Page 69 of A November to Remember

“Provincial.” Mrs Bennet’s smile could have stripped wallpaper.

Mr Collins did not notice. He pivoted towards the Bennet sisters, his expression softening into one of devoted reverence.

“And the beauty of my fair cousins.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I had heard much, but I find the report has fallen shockingly short. Though I beg leave to observe that such beauty is no more than I had expected! For my esteemed patroness, the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has frequently remarked that the distaff branches of a family often flower where the entailed line merely leafs. A most felicitous arrangement, if I may say so.”

Elizabeth frowned over the sentence, finding no compliment at either end. Mr Bennet saw her glance at Charlotte, who was shaking her head.

“Did he just compare your father to foliage?” Charlotte’s voice was barely audible.

“We are the flowers,” Elizabeth replied flatly. “He is the leaf. It is a botany of condescension.”

“You are very welcome, sir. I am sure.” Mrs Bennet’s smile had not moved at all; it was fixed, ceramic, and dangerous. “You find us a family of daughters, Mr Collins, as you see. Five girls. Though I should say at once—for I am a plain speaker, sir, everyone says so—that a house of daughters is not the same as a house of available daughters, if you take my meaning.”

“Mamma.” Elizabeth closed her eyes.

“Well, it is the truth!” Mrs Bennet waved a hand. “Some daughters are very much spoken for, even if the speaking is currently happening over an embroidery hoop. Or a sandwich. Or a newspaper.”

Jane blushed a becoming shade of pink. Bingley found his nails fascinating. The colonel, who had been watching the exchange with avid interest, cleared his throat twice. Mary stared fixedly at the middle distance, her cheeks burning. Darcy stood even straighter, if that was possible.

Mr Bennet abandoned his place in front of the armchair, correctly deducing the immediate need for a diversion before his wife married off three daughters by decree. “Mr Collins. Allow me to present my family.”

He moved down the line at a leisurely pace, fully prepared to unleash havoc and determined to savour every moment of it. Jane received a profound bow. Elizabeth received a less profound bow—though Mr Collins’s eye lingered on her in a way that made Darcy lift an eyebrow. Mary opened her mouth—Mr Bennet suspected a quotation from Dr Fordyce had been gathering pressure—but Mr Collins was already bowing to Kitty and Lydia, who were strangling giggles behind their hands.

“And this is our dear friend and neighbour, Miss Charlotte Lucas.” Mr Bennet gestured to Charlotte.

Charlotte inclined her head politely.

Mr Collins offered her a brief, dismissive nod, unimpressed by the lack of Bennet blood. “A pleasure, I am sure. Though I must say, the society in Hertfordshire seems rather... crowded. I am accustomed to the vast, echoing halls of Rosings Park, where one might walk for whole minutes without encountering another soul.”

“How fortunate for the other souls,” Charlotte muttered.

A muffled snort came from one of the waistcoats.

Mr Bennet turned to the fireplace, the glint of mischief in his eye sharpening to a blade. “And finally, Mr Collins. Allow me to introduce our guests. Gentlemen who have graced us with their presence from London.”

Mr Collins puffed out his chest, preparing to bestow his magnanimity on the city folk.

“Mr Charles Bingley, master of Netherfield Park.”

Mr Collins bowed deeply. “An honour, sir. I assume it is a fine estate, though naturally lacking the grandeur of Rosings.”

Bingley leaned his head to the left, but instead of speaking he reached for a sandwich, ignoring the colonel’s glare.

“And Mr Bingley’s guests.” Mr Bennet gestured to the three tall men who were waiting for their turn politely. “Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. And Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

The names struck Mr Collins squarely in the stomach. He blinked, his face going slack, his mouth opening and closing. His eyes darted from the viscount’s immaculate cravat to the colonel’s towering frame, and finally to Mr Darcy’s stony expression, which was rapidly turning to one of horror.

“Fitzwilliam,” Mr Collins squeaked. “Darcy? Nephews... nephews of... of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“The very same,” the viscount said. “We travel in a pack. It confuses the locals. And the livestock. And, occasionally, ourselves.”

Mr Collins’s knees gave way.

He did not fall, but he folded into a bow so deep that Mr Bennet feared he might snap in half and require the services of Mr Jones. He stayed folded at the waist, addressing the floor with the fervour of a man who had discovered God in the carpet.

“My lord! Colonel! Mr Darcy!” Mr Collins babbled to the floorboards, his words emerging in a rush of reverence and terror. “I am... I am undone! To find the esteemed nephews of my illustrious patroness in this humble, insignificant dwelling! It is a miracle! It is divine providence! I must write to her ladyship immediately! She will be astounded! She will ask about the draughts!”

He half-straightened up, his face flushed a mottled purple, panting from the physical exertion of sustained sycophancy. He was winded, perspiring, and he was, Mr Bennet noted, the happiest man in England.