Page 1 of Mr Collins in Love
CHAPTER 1
Note: The events in this book begin in June 1811, a few months before the events of Pride and Prejudice.
“Good, Mr Collins,” said my patroness, Lady Catherine De Bourgh.“That sounds most satisfactory.”
I breathed again, murmured a thank you, and bowed over my gilt-rimmed teacup.
She took a sip of tea, nibbled her seedcake.
My detailed account of the new linen cupboards in the rectory—work she had been so gracious as to suggest herself—had gone over well.I’d barely slept the previous night, debating with myself whether she would consider my raising such a domestic detail to be an impertinence or a compliment to her wise advice.However, in the end, I had proceeded, and it was now clear I had done the right thing.
Since my account had gone so well, a repetition of the essential points might not go amiss.I have often observed that many people repeat themselves much of the time, generally to the apparent pleasure of all.
Lady Catherine and I were seated—along with Miss de Bourgh and Miss de Bourgh’s companion, Mrs Jenkinson—amidst the blue and gilt of the Rosings drawing-room, and I first attempted to ascertain from their respective demeanours whether either of those ladies wished to take their turn in the conversation.
Miss de Bourgh was gazing palely into her tea cup.Miss Jenkinson appeared to be studying, with some reverence, the lace upon Lady Catherine’s dress.
I opened my mouth, therefore, to reiterate just how commodious the new arrangements for the rectory linen were, when Lady Catherine gave me a sharp assessing look, quite unlike her usual glances, which were generally so brief she barely put herself to the trouble of focusing upon me at all.
I tried not to flinch.What had I said—or not said?I schooled my expression to what I hoped was one of mild inquiry, and wished, with a part of my mind, that the room was not so stuffy and that Lady Catherine would permit a window or two to be opened.
“Yes,” she proclaimed.“I have said it before and I will say it again: An establishment such as yours can never have too much storage, and shelves, I am persuaded, are of far more use than any other kind of cupboard space.Indeed, I’m certain you will be very glad of those shelves—” I opened my mouth to agree, but she went on, “—and I am sure so will your wife.”
My heart dropped like a winged bird, for I had no wife.
Had she momentarily mistaken me for some other clergyman of her acquaintance?Should I correct her?Or was it more gracious to ignore her error?But then, what if she laboured under the misapprehension that I indeed had a wife for several days or weeks?At some point it must come out that I did not.All kinds of embarrassments came trumpeting towards me.I must hint at my confusion.
“W…wife, Ma’am?”I managed.
She raised her eyebrows.“Certainly.You are a single man, are you not?And in possession, now, of a very tolerable living.Not exactly a fortune, perhaps, though it might be called so by some men in your position, Mr Collins, indeed it might.So, now you must be in want of a wife.”
I went hot all over.My face felt stiff and I could not blink.
I bowed again.It was difficult while seated and holding a full cup of tea, but it gave me a moment’s respite from her eyes, which were pale and piercing and altogether too much.Miss de Bourgh and Mrs Jenkinson had been disturbed from their reveries and were also directing their gazes at me, clearly wondering how I would react.My mind went blank, as it did at times of strain.
My tea was quivering against the golden rim of the cup.There, a little had spilled into the saucer, leaving a stain down the outside of the cup.Bad.Must not spill any more.Nor fumble the cup and break it.Nor keel over, cup and all, onto the expensive Turkey carpet while they all stared at me in horror.
She meant I mustgeta wife.That I must marry.
If only one could anticipate such outrageous topics.If only one had time to prepare a suitable response.But I had no time, and anyway, I knew what was expected.
“Just…just so, Ma’am,” I managed.“Your ladyship is quite right, I am sure.”
I risked a glance.Her visage, never encouraging, had become stony, nostrils slightly flared.I had not agreed with sufficient celerity.She put down her morsel of seedcake.
Silence was descending upon me; that unhappy state, almost of paralysis, that has oft afflicted me in company since childhood.My tongue was made of lead, my mind as quick as a lump of clay.
Once I should have remained thus; speechless, staring, almost deaf.These days, I knew what to do: I must become Trafford.
Trafford.His very name was a magic spell.Already my tongue felt lighter, my mind less dull.
Trafford, the son of a bishop.Trafford, whom I had never met but whom I had observed so many times at Oxford.His borrowed consequence and loquacity had saved me a thousand times.Aping Trafford had got me my current position.It had helped me keep my patroness’s good opinion these several months.
I pictured him, now, at table in the hall, surrounded by men of his acquaintance, words dancing from his lips in a ceaseless rivulet.I sat straighter.Yes, I was Trafford.Full of talk and opinion, all of it suitable, all of it expressing the right opinions and the correct preferences of a clergyman.I cleared my throat.
“As your ladyship so wisely points out, matrimony is a blessed institution, and one that those members of the clergy for whom it may be possible must certainly enter into if they are fortunate enough to find themselves in a position to do so.”
I had only just begun, but Lady Catherine, who was eyeing her cake as if it were a slug upon her plate, interrupted.
