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Chapter Text

Humility, in William Collins’s opinion, ought to have been classed as a capital virtue. Consequently, he took every opportunity to demonstrate his possession of this excellent quality, sparing no pains in his efforts to exhibit self-abasement and subservience. Moral superiority, to Mr Collins, consisted in no little part of bowing as low as one could, displaying fearful respect towards those of higher rank, and never neglecting to refer to one’s home as a humble abode.

Despite his servile manner towards his superiors and his liberal wielding of apologies, however, Mr Collins was, in truth, a rather prideful man. Having been blessed at a young age with a comfortable living and the prospect of a fine inheritance, and not being burdened with such a tendency towards reflection as might have led him to ponder the deservedness of his good fortune, he found it quite easy, in light of the respect he enjoyed due to his office and his newfound wealth, to think exceedingly well of himself. Furthermore, as he was neither particularly perceptive nor particularly imaginative, it had never occurred to him that others might not share his opinion.

His cousin Elizabeth’s refusal to marry him, therefore, had come as a rude shock. Mr Collins had, in his own opinion, gone about the business of acquiring a wife precisely as one ought to. He had selected a lady who satisfied both his requirements and those of his noble patroness, he had courted her with delicate little attentions and carefully arranged compliments, and he had observed all the forms of propriety in making his request for her hand. The possibility of being refused had never crossed his mind.

A man of a different character than Mr Collins might, after so decided a dismissal, have considered his own conduct in the matter more closely, and perhaps even have found it wanting. As has already been stated, however, Mr Collins was not given to self-reflection. Therefore, having escaped from the scene of his humiliation into the safety of his guest-chamber, he did not deliberate on whether he ought to have worded his proposal differently or spent a little more time ensuring that his cousin was receptive to his advances. Neither did he attempt to determine whether something in his comportment during his visit might have been detrimental to his cause.

Instead, Mr Collins took the rather easier path of placing all the blame on others. He blamed Mrs Bennet for encouraging him in such an ill-fated endeavour; he blamed Mr Bennet for indulging his daughter’s wilfulness; but most of all, he blamed Elizabeth herself.

For, after all, who was she to refuse a man of his prospects? She had little fortune and unremarkable connexions, and her future, unless she married well, appeared precarious indeed. Had he not been doing her and her entire family a favour? She might have secured her place first as the mistress of a prosperous parsonage and later as the lady of Longbourn itself. Yet she had scorned his offer, made out of the disinterested goodness of his heart ‒ and for what?

This question, indeed, Mr Collins found exceedingly puzzling. In his view, there was very little about him that a sensible young lady would not be pleased with. He had a comfortable home and excellent prospects; his profession was eminently respectable; he was a man of clean and sober habits; and he was, given his position as a clergyman, particularly well equipped to provide his wife and children with gentle but firm moral guidance. Neither did he think that there was any such egregious fault in his appearance as would make him immediately repulsive to a young woman. He was tall, favoured with a good head of hair, and still in possession of almost all his teeth. Mr Collins did not consider it vain to admit that he cut a fine enough figure of a man.

The conclusion of Mr Collins’s aggrieved ponderings was that his cousin, who had no doubt acquired all sorts of questionable romantic notions from the novels she and her sisters liked to read, must have had her head turned by a redcoat. It had not escaped Mr Collins’s notice that the officers of the militia were favourites of his cousins ‒ and being a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice and very much liked to be the centre of attention, he heartily resented them for it.

Fortunately, upon some further consideration, Mr Collins was soon able to find consolation in the fact that Elizabeth was exceedingly unlikely to make a match with one of the redcoats. Furthermore, even if she did receive and accept such an offer, she would have to accustom herself to a rather more humble life than she was used to. While the junior officers were by no means entirely penniless, none of them had an income rivalling that of Hunsford parsonage, and not even Colonel Forster could expect an inheritance as good as the Longbourn estate. Cousin Elizabeth would either find her hopes disappointed or discover that while a red coat might be more dashing than the sober suit of a clergyman, a rector’s wife enjoyed significantly more comforts than a soldier’s.

