Chapter 6 #4
“We shall travel, of course, in company with Mr. Darcy,” he said, with respectful curiosity. “May I ask—how exacting is he in his expectations? One hears various accounts.”
Mr. Bingley’s smile took on a new character: amused, affectionate, and faintly resigned. He leaned back, folding his arms with an air of indulgent recollection.
“You will hear it said,” he began, “that Darcy has no preferences at all—that nothing positively offends him, and that he is content wherever propriety is observed. It is true enough, as far as it goes; yet he is exceedingly difficult to persuade in many particulars. Convince him of a thing once, and he will never yield it again.”
Mr. Collins listened with the gravity of one receiving instruction, his expression one of attentive respect.
“His Achilles’ heel, however—if one may accuse him of such a weakness—is a dish so plain that no one would ever suspect it.”
Mr. Collins raised his brows, intrigued, his expression inviting the confidence with polite encouragement.
“Cold roast beef,” Mr. Bingley continued, lowering his voice still further, as though imparting a confidence of real consequence, “served with horseradish sauce. Aristocratic, yet sober; English to the marrow; neither ostentatious nor French, and decidedly not fashionable. It is eaten cold, which suits his temper exactly—nothing hurried, nothing indulgent. As for the horseradish, it demands a precision of hand that very few possess: rasped too coarsely it becomes violent, prepared too timidly it is insipid. Darcy will endure either without complaint—but he will never be satisfied.”
Mr. Collins could not suppress a faint smile of comprehension. “A discerning palate, then—though governed by principle.”
“Entirely,” Mr. Bingley agreed, with a chuckle.
“Only one person ever made it to his mind: the cook his mother kept at Pemberley. Mrs. Grant had learned the balance by heart—how long the beef must rest, when the root must be freshly grated, how the cream and vinegar must meet it at the very last moment. Lady Anne would never allow the method altered, and Darcy has never since found it replicated. He says nothing of it—but when the dish is set before him, you may observe whether it is done properly. He always knows.”
Mr. Bingley straightened again, his expression lightening with renewed cheer.
“It is a small thing, to be sure—but with Darcy, small things are often the most revealing.”
The clergyman considered this with thoughtful respect—his mind already forming quiet resolutions to ensure that any hospitality extended at Netherfield or Longbourn should reflect the care such discernment deserved.
“Then I shall take care,” he said gravely, “that nothing at Netherfield—should it become your concern—is hurried, careless, or ill-prepared. A gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s discernment deserves at least that degree of attention.”
Mr. Bingley laughed outright, clapping Mr. Collins lightly upon the shoulder in a gesture of spontaneous camaraderie.
“If you manage that, my friend, you will have secured his good opinion more firmly than half the houses in England.”
And with that, their conversation—having ranged from counties to kitchens, from principles to pot-roasts—settled into a comfortable understanding, each gentleman quietly pleased with the prospect of the journey before them.
***
Mr. Collins returned to the parsonage at Hunsford in the quiet satisfaction of duties well discharged and prospects brightly formed.
The late afternoon was mild, the glebe tranquil, and his mind agreeably occupied with the events at Rosings.
He seated himself at his desk with the intention of writing to his Cousin Mr. Bennet—a correspondence he now regarded as both a pleasure and a responsibility.
The letter, composed with his usual neatness and earnest care, ran thus:
Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent
17 September, 1811
My dear Cousin,
I trust this finds you, Mrs. Bennet, and my fair cousins in continued health and prosperity.
I have only this day returned from a most gratifying visit to Rosings, where Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s condescension and wisdom have, as ever, exceeded all expectation.
Her ladyship’s approbation of my humble efforts in the parish has been most generously expressed, and I am happy to inform you that she has undertaken to bear the chief expense of the poor-relief scheme I lately proposed—a mark of favor that overwhelms my gratitude.
But I write upon a matter of greater immediacy.
It has pleased her ladyship to charge me with the agreeable office of introducing two gentlemen of the first consequence to your neighborhood.
Mr. Charles Bingley—a most amiable and liberal young man of good fortune—is desirous of viewing Netherfield Park with a view to letting it.
His friend Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, a gentleman of even greater distinction, will accompany him.
Mr. Bingley, finding no estate in Kent to his taste, has been searching for alternatives, and I directed him toward Hertfordshire, having assured him that Netherfield offers every advantage: a handsome house, excellent grounds, and society of the most respectable kind.
We propose, therefore, to wait upon you at Longbourn in the course of the next few days—perhaps leaving Kent as early as the morning after tomorrow—if this should prove convenient.
Mr. Darcy will convey us in his carriage, and we shall be but three in number, promising, I trust, no undue inconvenience to your hospitable roof.
Please advice Mr. Morris of our arrival and potential tenant and Mr. Phillips to be ready to prepare the lawful documents
I cannot but reflect, with the warmest anticipations, upon the happiness such gentlemen may find in the society of Meryton and its environs.
Mr. Bingley’s open and cheerful disposition seems formed for domestic felicity, while Mr. Darcy’s discernment and elevated understanding must command the respect of all who value true worth.
I have observed in both a seriousness of mind that inclines me to hope they may discover, among the accomplished and amiable young ladies of our acquaintance, connexions worthy of their consideration.
Should Netherfield be taken, I predict many pleasant evenings of mutual improvement and rational entertainment.
In the meantime, I enclose—for your cook’s possible use—a receipt which I lately learned from Mr. Bingley himself, and which is said to be particularly esteemed by Mr. Darcy. It is for cold roast beef with horseradish sauce, prepared in the manner once perfected at Pemberley:
Take a fine sirloin or rib of beef, roast it rare and allow it to rest fully until quite cold. Slice it thinly against the grain.
For the sauce: Grate fresh horseradish root very finely—neither too coarse nor too timid.
To four ounces of the grated root add one tablespoon of good vinegar, a pinch of salt, and sufficient fresh cream to form a smooth sauce of moderate thickness.
The vinegar and cream must be combined at the last moment, lest the sauce separate. Serve immediately beside the beef.
Mr. Bingley assures me that the balance is everything, and that Mr. Darcy is a most exacting judge of its perfection. Ask, therefore, Mrs. Hill to try cooking it until perfection is achieved. There is not one of my customary jokes; this is of utmost importance.
As I know, my dear Cousin, how naturally the prospects of her daughters engage a mother’s thoughts, I think it only candid to add that both gentlemen are, at present, entirely free from matrimonial engagement; that they are of agreeable appearance, sound education, and impeccable manners; and that their situations in life render them not merely eligible, but—should mutual inclination arise—most advantageously so.
I state this not in the spirit of presumption, but from a sincere wish that you should be fully apprised of circumstances which, in a well-ordered family, are never regarded with indifference.
I remain, dear Cousin, with the sincerest respect and gratitude,
Your obliged and affectionate relative,
William Collins
Having sealed and directed the letter, Mr Collins sent his groom to deliver it to the nearest post office immediately.
Then, completely forgetting to eat his supper, he retired with the tranquil conscience of one who had fulfilled every duty—and perhaps advanced, in some small measure, the happiness of those most dear to him.