Chapter 9
T o my amazement, that night I slept almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I dreamt of Jem. We were walking the streets of Oxford, where I had been so miserable, but in the dream it was bright morning and we were happy.
Some disturbance came from behind us—I had neglected to perform some important duty that I had not known was expected of me.
Someone furious was behind us, but whether it was my father, or Lady Catherine, or Jem’s brother Jack, or an angry bursar, I did not know.
Jem grabbed my arm and we ran, but we were not afraid.
We were laughing. We knew we should get away.
The streets vanished and we were transported as if by magic to Butler’s coppice, which in turn transformed into the place behind the raspberry bushes in my father’s garden.
Jem pulled me into a green and secret nook and we lay there panting, laughing, ferns dancing over our heads.
We were safe. He was warm and everything good and I pressed myself against him and my pleasure woke me in the dark of the best spare bedroom of Longbourn.
I mopped up with the handkerchief which I had placed beneath my pillow and lay down again.
I would rinse it tomorrow in the ewer and no one the wiser.
My body was limp and my mind so lucid that the darkness seemed as velvet, soft and friendly, and my way lay before me, bright as the beam of a candle.
Presently, Molly came in, made up the fire and poured hot water into the ewer.
She had barely closed the door when I sprang out of bed.
I splashed my face and hands, rinsed my handkerchief and laid it over the jug to dry, dressed and put on my shoes.
I crept downstairs. The front door was barred, but it was also locked.
I had not expected that and rattled the handle uselessly.
“Oh, sir, was you wishful to go out?”
Molly’s voice made me jump, even as I realised it was her.
“Yes,” I said. “I want a walk. By myself. Do you have the key?”
“No, sir. Mr Bennet keeps it.”
“I must get out.”
“Do you come the back way, sir.”
She led me down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen.
From inside came the thumping of dough. Mrs Hill must be making her breakfast rolls.
I did not want to speak to anyone, and had indeed lifted a hand to touch Molly’s arm to tell her so, when she ducked about a corner to the right and then immediately to the left.
Here was a narrow door, and a full chamber pot waiting like a cat that wishes to go out.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Molly said, covering the chamber pot with a duster.
“No, no, it is quite all right. Thank you, Molly. Er…I shall be back later.”
Outside it was barely light and very cold.
I turned my coat collar up and strode to Lucas Hall, icy clouds of breath parting in the air before me.
In my frenzy to be out of Longbourn and on my way, I had not considered that Lucas Hall would also still be closed up for the night.
But thus it was, with most of the rooms presenting blank curtain linings, very white.
I could hardly go banging on the door, for I did not want anyone to know of my presence beyond she who had brought me here.
I had certain questions to ask of her and certain demands to make.
How she answered would determine my next course of action.
I must, perforce, wait. It was too cold to stand still so I marched up and down the lane.
At any other time, I should have felt awkward and might have thought the better of my plan and walked back to Longbourn.
Today, with my dream of Jem buoying my determination, I strode with the confidence of a militia officer.
I turned smartly on my heel and did the same thing all over again, noting with interest that moving with such resolve was heightening my feelings of bravery.
I took out my little book and made a note of this discovery for occasions that required courage in the future, such as dinner parties at Rosings or meetings with the bishop.
I had marched up and down exactly seven times when I spied a curtain twitching in an upstairs room. The pale face of Miss Lucas appeared for a moment. She lifted her hand in recognition and motioned to me that she would come down. The curtain closed again.
I continued my marching, and had completed the journey past Lucas Hall and back twelve times when I turned to find Miss Lucas approaching me, clad in a blue pelisse and a yellow bonnet.
“Good morning, Miss Lucas.” I doffed my hat and bowed.
“Mr Collins.” She curtseyed. She looked tired and paler than usual and I guessed sleep had eluded her.
“I have considered everything you said yestereve,” I said, then realised this was not strictly true because I had fallen asleep and had therefore not given her offer nearly as much thought as I would have expected. “Or, most of what you said.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I have some questions, if you will permit them?”