While Mr Collins’s suspicions were not, in point of fact, entirely incorrect when it came to Elizabeth’s interest in gallant young militiamen, it may be supposed that she had perhaps had some additional considerations in mind when refusing her cousin’s suit. As it did not occur to Mr Collins that his conclusions could be anything but correct, however, he did not feel it necessary to consider the matter further. He had learned that Elizabeth was a foolish girl who thought far too highly of herself and that, given Mr Bennet’s part in the debacle, marrying into such a family would have been a grievous mistake. This did not at all reduce his resentment of Elizabeth, but it did allow him the consolation of telling himself that he had had a fortunate escape.

Still, one pressing issue remained. Mr Collins had come to Hertfordshire with the express purpose of seeking a wife. Now, more than half his visit had passed, and he had yet to become engaged.

Preoccupied with such unhappy musings did Mr Collins at last venture back into the company of Mrs Bennet and her daughters. He did not particularly wish for society, but he was determined to show that he was unaffected by Elizabeth’s refusal: nobody would have cause to think that he had hidden himself away out of embarrassment or dejection.

In his peevish mood, Mr Collins found much to dislike in his relations which had previously passed unnoticed. The sight of Elizabeth was, of course, exceedingly provoking to his temper ‒ for to his chagrin, she appeared quite unaffected by the events of the morning, and as yet showed no sign of regretting her choice. Mrs Bennet’s sighs and complaints grated on his nerves as they never had before, and while his three youngest cousins had never risen particularly high in his esteem, on this occasion he found them especially vexing. Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine were giggling in a corner, and Mr Collins had a vague but unpleasant feeling that they were making sport of him. As if to purposely aggravate him further, Miss Mary, to whom he had hitherto scarcely paid any notice, chose this unfortunate time to begin loudly practising scales on the pianoforte.

Relief, however, was about to arrive from an unexpected quarter.

“Mr Collins, there is a question regarding Scripture which I have been wishing to ask you about.”

This gentle request, voiced by Miss Lucas, was perfectly calculated to distract Mr Collins from his increasingly discontented ruminations. He was certainly no great thinker, but he did have a passably good memory and no little proficiency in parroting the opinions of others. Miss Lucas’s inquiry thus allowed him to spend the next quarter of an hour reciting quotations from works which he had only half understood, interspersed with a good deal of moralising and a few references to Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s opinions. Such an opportunity to demonstrate his learnedness could hardly fail to put Mr Collins in a better mood.

Miss Lucas’s steadfast attention, too, was a balm to his injured sense of consequence. She listened respectfully to his every word, asked questions which allowed him to feel superior in his knowledge, and generally made herself as flattering and pleasing an audience as any self-important man could wish for. The contrast to his cousins was stark. Mr Collins had not forgotten Miss Lydia's lack of reverence for his reading of Fordyce’s sermons, nor had it escaped his notice that neither she nor her sisters seemed to regard him with the deference which his situation in life ought to have inspired.

Miss Lucas was a very different creature. She paid him the respect due to a clergyman; she did not begin to yawn and roll her eyes as soon as the topic of conversation strayed away from bonnets and officers. As the day wore on and Miss Lucas continued her unfaltering civility, Mr Collins began to feel that she was, in manners, disposition and intelligence ‒ or, to put it shortly, in everything but looks ‒ vastly superior to his cousins.

And, truly, was plainness such a great disadvantage? Was there not a certain danger in excessive beauty ‒ might it not encourage young ladies to think too highly of themselves? The wife of a clergyman should not be disposed to vanity; she ought, rather, to be a model of humility and modesty.

Indeed, the longer he thought about it, the more Mr Collins began to feel that Miss Lucas would be ideally suited to being a rector’s wife. He recalled Lady Catherine’s words of advice: “An active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way.” Well, unlike certain young ladies, Miss Lucas had not been deemed by her mother to be too fine to enter the kitchen now and then. As he watched her work her needle with quick, neat stitches while listening politely to something Mrs Bennet was saying, Mr Collins had no difficulty in imagining her settled in a similar attitude in his parsonage.

