Chapter 3
“Clergymen ought to make a sensible match. They should consider hard work and a frugal disposition first. Good looks are rather a liability in a clergyman’s wife although, of course, if those good looks come from an old and well-established family, the match may be permitted.”
-Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Lady Catherine summoned me directly after breakfast and asked what my plans were for solving the mystery.
I had no idea about her acrostic necklace, or where even to begin with it, but at least I knew what the scene of the crime was in regards to Wilberforce and Julia.
“I have already begun,” I said with dignity. “I would like, with your permission, to examine the pigsty.”
“Anything,” Lady Catherine said commandingly. “I give you full permission to go anywhere on these grounds to solve the mystery.”
Accordingly, I walked down through the gardens of Rosings to the pigsty, feeling ridiculous as I did so, but remembering thankfully that as a clergyman’s wife I might be expected to be on an errand of mercy or otherwise doing parish work.
I hadn’t told my husband about the dual crimes.
I was afraid his partiality for his patroness would cause him to have an unbearably zealous approach to the mystery.
Not to mention he was not particularly subtle.
I was afraid he would be rather a liability when I was questioning suspects and in general in the investigation.
The grounds of Rosings were extensive and it took me several minutes to make my way to the pig pens.
The prize-winning animals were cared for by Abel, Sam, and various small boys who collected around the stableyards.
Sam, young and brawny, was of the opinion that ghosts or other supernatural entities had been involved with the disappearance, while Abel, a grizzled septuagenarian, argued for a crime of passion.
I made sympathetic noises and gave assurance that I did not blame either one of them in the slightest. What had happened had clearly been something extraordinary.
“When did you last see Wilberforce?” I asked. “Or Julia.”
“That’s the odd thing, ma’am,” said Abel, shaking his head and stroking his long salt and pepper beard. “I had just seen him that very morning, and I could have sworn that the champion was in no mood for frisks and jollifications.”
I too was acquainted with Wilberforce’s typical behavior, and I had never thought of him as the type of pig who would leg it as soon as he had an opening.
“You would think,” Sam put in, elbowing aside his elder, “that, if someone had stolen him, it would have taken place at midnight. Or some other witching hour. But it was someone who knew that we often go to the village for a pint at that time.”
“Was Lady Catherine very angry?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh no,” said Abel thankfully. “She says a pint around that time is beneficial to the liver.”
I felt like I could use a pint myself but did not say so.
“What have you done to find Wilberforce and Julia?” I asked.
“Combed the blasted—er, bloody---, er, countryside, ma’am!” said Sam. “Not a trace of them.”
“Did you know Miss Anne has two suitors here for Christmas?” I asked.
They both nodded. “Her is a sweet little thing,” Abel offered. “Would love to fatten her up, though.”
“Have you seen either of those two gentlemen out here?” I asked, trying not to show my anxiousness at the question.
They looked at each other. “The beanpole one, yes,” said Abel. “I’ve seen him a few times hanging about here, asking a lot of silly questions.”
“Rather disrespectful, too,” Sam put in. “Even had the cheek to say Wilberforce should lose weight!”
Abel tutted in agreement, but clouted Sam across the head in an educational manner. “The ways of the Quality are not ours to understand,” he chided the younger man.
I chewed my lip thoughtfully. What in the world would Sir Francis want with a visit to the pig sty? He did not strike me as the type of man who had much interest in local farming.
I turned to go, and as I did, I saw a pair of bright eyes duck back into the nearby barn. A shy child, no doubt.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I have to go meet my husband now, but you have been very helpful.”
“Ah, Mr. Collins?” Abel asked.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling a brief flash of embarrassment. I was afraid I would be able to see a dislike of my husband in their eyes, which always made me feel shy and awkward. But they surprised me.
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Sam said.
“Rather a chatty young fellow,” said the equally garrulous Abel. “But he’s not too bad, ma’am. I like to see one of the Quality out in the garden instead of sitting inside playing cards.”
“One time our cow Daisy had broken out of her enclosure,” Sam put in. “And he charged across the field, lecturing her like he was at a Sunday sermon, and she turned right around and came right back home without further fuss.”
I couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t hear praise of my husband very often, and it touched me to hear it from Abel and Sam. William was often the first one to wade in with any domestic or rural trouble.