“Of course, sir. I should be glad to answer.”
“Good. Firstly, do you sing much? As you go about the house?”
She looked startled, but said, “I don’t, I suppose. I could sing if you wished it.”
“No, no. I ask because I cannot abide it. It is very distracting to me, singing.”
“Then there is no problem, sir, for generally I sing only in church, or sometimes in the evenings if father asks for a song.”
“What about the pianoforte? Do you play?”
“I can play a little and would soon improve with practice.”
“No, no. There is no piano at the rectory and I do not wish for one. I find music very disturbing. As with singing, it is so difficult to ignore, and in my own house I want peace, not racket.”
“Then I shall continue without singing overmuch, sir, and will happily allow my piano practice to lapse.”
“We have spoken much of plants and seeds. But I wish to make it clear that the garden at Hunsford is my domain. I do not want you bothering the men, nor giving them instructions which may conflict with mine.”
“I understand, sir, and should be glad to leave that to you.”
“Good. What else? Ah, yes, this is important: Lady Catherine is my esteemed patroness and must be treated as such. No word of criticism will pass your lips. Not even in private. And you will pay her every courtesy that is due to her age and rank.”
“Yes, sir. I would in any case behave thus. But I give you my solemn promise.”
“And…and what you said about living more as brother and sister than husband and wife. You meant that?”
“I did, sir. If you wish it.”
“Yes, but will people not talk? If you do not have children?”
She shrugged. “It is not unknown for marriages to be without issue. Generally, people are sympathetic to such a plight.”
“But might it not cast doubt upon the marriage?”
“I do not think so, but if you wished you might tell people that I was in a particular situation, and then, a few weeks later, put it about that that was no longer the case. Such things happen, you know.”
“That is true.” I nodded. “Well, then. I…er...”
Deep down, perhaps, I had expected her to say that she could not be content unless she began every day with a merry sing-song, or that she must needs have a pianoforte or die, or that to instruct the men was her deepest desire.
But she had agreed with my every wish, and so calmly and with what seemed complete sincerity.
I found it harder to draw breath and, despite the chill air, sweaty heat prickled out beneath my arms and down my spine. My hands trembled. I recognised the signs well. I was about to embark on a course of action that involved some risk. I was about to ask her to marry me.
But what if she had only agreed to everything now to secure her position?
What if, once we were married, she made all kinds of demands upon my person and my patience, because I could hardly set her aside.
I had a brief, nightmarish vision of myself, cowering in my study as she ordered Jem about and turned George away as a useless old man, and replaced Milly with some smart London hoyden.
My imagination took me further and I saw myself curled upon the rug beneath my desk, hands over my ears in agony as she sang and played the piano for hours.
And visitors would adore it and compliment me on my wonderful musical wife and I should have to agree.
“Miss Lucas.”
“Mr Collins?”
“You say all these things now, but how can I know you will not have a change of heart? What if you have a sudden longing for a pianoforte? Or children?”
“Well, sir. Perhaps my best answer is to give you my demands, as you have given me yours.”
“Demands?” I echoed, becoming truly alarmed, for surely that was not part of the bargain? “Oh, but…but…”
“Come, Mr Collins,” she said briskly. “In business, both sides must state their case, must they not? Yes, I am in want of a husband, or, rather, I am in want of as pleasant and as secure a future as I can acquire and I consider this the best way to go about it. But I remind you, sir, that you are in want of a wife—and not just any wife as it turns out, but a very particular kind of wife that I do not think you would be able to find just anywhere. I can be the wife you want. I can do everything you have said, and willingly, but you must also extend some courtesies to me.”
I was afraid I had fallen into a trap and said nothing.
She said, in a gentler voice, “I think you will find that what I want is not so very difficult, sir. Indeed, I think my demands may align with your own wishes.”
“Well?” My voice quavered.
“I wish that I might have a room of my own besides my bedchamber. A morning room, perhaps, that you do not use overmuch, or a small parlour.”
“There is a parlour you might use,” I said. “But what would you do in there?”