She was not handsome ‒ there was no denying that. Mr Collins spared a last, regretful thought for his cousin Elizabeth’s rosy cheeks and pleasing figure. Still ‒ he returned his gaze to Miss Lucas, diligently bent over her needlework ‒ how much could looks truly matter in the darkness of one’s bedchamber? He did not think her lack of beauty would make him incapable of performing his duties as a husband. And while there were no sons in the Bennet family, the Lucases could boast of several healthy boys. He ought not to let such a paltry matter as plain looks deter him from increasing his likelihood of fathering an heir for Longbourn.

Thus, in the span of a few short hours, Mr Collins had transferred all his hopes from the woman who had spurned him to one who seemed likely to be rather more kindly disposed. Unknown to his cousins and Mrs Bennet, he began to seriously consider how soon he might find an opportunity to speak to Miss Lucas in private.

Chapter Text

Charlotte Lucas had been perfectly aware, when she resolved to set her cap at Mr Collins, that he was neither clever nor sensible. If she was to make their marriage tolerably comfortable for herself, she must therefore learn how to manage him. Fortunately, she had a fair notion of how to go about it ‒ she had, after all, had ample opportunity to observe her own parents.

Sir William Lucas was a man blessed with a steady temper and a genial manner, but he possessed no great intellect. He had, however, had sufficient sense to marry a shrewd woman. She, with a combination of shameless flattery, gentle hints and subtle prodding, had steered him through many important decisions in his life, and though she had not always managed to convince him to make sensible choices regarding his business and household, she had at least helped him avoid making utterly disastrous ones.

Mr Collins, Charlotte had deduced, was not so very different from her father in terms of character and abilities. Both were easily awed by wealth and rank; both had a tendency towards excessive self-importance; and both, Charlotte believed, could be easily led by someone clever and skilful enough to do it without their noticing.

So far, she had been proven right. Her first test had been turning Mr Collins’s attention to herself, and in this, she had succeeded far more easily than she had dared to hope. She did not delude herself, however, with the notion that her success had been entirely due to her own abilities. Elizabeth’s refusal had laid the groundwork: angry, humiliated and desperate to prove himself, Mr Collins had been easy prey to the first woman who gave him even a hint of encouragement.

The business of the proposal had, in fact, been resolved with remarkable speed. Though Mr Collins was never inclined to brevity and had, in particular, spent a considerable amount of time assuring both Charlotte and her parents that he did not at all mind her small dowry, all had been settled between them well before noon. Now, with her betrothed engaged in a self-congratulatory monologue mainly directed at Sir William, Charlotte was free to contemplate how to go about her next task: persuading him to refrain from announcing their engagement at Longbourn.

Charlotte was satisfied with her choice of husband. Elizabeth, she knew, would not be. There were few people whose opinions Charlotte truly valued, and Elizabeth was one of them. Intelligent conversation was not in ready supply in their limited society, and the two young ladies had first formed a bond over their mutual amusement in laughing at the follies of their neighbours. Over time, however, Charlotte had also come to admire her friend’s steadfast loyalty to those she held dear and her determination to remain unintimidated by rank and consequence.

Yet Charlotte also knew that there were matters on which she and Elizabeth did not see eye to eye. Elizabeth, though not generally prone to fanciful notions, had a less cynical view of both men and marriage than Charlotte and a decided dislike of mercenary motives for matrimony. She could not but be surprised and disappointed by Charlotte’s choice. If their friendship was to endure, Charlotte must endeavour to break the news of her engagement herself.

Certain remarks made by Mr Collins regarding both the family at Longbourn in general and Elizabeth in particular had indicated that he was prone to harbouring resentment. Eager for retribution, he would not make the announcement tactfully; he might even seek to embarrass Elizabeth in some way. Charlotte was confident that Elizabeth could be brought to accept her marriage in time ‒ but not if she was blindsided by the news, and particularly not if it was used to make her look foolish. Elizabeth was not above laughing at herself if she felt that there was occasion for it, but she was not without pride. If sufficiently insulted, she could be very slow to forgive.

