CHAPTER TWO
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, expecting it come into view at every turn.
The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side, and once more Mr. Darcy flitted unwanted through Lizzy’s thoughts for it was his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who resided at Rosings.
Wickham had had little in the way of compliments for her ladyship and daughter, who was said to be as good as betrothed to Mr. Darcy.
For a moment, Lizzy was struck with a premonition that she had not seen the last of that proud and disagreeable man, but Mr. Darcy was in London, and it would be too much the coincidence for him to visit Hunsford during her time.
At length they discerned the Parsonage, standing between green pales and laurel hedges.
Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house.
In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.
Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Lizzy was more and more satisfied with coming when she found herself so affectionately received.
She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family.
After pointing out the neatness of the entrance, Mr. Collins took them into the house.
As soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
Lizzy was prepared to see him in his glory, and she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in having refused his hand.
But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, Lizzy involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte.
Once or twice she could discern a faint blush, but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear.
After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself.
To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasure, and Lizzy admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.
Mr. Collins led the way through every walk and cross walk and scarcely allowed them an interval to utter the praises he asked for.
Every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind.
He could number the fields in every direction and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump.
But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings.
They could see the house, a handsome modern building well situated on rising ground, through an opening in the trees that bordered the park opposite the front of the Parsonage.
Lizzy learned that Mr. Collins’ patroness, Lady Catherine, was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed,
"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her.
She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over.
I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.
Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming.
We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home.
Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us.
I should say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several. "
"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbor."
"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written.
Afterwards, in the solitude of her chamber, Lizzy reflected upon Charlotte's degree of contentment and had to acknowledge she bore her husband very well. Lizzy climbed into bed with hopes for a deep and dreamless slumber, but her contrary and perverse mind would dwell on questions best left unasked. Though she had no desire to know the particulars of what Mr. and Mrs. Collins did behind closed doors, she could not help but wonder if matters of the bedchamber were as consonant with what she was able to observe? She wondered that any woman could be excited by Mr. Collins, but perhaps the wifely duty of submitting to a husband’s attentions was no more unbearable than the other chores one was expected to perform on a regular basis.
Lizzy could not help but be saddened by such a prospect.
If the corporal harmony between a man and wife should ever find easy allowance as a topic of discussion, her mother would doubtlessly dismiss with a snort the need to inquire into such a useless subject and Jane would dampen its importance beneath other qualities, such as the moral character of a husband or his level of affection for wife and family.
But Lizzy had not Jane’s virtues nor Charlotte’s practical nature.
Perhaps she was alone in the force of her corporal passions.
For herself, she could not reconcile to a marriage that did not fulfill in all the important qualities, including what must transpire in the bedchamber.
Her hand crept beneath the hem of her nightshift, and without thought, she grazed her fingers along the softness of her inner thigh.
With a sigh, she gave into the concupiscence that had taken a hold of her of late.
The first stirrings of desire had come upon her at a tender age, and she had on occasion allowed the passions to overcome her better judgment—twice with a rugged young footman named Francis and once with a barrister and friend of the Lucas family.
Both men, fortunately, had not stayed in Hertfordshire.
She dreaded that her indiscretions should somehow come to light, not for its impact upon her but the damage it would do to her family.
Thus, for the better part of recent years, she had suppressed these inauspicious cravings until coming across Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure a few months ago.
She had found the illicit edition at the home of Sir William on a night when the Lucases were hosting a dinner for a number of officers from the regiment stationed at Meryton.
Having a vague notion of the banned novel, she had at first been tempted to leave the book where it had fallen upon the ground in the corridor, but she could not leave it to be found by one of the Lucases’ younger children.
Inquiring among the guests to see who would claim ownership would have proved too awkward, so she had picked up the story of Fanny Hill.
Compelled by curiosity and a fondness for reading, she had taken the book into the nearest room, Sir William’s library.
Most of the party had gathered in the drawing-room for cards, and in the library, she was assured of solitude.
Beside a lone lamp, she opened the book with every expectation of reading no further than the first few pages to confirm the worthlessness of the work and justification for the prosecution of its author, John Cleland.
Instead, she found, much like Fanny Hill in her first licentious experience, that the obscenity intrigued more than disgusted her.
She flushed reading the passage of that first encounter between Fanny and Phoebe, and her own body responded in the most unsettling way with that warm aggravation in her loins and moistness between her legs.
“There you are!”
Startled, Lizzy dropped the book and hastily retrieved it to set it, face-down, upon the table beside her, regretting that she had not checked to see that the library doors had been tightly shut.
“I fear you must find the company of my regiment disappointing,” George Wickham remarked.
The sparkle in his eyes made her cognizant of the weakness of her sex, and she once more admired how dashing he appeared in his bright red coat and white trousers encasing his legs in a tight fit.
“Not at all! I am sorry to give that impression,” Lizzy replied. “I was merely replacing a book that I had found in the corridor.”
“Ah, that is some relief,” he said, advancing toward her. “There is talk of dancing. I think Sir William cannot long refuse your sisters.”
“For Lydia and Kitty, no party is complete without dancing.”
Wickham gave a gracious smile. “You are not opposed to the activity…I hope?”
Her breath caught. Did he have an interest in dancing with her? He had often shown a preference for her company, and she had accepted his attentions with much agreement.