I made my way home, thinking about what they had said. Was Sir Francis the sort of man who would think letting two prize-winning pigs go was hugely amusing? I thought perhaps he was. I didn’t know much about young men, especially ones from London, but I knew he had a very juvenile sense of humor.
I also thought about what Abel and Sam had said about my husband.
I thought that since I been married a year I was used to the looks on people’s faces when they were around Mr. Collins.
He was too big and clumsy, his big body often barely fitting in sitting rooms and delicate couches, and everything else about him was clumsy, too.
His praise of Lady Catherine went way beyond effusive, and landed somewhere into gratingly subservient.
Many people assumed he must be insincere in his praise, that he was just doing it to improve his standing with his patroness, and how could I tell them the truth?
That after how he had been raised he was truly, deeply, heart-swellingly grateful for Lady Catherine giving him the Hunsford living?
I couldn’t tell people that without sharing his cold, unfriendly childhood, so I said nothing, letting them think he was just an insincere flattering sycophant.
I tried to moderate him, to modulate his praise, but I didn’t want to press too hard.
William was so proud and happy with everything he had—his house, his gardens, his position, the fact that we had dinner at Rosings twice a week, the fact that a great lady came to our home to give us tips on how big the portions of our meat should be.
I didn’t want to discourage him from the joy he got in those things, especially since he had made such a plain, sensible choice in his wife.
How could I criticize Lady Catherine’s advice when I knew perfectly well that it had been her advice to be sensible and not shallowly concerned with looks that had made him choose me?
I felt very lucky to have such a comfortable home. My husband was good to me, even though he did not love me.
Even though it was December, I felt sweaty and warm after going down to where Wilberforce and Julia had been kept, and felt an unaccustomed irritation as I prepared for dinner at Rosings.
When we arrived, Anne beckoned me into her luxurious room. “Have you been able to find out who took Mama’s acrostic necklace?”
“Not yet,” I said, a bit surprised that Lady Catherine had told Anne.
“Do you think either Mr. Radcliffe or Sir Francis did it?” she asked, her big eyes dilating at me.
I hesitated for a moment. I couldn’t see Mr. Radcliffe letting a pig out of its pen, but the two crimes were not necessarily connected. Perhaps the necklace had been stolen and the pigs sprung free on the same morning merely by coincidence.
“I am not sure who did it yet,” I said.
She let out a low breath. “I was just hoping for a little help,” she said in a small voice.
“Help with what?” I asked curiously.
“Deciding between them,” she said, so quietly I barely heard her.
I knew she meant her suitors.
“Maybe the next few days will give you more insight,” I said kindly. “What are you doing now? Can I help you get ready for dinner?”
“I’m just about to take my health cordial,” she said with a sigh. “I hate it so, but grandmother insists on it.”
“What is in it?” I asked curiously, looking at the little vial, because the contents smelled atrocious.
“I don’t know,” Anne replied, wrinkling up her nose. “I just know Grandmama says it will improve my looks.”
I don’t know to this day if it was because I was irritated at Lady Catherine’s calm assumption that I should spend the day at the pigsties, but I said, “That doesn’t smell all that healthy, Miss Anne.
Sometimes these modern beauty treatments aren’t very healthy.
Why don’t you try going without for a few days and see how you feel? ”
I held out my hand for the tonic. She hesitated for a moment. But I held my hand out firmly, and her weaker will bent under my stronger one. She handed me the vial.
“Well, let’s go out to dinner,” I said. “Your dress is very fine tonight.”
She smiled at me. “You look very well, too, Mrs. Collins. Green suits you.”
I sniffed and said nothing. Compliments passed right over my head, because I didn’t believe any of them. I looked neat and suitable, and that was all.
*
I happened to be behind Anne as she walked in the room for dinner, and I observed three men’s faces as they saw her.
They all said what was right and proper, but I only saw one face light up quickly with a warm look, and that was Mr. Crawford the solicitor.
I heard Anne smooth a strand of her already-neat hair as she met his eyes, and suddenly I knew.
Anne didn’t want either Mr. Radcliffe or Sir Francis. She was in love with Mr. Crawford the solicitor.