Charlotte intended to begin her new life as she meant to go on. Mr Collins would, for the most part, be allowed to persist in the belief that he was the one making the decisions in their household, but he must learn that there were some matters in which he had to defer to his wife. This was one of them. No matter how much he resented Eliza Bennet, Charlotte would not give up her dearest friend. Even though they would no longer be neighbours, Charlotte hoped that her friend could be persuaded to visit her in her new home, and between visits, there would be correspondence. Mr Collins, she knew, would not be able to provide her with rational conversation; Elizabeth’s clever, amusing letters would no doubt be a much-cherished source of relief.

Mr Collins, as he took leave of his future father and mother-in-law, was feeling exceedingly pleased with himself. His second proposal of marriage had been significantly more successful than his first. He would be returning to Hunsford an engaged man ‒ and engaged to the daughter of a knight, at that! Sir William Lucas, Mr Collins felt, was a remarkably refined man with uncommonly pleasing manners. Certainly, it would be no mean thing to have a father-in-law who had been presented at St. James’s!

Indeed, Mr Collins’s reception at Lucas Lodge had been flattering enough to put him in an excellent mood. Lady Lucas had made some very gratifying remarks about his fine situation and prospects, and Miss Lucas’s younger siblings had congratulated her on her good fortune. Miss Lucas herself had displayed a pleasing degree of maidenly modesty, accepting her family’s well-wishes graciously but with no unseemly excess of high spirits.

Mr Collins was also not at all displeased when his betrothed claimed the privilege of seeing him out herself. As he was to begin his journey home early the next morning, they would not be seeing each other again until Mr Collins could obtain leave from his patroness to return. The notion that Miss Lucas would miss him and anxiously await his return was very agreeable to him, and he took great pleasure in assuring her at length that he would write to her frequently.

Thus, when Miss Lucas begged a favour of him, Mr Collins did not hesitate to agree at once to whatever his lady desired ‒ though it must be said that he regretted his incautiousness instantly upon hearing her request. He had been relishing the prospect of revealing his success to the Bennets. To be denied the pleasure of witnessing the surprise of the entire family and (he flattered himself) the dismay and regret of one young lady in particular, was a harsh blow. Mr Collins was not so lacking in honour as to attempt to go back on his word, but neither was he self-sacrificing enough not to attempt to persuade Miss Lucas to reconsider.

“For only consider, my dear Miss Lucas,” he cried, “how peculiar my cousins will think it if I do not inform them in person when I have an excellent opportunity to do so. Surely, as the heir to the estate, I ought to inform them of any change to my situation ‒ for it cannot but be a matter of some interest to them.”

“You are exceedingly considerate, sir,” replied Miss Lucas, “to be so concerned with your cousins’ sentiments on the occasion, and I commend you for it. I fear, however, that your feelings may be injured if you take upon yourself the burden of making the announcement. It is your modesty, perhaps, which prevents you from perceiving it ‒ but I must speak plainly. Mrs Bennet, I know, had her heart set upon your marrying one of her daughters, and I fear she shall not bear gracefully the news of your settling upon another. It should be kinder towards her, I think, to allow a little more time to pass ‒ and towards yourself, to not have your last evening with your relations marred by an unpleasant scene.”

Mr Collins was obliged to concede the soundness of this reasoning. Though not in general prone to feelings of embarrassment, he had already become sufficiently acquainted with Mrs Bennet’s nerves to perceive that they might, if too severely provoked, make the remainder of his stay at Longbourn extremely disagreeable. Yet he could not easily reconcile himself with being deprived of the opportunity to boast of his prosperous love.

Miss Lucas, however, had persuasive arguments to console him. “Only consider, sir, how little justice we often do to our thoughts when attempting to express them at the spur of the moment! A little time to reflect and arrange one’s wording can greatly increase the impact of what one has to say. I have heard Mr Bennet commend your skill at letter-writing ‒ is not the written word particularly suited to the solemnity of the occasion?”

