardrobe and back. “Be that as it may, it does appear that God has
deigned I become Master of Longbourn far sooner than anyone would wish.”
“It does indeed look that way,” Darcy replied solemnly. “Bingley and I would be most pleased to help you find your feet in such a position.”
A smile, a real, relaxed, non-forced smile curled Collins’s lips, and he nearly placed his hand on them to feel the surprising expression. He had not thought to be able to smile or feel anything akin to relaxation during this discussion. “I would be forever grateful, and I know I will need assistance. However, there is a matter of estate management with which I could use your aid even before I am officially installed in the capacity of the master.”
He tugged at his sleeves and drew a calming breath.
“Whatever you need,” Bingley assured him.
Collins grimaced. “Do not pledge yourself until I have requested in full, for you may not indeed be able to help one such as myself.” He glanced in the mirror. No. He shook his head. He would rise above his father’s words. He would not be the last of the family to be master of Longbourn. “You, Mr. Darcy, are happily betrothed, and you, Mr. Bingley, seem to nearly be so.”
The men before him nodded and shared a knowing smile which caused Collins to pause as his brows furrowed in contemplation of such a response.
“You love Miss Kitty,” Bingley blurted.
Collins did not think his eyes could grow any wider. “You… you… know… that?” he managed to stammer after the first moment of initial shock wore off.
“You are far more uneasy around her than you are around any other member of this family,” Darcy explained.
“Yes… Yes… I am.” Collins plopped down on the bed. If they had noticed, did that mean everyone else had as well? Did Kitty know? He pulled at his cravat.
Darcy chuckled. “I do not think anyone else has been watching for such signs. I am the one who informed Bingley of your preference. It was noticeable from your first meeting when we arrived.”
“And I know I would not be at ease if Miss Bennet greeted a red-coated gentleman as her younger sisters did,” Bingley added.