Page 70 of A November to Remember

The colonel swallowed a bite of whatever he was chewing and picked up the pastry box, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You had best tell her the draughts here are excellent. The pastries are even better. Do you want a lemon tart, Collins? You look a bit unravelled.”

“A tart?” Mr Collins stared at the pastry box in the colonel’s hands as if it contained the keys to the kingdom of heaven. “Offered by the hand of Lady Catherine’s own nephew? I could not possibly. I am unworthy of the citrus. Or, indeed, the very air you breathe.”

“Suit yourself.” The colonel popped a tart into his mouth, brushing his fingertips together nonchalantly over the open box. Mr Bennet suspected the colonel had never known a moment’s doubt in his life, so why start now? “More for me. And for Miss Mary, of course.” He held the box out to Mary, who took a tart with a pleased smile, fluttering her lashes, which made her mother gasp and clutch her bosom.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Mary said, her voice sweet and sincere.

The viscount stepped forward, positioning himself directly in Mr Collins’s eyeline—which required bending, as the clergyman was still half-crouched in residual genuflection.

“Tell me, Mr Collins.” The viscount’s smile was warm, welcoming, and lethal. “How is my dear aunt? Still dictating the exact dimensions of the village hedgerows? I have always admired her commitment to pruning. And to other people’s business.”

“Her ladyship is the very picture of health and benevolence!” Mr Collins clutched his hands to his chest, bouncing on his feet. “Only last week, she advised me on the proper placement of a weather vane on my humble parsonage! She insisted it face precisely east, regardless of the wind!”

“Remarkable woman.” Keathley’s gaze did not waver. “She bends the very elements to her will. And, I suspect, a great many people as well. Including, on occasion, myself.”

Mr Collins nodded furiously, his head keeping time to some internal rhythm set to allegro.

“She has opinions on every subject!” he added, bouncing higher. “Chimneys, gravel, the migratory patterns of geese—”

“Does she?” The viscount glanced over Collins’s head. The colonel had turned away, his shoulders shaking. Darcy had closed his eyes. “And does she still insist that the moon is too bright in July? She raised the matter at dinner once, and I have never quite recovered.”

“The moon!” Mr Collins gasped. “I did not know her ladyship had views on celestial bodies, but it does not surprise me! Nothing is beneath her notice! Nothing is beyond her reach!”

“On that,” Keathley said, his gaze drifting back to Mr Collins, “we are in agreement.”

And then Mr Collins straightened, and turned his worshipful eyes on Mr Darcy.

Mr Darcy stood behind his armchair, his hands gripping the back tightly. He was a man clinging to a cliff by his fingertips, staring at the clergyman with horror.

“Mr Darcy.” Mr Collins took a reverent step forward, his voice trembling with emotion. “The resemblance is uncanny. You possess her ladyship’s exact chin. The noble, commanding chin of the de Bourghs! A chin that could cut glass and a man’s spirit. Or, indeed, a stubborn piece of bread.”

“My aunt was born a Fitzwilliam,” Mr Darcy ground out, his baritone dangerously low. “And my chin, sir, belongs to my father.”

“Of course! Of course!” Mr Collins recanted instantly, waving his hands. “A magnificent chin from both lineages! A chin of supreme consequence! A chin that could launch a thousand ships! Or sink them. Depending on the angle of the light.”

Elizabeth leaned towards Charlotte. “He has been here ten minutes and he has already composed an ode to Mr Darcy’s face.”

“I wonder about Lady Catherine’s weather vane.”

“Do not. It is perpetually facing east, like a misdirected compass. Stability is essential, Charlotte.”

Before Mr Collins could conduct further appraisals of bone structures, Mrs Bennet struck. She grabbed Mr Collins firmly by the sleeve, halting his approach to the master of Pemberley.

“Mr Collins!” She beamed, dragging the bewildered clergyman backwards with shocking strength. “You must be exhausted from your journey. You must sit. Here. Right here.”

Elizabeth stepped away from the sofa as her mother approached with Mr Collins.

Mr Collins had half a second to bow to Charlotte, who curtsied in return. Mrs Bennet shoved him unceremoniously down, where he landed on the cushion next to Charlotte with a soft oof, startled and a little scared.

Charlotte smoothed her skirts and sat back down in her place, regarding Mrs Bennet with horrified betrayal.

“Miss Lucas is our dearest neighbour,” Mrs Bennet announced, pitching her voice loud enough to rival a town crier announcing the end of the world. “And she was only just telling me, not five minutes ago, how desperately she wishes to understand the finer points of agricultural management. Particularly in Kent.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to deny this outrageous fabrication, her expression one of quiet dignity and barely suppressed panic.

Mrs Bennet placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, a squeezing, bruising, silent force that spoke volumes. “She is fascinated by poultry, Mr Collins. Fascinated! She lies awake at night pondering the winter housing of Dorking hens. As a man of the cloth, with a parsonage of your own, you must enlighten her. Now. Discuss.”

Mr Collins blinked at the shiny object dangling in front of him, his attention diverted from the nephews. He examined Charlotte’s sensible brown gown, her very polite, very trapped smile, and then the pastry box, which the colonel was once more holding out to him with the patience of a saint.