The appeal of this notion was, to Mr Collins, undeniable. He immediately perceived the advantages. There would be no danger of making his speech only to later recall another turn of phrase which would have sounded even finer ‒ and no peril of being prematurely cut off mid-recitation by Mrs Bennet or one of his ill-mannered younger cousins. He would have the entirety of his carriage ride to Kent to think over everything he wished to include in his letter to Mr Bennet, and the petty little pleasure of knowing that his cousin would have to pay for the privilege of receiving his news.

He was, in short, very near to being swayed, and a few more moments’ conversation settled his course. Miss Lucas, appealing by turns to his vanity and his spitefulness, was able to persuade him to do her bidding, and besides, to half believe that it had been his notion to begin with. His feeling of self-satisfaction was further increased by his reward, a press of her ungloved hand ‒ a liberty exciting enough to titillate, yet not so scandalous as to offend his sense of propriety.

It must be admitted that, in spite of everything, Mr Collins suffered some difficulty in keeping his counsel during the course of the evening. His cousins were exceedingly curious about his absence, and his impatience to reveal all could only be curtailed by exercising great self-denial. Yet he found that there was also a certain pleasure in having such a momentous secret. Though he would not be there to enjoy his cousins’ reaction to the news of his engagement, he could at least delight in their present ignorance, and he took great pleasure in accepting with alacrity Mrs Bennet’s invitation to return for another visit.

All in all, Mr Collins concluded to himself when blowing out his candle some time later, he had abundant cause for satisfaction and yet more to anticipate in the future. As he settled back against the pillows in Longbourn’s comfortable guest-chamber, his mind was already busy at work contemplating how to best express all his rapturous happiness in writing. The Bennets would very soon discover that he certainly had no cause to repine.

Chapter Text

Charlotte Collins did not love her husband. She did not even particularly like him. She was, however, a scrupulously loyal wife. In marrying Mr Collins, she had bound herself to his station in life and position in society; as his fortunes rose and fell, so would hers. Therefore, she would spare no pains to further his advancement in his career: his success was her best guarantee of future comfort.

That was why, despite the weariness and discomforts caused by her current condition, Charlotte was presently trudging through Rosings Park on her way to pay her respects to Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Charlotte had been truly delighted when she heard of Elizabeth Bennet’s engagement to Mr Darcy. (She had also been more than a little smug, for she had voiced her suspicions about Mr Darcy’s admiration of her friend long before Elizabeth herself had admitted any such thing to be possible.) It was a brilliant match in terms of fortune and consequence, but Charlotte had also perceived, from the earliest weeks of their acquaintance, that Eliza and Mr Darcy would be well-matched in terms of intellect and taste.

Charlotte was also not forgetful of the future benefits which might come of a connection with such a family. Mr Darcy was a wealthy man from an influential family; he had livings to bestow and relations who had influence in the church. That Mr Collins was now his relation by marriage, albeit a distant one, and that Charlotte herself was a long-time friend of his wife, was not an advantage to be discounted.

Still, despite her genuine pleasure in the match, in the short term, Elizabeth’s marriage had given Charlotte no little inconvenience. Lady Catherine had been furious about her nephew’s choice of bride, and when said nephew had cut off all correspondence with his aunt, Lady Catherine’s anger had turned towards the target closest at hand ‒ the Collinses.

Elizabeth’s visit to Kent the previous spring had taken on a new significance in Lady Catherine’s mind. That was when she had seduced Mr Darcy away from his rightful betrothed ‒ practising her arts and allurements even while enjoying Lady Catherine’s hospitality at Rosings! Mr Collins, having harboured the viper in his home, was declared if not a co-conspirator, then at least criminally careless for not having checked his cousin’s behaviour.

Mr Collins had never before faced such displeasure from his patroness, and he was ill-equipped to weather it. This was not a transgression which could be smoothed over with flattery and fawning. The situation needed to be handled with tact and delicacy, neither of which Mr Collins possessed.

