Chapter 3
Thomas Bennet stood among the small group of mourners in the cemetery of St Mary’s Church as the body of Mrs Anne Collins was committed to the ground, sharing a coffin with her stillborn daughter.
Opposite stood the stiff and emotionless figure of Reverend Matthew Collins, husband of the deceased, and also Vicar of St Mary’s, although he was not presiding.
The other attendees were relatives on Mrs Collins’s side. Thomas did not know any of them.
At the vicarage, servants wore mourning: black gloves, caps and ribbons. In the nursery upstairs, Thomas was introduced to the Collins’s one-year-old son William.
‘Poor mite,’ the nanny said.
Thomas nodded. ‘He will never have memories of his mother.’
He left the nanny to amuse the child, and sought an opportunity to offer his condolences to the father, who listened impatiently.
‘Yes, yes.’ Matthew Collins cut him short. ‘I suppose I should thank you for attending. I expected, naturally, that your father might make the effort.’
‘Unfortunately he has been ill,’ Thomas said. ‘Feverish, with a persistent cough. The physician said …’
‘Merely a cold, I imagine.’ Collins sniffed. ‘The truth is that John is idle, and always has been. The opposite of my excellent mother.’
‘Yet they were close,’ Thomas said. ‘Aunt Sarah loved him, I am sure, for she wrote regularly, and at length.’
‘You will pardon me if I rest on my opinion. A son, I imagine, understands his own mother.’
‘Of course.’ Thomas studied his cousin, sensing the tension in the long face and stiff posture. Matthew in his mid-thirties was left a widower with a baby son. If only the man could let go and show genuine sadness and loss. But then, everyone grieved in their own way.
‘My mother was a dutiful wife and a hard worker in the parish,’ Collins continued. ‘You realise, I hope, that on our side of the family we have not enjoyed the benefits of an estate like Longbourn.’
Thomas remained impassive, but inwardly he recoiled.
He wondered whether Collins had appreciated the women in his life.
Sarah Collins, née Bennet, had been gentle, humorous, too easily influenced.
Perhaps the wife just buried had endured similar mistreatment.
Had the Collinses—Matthew, and his father too—hoped that Sarah’s brother John would produce no heir?
Collins frowned. ‘Have you nothing to say?’
Thomas sighed. It hardly seemed the moment to talk of Longbourn. ‘Only that I am sorry for your loss, and wish you fortune in bringing up your little boy.’
‘Luck has nothing to do with it. I intend the best for William, spiritually and practically. He will learn to worship God, respect rank, and better his position in society. And if my prayers are answered …’ He met Thomas’s eye. ‘One day he will attain a status commensurate with his worth.’
Finding the vicarage oppressive, Thomas had no wish to prolong his visit to Westerham. He introduced himself to Mrs Collins’s family, then rode to London, where he stayed with a friend from university before leaving next morning for Longbourn.
The estate had been bought by Thomas’s grandfather who had managed it well, aided by his wife’s good taste.
The marriage had produced two children: Thomas’s father John, and Sarah, who had endured 25 years of marriage to Reverend Henry Collins until, browbeaten and sickly, she found refuge in Longbourn during her final years.
By then John too had been widowed, so brother and sister lived alone except when Thomas was on vacation from a boarding school at St Albans.
Reaching the house, Thomas found his father much recovered, and described his visit over a decanter of sherry.
‘Poor woman.’ John Bennet frowned. ‘What did you make of Matthew?’
‘A cold fish. Ambitious for his son.’
‘I suppose boys take after their fathers. If only Matthew had Sarah’s kindness and good humour.’
Thomas smiled. ‘Do I take after you?’
John Bennet looked away, reflecting. ‘Like you I used to read widely, and had little interest in gambling, hunting, drinking, womanising, or similar diversions. But responsibility caught up with me sooner. My father died when I was 22 years old.’ He regarded Thomas seriously.
‘Which is why I wish you had taken advantage of the freedom I never had. Travelled in Europe. Or learned to master an art or science. You are intelligent, good-natured, admirable in many ways. But you dabble. Your projects last a few weeks; then you get bored and switch to something else.’
Thomas fell silent, pondering this characterisation.
His greatest fulfilment had come at Oxford University.
Three years had passed in reading, walking by the river, animated discussions, intense friendships.
Then it was over. His cohort graduated, and he was back in the cultural backwater of Meryton.
He looked up at his father. ‘Do you think there is still time for me to see Europe?’
‘You would go alone?’
‘University friends might be interested.’
John Bennet nodded slowly. ‘I’m ambivalent, Thomas.
Yes, I could sell enough annuities to fund a short tour.
But our income comes mostly from the estate—on which Matthew Collins has evident designs.
You need to marry and produce an heir. I hope God grants me a few years yet.
But I am getting on, and would be comforted to live in a house enlivened by grandchildren. ’
‘I’d have no objection to marriage …’ Thomas sighed. ‘To the right woman.’
John Bennet raised his eyebrows. ‘Beautiful? Rich?’
‘Someone with intelligence. Taste. Conversation.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’
Thomas recalled young ladies he had admired, usually sisters of his university friends. Once or twice he had enjoyed humorous flirtations. But he had never known love.