Chapter 11 Mr. Collins
MR. COLLINS
Jane stepped down from the coach. Mamma embraced her, then scolded her for not searching the Netherfield gardens for another bee to sting her.
Papa was outside the front door. I squeezed his outstretched hands. “Papa.” Never had Longbourn felt like such a haven.
“This cannot be a daughter addressing me,” he said with profound puzzlement, “for I heard no request for a new dress, nor any story of whose hat blew into the street to be fetched by an officer.”
“Surely it has not been so bad!”
“Lizzy, you must not speak sense to me, for I have quite lost my capacity. If you continue, I shall reel about like a spinster after a glass of wine.”
There was an obsequious cough. I turned to an unfamiliar man in a clergyman’s black suit and white collar.
“This will steady me,” my father added sotto voce, before raising his voice. “Mr. Collins, may I introduce my second daughter, Elizabeth. Mr. Collins is my cousin, whom I did not have the joy of meeting until today. He will visit with us this week.”
“Mr. Collins,” I said, curtsying. Then I recalled why the name was familiar. Due to the entailment, Mr. Collins would inherit Longbourn when our draca left and we lost our status as bound gentry.
It was strange to meet the person my mother had vilified so many times over dinner.
Mr. Collins was a rounded man, with a rounded, perspiring pate even though the day was not warm.
I thought his age mid-twenties, although his brown hair was already wispy.
In his favor, he was at least a fair height.
Abruptly, he lurched forward, and I found my hand grasped in sweaty fingers. His height reduced precipitously, as he had been standing on the front step.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said with such pompous ceremony that I prepared a laugh before realizing he was quite serious.
Mamma escorted Jane past us without even introducing her, which was very improper, not to mention unfair. I stood, my fingers trapped, listening with growing bewilderment while Mr. Collins began chronicling the Bennet family’s history of binding.
At last, Mr. Collins’s eyes lifted rhapsodically to praise one Lady Catherine de Bourgh. When it was clear his gaze was locked skyward—perhaps her ladyship resided on a local cloud?—I mouthed “Papa!” to my father, requesting an escape.
My father had observed silently, stroking his chin. Now, he asked if Jane and I had broken our fast. We had not, so, with effusive apologies and much bowing, Mr. Collins ushered me into my own home.
Mary caught my eye while we sat down to breakfast, and she bent her head to whisper.
“Lizzy, be warned. Mr. Collins is—”
She was interrupted by Mamma calling from the end of the table. “Jane! Lizzy! Have you heard of the draca death?”
“I was there, Mamma,” I said, recalling yesterday’s frightening episode with the roseworm.
“No! Another, last night. And there were spies!”
Jane and I looked at each other in shock. After no draca deaths in my lifetime, there had been three in two days. Charlotte’s mention of a plague seemed prescient and worrying.
“What do you mean, spies?” I asked.
Kitty answered with great excitement. “Napoleon has sent spies to steal draca! Two were killed last night, trying to take the Linfield family’s draca.” Her face fell. “Oh, but the creature was killed also. It is very sad, and I feel so sorry for all of them.”
I had met the Linfields once. They lived on the other side of Hertfordshire, ten miles from Longbourn.
There was no further news of draca, but Jane revealed that Mr. Bingley planned a ball at Netherfield, which delighted the ladies.
Then Mr. Collins spoke.
I learned that Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the patroness for his living and rectory, and that she lived not in the sky but in an astonishing manor that was extravagantly burnished with gold while being perfectly tasteful, and that she was the paragon of behavior for a person of exalted rank, showing gracious affability while demanding the utmost in decorum from her inferiors, of which there were many.
After breakfast, I suggested a walk to Meryton for news of the draca deaths. Kitty and Lydia agreed, but Jane was not yet fit for a long walk, and Mary had vanished to practice her music. I suspected she avoided Mr. Collins.
I had no such luck, and our departure required an elaborate leave-taking. Mr. Collins explained in intense detail that, although he walked extensively for his constitution, he did not walk so soon after breakfast.
In Meryton, the talk was all of the draca deaths. I learned that the apothecary, Mr. Jones, had attended the Linfield family after their tragedy. I left Kitty and Lydia, and hurried to his shop.