For the situation must be resolved. Although Lady Catherine could not turn Mr Collins out of his living, the withdrawal of her favour was felt in a hundred little ways. There were no more dinners and teas at Rosings to spare the inhabitants of the parsonage the expense of a meal at home, no more gifts of game sent over when gentlemen relatives were visiting, no books or magazines lent to Mrs Collins after the ladies of Rosings had tired of perusing them. Lady Catherine’s favours were always bestowed in a manner calculated to remind the recipient of their inferior station ‒ but they were valuable nonetheless, and Charlotte felt keenly the absence of her former little comforts.

There was also awkwardness in the parish. Lady Catherine was not particularly well-loved by her neighbours, but she had sufficient wealth and influence that few dared to cross her. Those who were in disfavour with the family at Rosings could expect invitations to dwindle and friendly relations to suddenly cool. There had been no decrease in attendance at church ‒ for Lady Catherine did not look kindly upon those who neglected services, no matter her opinion of the rector ‒ but few parishioners lingered to speak more than a few words to Mr and Mrs Collins afterwards.

It was impossible to continue thus. Mrs Collins, however, had a plan.

Despite the winter chill outdoors, the parlour into which Charlotte was shown was warm almost to the point of being stuffy. Lady Catherine’s greeting, in contrast, was markedly cool. While her ladyship would not lower herself to outright incivility towards a guest, her every look and word conveyed her unremitting displeasure. As soon as the obligatory civilities had been dispensed with, Lady Catherine began to question Charlotte sharply on a parish matter which, she felt, had been handled poorly by Mr Collins, barely pausing long enough between questions to hear Charlotte’s replies.

Charlotte bore the interrogation with patience, nodding and murmuring her acquiescence when appropriate. The heat and closeness of the room were beginning to make themselves felt ‒ she had been obliged to dress warmly for her walk, and had lately been prone to feeling easily overheated ‒ but she did not make her discomfort known. Such impertinence would only have provided Lady Catherine with a new subject to scold her about.

With no opposition, Lady Catherine exhausted the topic of the parish business in no more than a quarter of an hour. This, Charlotte knew, was her opportunity: she must strike before another subject was introduced.

“Lady Catherine,” she began, “I wished to request your advice.”

Such a bait was impossible for her ladyship to resist. She motioned for Charlotte to continue, almost forgetting to look displeased. And Charlotte, after prefacing her request with the appropriate expressions of respect for Lady Catherine’s wisdom, at last ventured forth her question: whether her ladyship did not have some sage advice to impart on an expecting mother.

Lady Catherine had borne only one child. However, as Charlotte very well knew, this did not deter her from considering herself the utmost authority on everything relating to child-bearing and child-rearing. An outpouring of advice followed, heavily interspersed with remarks on Miss de Bourgh’s superiority to all other children. While little of it was new to Charlotte, who had her own mother’s rather more substantial experience to draw on and had, besides, grown up as the eldest daughter in a house full of children, she was pleased to see that Lady Catherine, in her delight at being of use, was rapidly talking herself out of her ill-humour.

Truly, Charlotte reflected later, leaning back against the comfortable cushioning of Lady Catherine’s carriage ‒ for a woman in Charlotte’s condition, her ladyship had declared, must on no account overexert herself with long walks ‒ it had been a good day’s work. Lady Catherine’s insatiable desire to manage everything around her would no doubt ensure frequent summonses to Rosings over the next few months. Every such invitation would provide Charlotte with the opportunity to put in a good word or two for her husband.

It would take time, but Charlotte was confident that, with patience and diplomacy, Lady Catherine could be persuaded to believe that Mr Collins was not to blame for Mr Darcy’s marriage. Her ladyship must merely be brought to feel that the diversion of the Collinses’ society was more important than her desire for a scapegoat. As Lady Catherine was firmly in the habit of believing whatever best conformed with her wishes, the rest would happen by itself.

