Page 23 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
So, while Charlotte was keen to be with child, she found she could not match her husband’s enthusiasm for what he insisted on calling their ‘delightful duty’. Her consolation was that this was only a small part of what marriage to Collins afforded her, and so it could be endured. It must be.
1803
OXFORD
The dining hall of Merton College was rowdy and stifling. A rowing victory had the boys in high spirits, and a lot of the crew were drunk on bad wine and triumph. The end of Trinity term often saw a lot of students neglect their studies for the river, and a crew from Merton, a college not known for sporting prowess, had beaten Magdalen that day in what was meant to be a friendly skirmish but was taken as seriously as the Battle of Bosworth Field. There were more races expected in the days to come.
‘If we can bump Magdalen, we can take on bloody Christ Church!’ jeered a bunch of damp boys, their voices easily cutting through the clamour of the hall, the clanking of their glasses and the screeches of their chair legs echoing around its high ceilings.
Magdalen and Christ Church, with their ‘small-chinned pampered princes’, were not well liked in this company, so a victory over them was even sweeter. This cohort of Merton loyalists would enjoy the moment, before they were, in all likelihood, bumped themselves tomorrow.
William Collins sat at one end of the long, dark wooden table, eating his meal and trying hard to avoid the attention of the others. This was his third term at Oxford, and it continued much like the previous two: eight weeks of intense study, working late into the night, his cheap tallow candles making his eyes water with smoke.
‘You finishing that,Scholar?’ came a rough voice from close behind his head.
Henry Russell, still smelling of river water and sweat, was not much taller than William but held himself with all theconfidence of an Eton boy. Add to that the bulk of a powerful rower (he was a natural in seat five), a meagre intellect and a history of boorish behaviour – which, in a poorer boy, would have landed him in front of the magistrate, but which, with his family connections, had always been dealt with quietly – and you would find a young brute who would inherit Wiltshire before he had finished growing.
He was the same age as William, but seemed older than his sixteen years, partly because of his aforementioned confidence, and partly because he had the facial hair of a much older man, stubble arriving daily and thickly. Unchecked, he would resemble Captain Blackbeard – fitting for someone whose actions were not far from those of a pirate.
‘Er – yes?’ replied William, unsure of the answer least likely to cause a stir.
‘What do you need game pie for? Keep you strong for sitting inside reading the Bible? Or will you take some home to send back to your mother?’ Russell laughed at his own words, so often the preserve of people who cannot make others laugh. ‘Come on, Moonface – give it to me.’
Russell pulled the plate towards himself, and plucking William’s fork from his hand without compunction, he stabbed at the pie, shovelling what remained into his mouth while dropping crumbs onto William’s shoulder and into his hair. He met William’s eyes as he ate, which was intended to be threatening but was also rather disgusting. William could hardly look away from the meat globules catching around the whiskers on his top lip. William said nothing, but looked over Russell’s shoulder, seeing most of his peers watching the scene and grinning.
William Collins was known around the college as an odd fellow and an easy target. He had arrived at Merton with little luggage, no reputation and no established friendships – unlike most boys there, who knew each other from one school or another. Apartfrom his academic dress, he had brought mostly black clothing, as befitted his intended profession. But this was a practical choice also, because stains and dirt would not show as easily on black, and he could not afford to often change his clothes.
It was quickly learnt that he was there on a scholarship, which only added to his isolation, and his habits of reading indoors, alone, became a self-fulfilling prophecy. He had grown pale and thin; as the dining hall became a place of danger to him, his appetite had waned.ScholarandMoonfacewere not as offensive as some names he had been called in his life – being, respectively, factual and descriptive – but the name-calling signified to him the same thing it always had: that he was strange to them and not wanted.
He was a brilliant student. His memory for whole passages of the classics or philosophical texts or the scripture was a marvel. His Latin took some work – he had not the early training in it that most of these boys had – but he learnt it well enough and quickly.
At first, he had struggled to speak up in tutorials, afraid of nasty comments or being shouted down by a peer or a tutor (he had not been raised to think his voice worth hearing). But as time went on, and he saw that one of the tutors actually wanted to listen to him, he began to speak more. At first, he would tremble as he spoke, but as months went on, he trained himself to keep his voice steady. He achieved this most often by not stopping; a pause gave him too much time to overthink, which led to further hesitation. Better to plough on, he discovered, and he became more adept at speaking in front of people, though not so adept at speakingtopeople. He had made few friends during his months of study, but in tutorials, asked to monologue on a particular subject, citing references and proffering opinions, he was in his element.
He watched Russell chomping his venison and glowering at him. A shiver ran through his shoulders, and he hoped that Russell would not see it. He could think of nothing to say, and feared whatever he did say would earn him another beating.
But he knew he must speak, to save himself.
‘Of course you must have it,’ said William obsequiously. ‘You need it much more than I, having achieved so much for the college today. I imagine you made the Magdalen boys feel very small, and I think there is a good chance you’ll do the same tomorrow. I wish that I had the vigour for rowing, but alas, it is the reserve of gentlemen like yourself. Have my wine; I’m not drinking it.’
Russell, nonplussed, looked him up and down. He went to say something but, having been beaten to the line on every point, uttered lamely, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He grabbed William’s drink and downed it, unnecessarily, and returned to his company.
William, looking at his plate and fixing an odd smile on his face to deflect any further attentions, waited ten minutes for the moment to fully pass. When he felt sure the waters were quiet, he stood and walked the long way out of the hall and back to his room.
He lit just two candles, sat and opened his Bible, finding a part that comforted him lately.
‘And he said unto me, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”’
28th July 1812
Dear Charlotte,
I write to you from Longbourn, for I am brought home from the Peaks earlier than anticipated due to some very bad news, which I will tell you of now.
You will remember Mr Wickham from his time in Hertfordshire with the militia. You did not care for him, I think. I, who fell for his tales so easily, should have listened to you.
He is a liar, Charlotte, and a villain. I knew some of this even when I was with you in Kent – I wish I had confided in you, but so much was happening during that time.
I am writing this all in a muddle – forgive me; there is much to relate.