“A dreadful business, Miss Bennet,” he said, after confirming that Jane’s recovery was progressing well.
“Were they spies?” That seemed farfetched.
“Two men were found, dead. I examined them, as did the constable. Whether they were spies, I cannot say. Nobody knew them, although it was hard to judge in their condition. They had encountered the Linfields’ worm, and one was burned savagely and killed outright, and the other seriously burned on his legs. ”
“But he was not killed?”
“The second man was shot. My professional opinion was a pistol to the head, and very close. The constable speculated there was a third conspirator, who killed his wounded friend because he would have slowed escape.”
“How horrible. And the Linfield draca dead, as well. Was there…” This would sound strange, but I asked anyway. “Did you detect an odor? Like sour orange and bitter almond?”
“From the dead draca, you mean? No, nothing like that. It was shot. A good marksman, or lucky, for it was pierced through the eye.”
I thanked him and wandered to find Kitty and Lydia. At least this draca death was not part of a plague. But Napoleon sending spies into Hertfordshire was incredible. We were north of London, far from any sensible port for a French spy.
I spotted the red-and-gold-piping of uniforms and went in pursuit, rewarded by finding Lydia and Kitty with Denny and several friends, one of whom was Mr. Wickham. Lydia surrendered him with a glare.
He winced as he reached for my offered arm. Instead, he stepped around me to take the other.
“I burned myself on a kettle,” he explained with a rueful smile. “But injuries from tea are very respectable and English. Or so my fellow officers explained when they discovered the truth, to their loud amusement.” I laughed, for he was wry, and handsome in his modesty.
The mysterious draca deaths soon became a topic.
“Do you think they were Napoleon’s spies?” I asked.
“Bonaparte has offered tremendous sums to any man who delivers a living, bound draca. The French have none, and they fear the English will succeed in using them for war.”
“But what use is a lone draca? Especially one that has been bound.”
“You are right. Bonaparte is a fool. He seeks a bound animal because feral draca are no more than dangerous vermin. But a bound draca is also useless, as it will fight to return to its master.”
“You are well informed on draca.”
“As a child, I was a great friend to the Pemberley gamekeeper, who was as knowledgeable of draca as any man.”
“Pemberley!” I exclaimed.
He crooked a half-smile. “I gather you recognize Mr. Darcy’s estate.
I grew up at Pemberley. My father was steward to Mr. Darcy’s father.
Darcy and I were like brothers.” My shock must have been visible, for he added, “You must be surprised after our cold meeting yesterday. Do you know Mr. Darcy well?”
“As well as I ever wish to,” I said, a little heatedly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, which was more than enough.”
“I had thought Darcy a friend, but I discovered otherwise after the death of his father. The late Mr. Darcy bequeathed to me a generous living as administrator of the primitive Britons who scrape out an existence in the Pemberley hills. But when the affairs were settled, Darcy gave the position to another.”
“Good heavens! He should be disgraced!”
“Wealth is powerful insulation against disgrace. I chose to make my own way in life. It was Darcy’s betrayal that set me on my path to the militia, and so, to walk with you today. I should thank him.” He bowed, and I tried not to color.
We strolled while I inserted this piece of despicable news into my mental puzzle of Mr. Darcy. For all that I disliked him, disregarding a father’s bequest seemed out of character. But with some bending and prying, I shoved the defect into place.
Mr. Wickham was also pensive. “It is ironic that three draca are lost when Bonaparte would pay so handsomely for one. A superior breed, such as your firedrake, is very desirable. I hazard you have the most valuable creature in Hertfordshire. Rumor says Bonaparte would pay fifty thousand pounds for a drake.”
“Goodness!” That sum would vault a family into wealth. But I was sure no gentry would part with their bound draca, and especially not to assist the French. “Perhaps the militia should set guards.”
“I have proposed it, but the military is slow to act. So, we must all be on our guard. I have done a little on my own, when idle. Patrolling for miscreants.” He gestured with self-mocking humor but winced when he flexed his burned arm.
And I had a ridiculous, but entertaining, thought—Lieutenant Wickham on secret patrol, thwarting a pair of French spies. Or three, or however many there were.