Charlotte Collins was not a saint. Though not romantic by nature, she could admit to herself that she had experienced a pang or two of envy on her latest visit to Meryton, as she observed Eliza Bennet with her handsome, clever and rich betrothed. She would not have to smile and pretend not to notice when her husband embarrassed himself in company. She would not have to scheme and connive to gain respite from her husband’s society. She would not have to dance to the whims of a self-important busybody and humble herself to curry favour.

Charlotte had seen the way Mr Darcy attended to Elizabeth’s every word, had heard him seek her opinions with real interest and, should it happen that he disagreed, debate her in a manner which displayed his respect for her intellect. Mr Darcy had submitted willingly to his betrothed’s teasing, bearing her arch remarks with a calm composure which, Charlotte suspected, masked not displeasure but rather a thorough enjoyment of being the centre of Elizabeth’s attention.

Mr Collins, meanwhile, tended to view those around him as an audience rather than as partners in conversation and was often too busy anticipating his next opportunity to speak to attend to what others were saying. When he sought his wife’s opinion, it was with the expectation that it should be in accord with his own. Mr Collins wished to have his ideas confirmed and praised, not challenged or debated. Dissenting notions must be introduced delicately and worked into the conversation in a manner that allowed Mr Collins to believe that he had been the one to think of them.

Charlotte had also seen Elizabeth’s delight when Mr Darcy replied to one of her witticisms with a quip of his own, her eagerness to seek him out whenever they were in company ‒ and her pleased though bashful blushes when he pressed her hand or leaned close to murmur a remark not meant for anyone else’s ears. Though they both behaved with all the propriety expected of young people of their station, it was evident that theirs was a match of mutual esteem and admiration.

Charlotte had had a good notion of what sort of union she was entering into when she married. Despite their short acquaintance, her assessment of Mr Collins’s character had been reasonably accurate, and her mother had given her solid advice on what to expect from her life as Mrs Collins. Still, there were some aspects of married life which not even her rational mind and Lady Lucas’s sensible words could have fully prepared her for. The irksomeness of Mr Collins’s company and conversation was felt more keenly when one was alone to bear it, and no maiden could quite envision the discomforts and indignities of sharing one’s marital bed with a man who was neither particularly attractive nor particularly considerate.

The society available to Charlotte in her new neighbourhood was limited. Hunsford was a small village with few tradesmen prosperous enough to affect a genteel style of living, while the landed families in the area were far above the occupants of the parsonage in wealth and consequence. The Collinses’ engagements were therefore few, and while Charlotte, by way of her husband’s profession, was at least superficially acquainted with most of the inhabitants of Hunsford, there was not yet anyone in the neighbourhood whom she could count as a close friend.

Elizabeth had now been married for a little more than a month, and her letters painted a very different picture of what marriage could be. It was not intentional: Elizabeth did not descend into raptures about her marital felicity; her tone was as light-hearted and joking as ever; and the substance of what she wrote was mostly focused on the practicalities of settling into her new home and taking up the reins of the household. Charlotte had no doubt that this was her friend’s sense of delicacy at work. Though the difference between their respective stations in life could never be entirely forgotten or ignored, Elizabeth was not one to boast of her good fortune ‒ and particularly not to the woman who had settled for the suitor Elizabeth herself had discarded.

Still, despite Elizabeth’s efforts to limit herself to topics on which she and Charlotte shared common ground, her letters could not entirely obscure that she was now very rich, very happy, and very much in love. Even when she wrote of domestic concerns, every other sentence contained some reference to Mr Darcy: an amusing remark he had made, an opinion he had professed or a matter on which he had solicited her thoughts. In her other activities, he was a constant presence ‒ he had taken her on a sleigh ride all the way around Pemberley’s park; he was determined that she should learn to ride once the weather warmed sufficiently; he had a fondness for poetry and had taken to reading it aloud to her in the evenings. Here and there, a few passing references were made to Miss Darcy and the relations who had been invited to Pemberley for Christmas, but to Charlotte, the letters served chiefly as evidence of how much the new Mrs Darcy delighted in her husband and of the genuine affection between the young couple.

It was a striking contrast to the life of Mrs Collins. Where Elizabeth sought out her husband’s company at every opportunity, Charlotte carefully arranged her life so that she might see as little as possible of hers. Where Elizabeth, according to her latest letter, had entered into such a lively debate with her husband about The Vision of Don Roderick that Miss Darcy had been rather alarmed, Charlotte asked her husband to read aloud as she sewed only because even the ponderous collections of sermons he favoured were preferable to his conversation. And where certain veiled references of Elizabeth’s indicated that she found Mr Darcy as delightful a companion in her bedchamber as outside it, Charlotte could not always entirely suppress her feelings of revulsion at Mr Collins’s touch.

Yet Charlotte did not regret her marriage. No matter how much she sometimes missed her family and friends, no matter how little she cared for her husband, the life of a married woman was vastly preferable to that of an old maid. At Hunsford, she was mistress of her own home, able to arrange her household as she pleased and to enjoy all the respect due to a clergyman’s wife. At Lucas Lodge, she would have remained the plain, pitied, unmarried daughter for as long as her father lived. After his death, she would have become an ageing spinster sister in her brother’s house, useful perhaps in tending to nieces and nephews and assisting with the housework, but still a burden, another mouth to feed on a modest income.

And as far as her choice of husband ‒ well, a marriage like Elizabeth’s had never been in the cards for Charlotte. The Mr Bingleys and Mr Darcys of the world might stoop to marry girls of little fortune, but those girls had to be pretty and charming enough to compensate for the lack of a dowry. Charlotte, poor, plain and with a wit too cynical to be endearing, had never stood a chance.

No, Charlotte knew that she had made the most of the one opportunity which had come her way. With that, she was determined to be content. She would not have a great romance, but having never been romantic by nature, she did not greatly repine the loss. Her husband was tiresome and foolish, but he was neither a drunk, a gambler nor a spendthrift, and he did not interfere with her management of the household. She had not married into a family of great landowners and peers, but she had secured her place in the sphere in which she had grown up, and would not have to fear a gradual descent into genteel poverty. And while her marriage had removed her from the society of her family and friends, the removal was only temporary. One day, she would return to Meryton ‒ and not as a poor relation but as mistress of the best estate in the neighbourhood.

Charlotte did not begrudge Elizabeth her happiness, but she also cherished a secret certainty that, had their positions been reversed, Elizabeth would not have managed Mr Collins nearly as easily, nor run her modest household with as much sense and economy. Elizabeth had been raised for a life where servants were always at hand and where money could be spent with relative unconcern ‒ and she had not yet learned to suffer fools with patience. Her liveliness and natural assurance would serve her very well as Mrs Darcy, but she would have been miserable as Mrs Collins.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was conscious of her good fortune. She had her comfortable house and well-tended garden, her poultry and her pigs ‒ and soon, she would have the beginnings of a family of her own to tend to. If this child she carried was a boy, he would one day be the master of Longbourn, securing a comfortable home for his mother into her old age. If it was a girl ‒ well, a son would likely arrive in time, and even if one did not, Charlotte did not intend for her daughters to suffer for it. She would ensure, by whatever economies necessary, that they had dowries better than hers; she would arrange for them to have all the education and accomplishments which a clever, well-informed man might desire in a wife. She would do all she could to help them attract husbands whom they could like and respect, not merely endure.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the parsonage, and Lady Catherine’s servant hastened to assist Charlotte to the ground. As she had expected, the maid informed her upon her entrance that Mr Collins was not yet home. He would likely be out for an hour or two more, and upon his return, Charlotte intended to encourage him to spend some time in the garden. That would take them to dinnertime, and afterwards, she thought that she might use the excuse of her condition to retire early.

First, however, there was the prospect of several hours’ peace to be enjoyed. In her small, inconveniently placed but neatly arranged parlour, Charlotte settled herself in a chair by the window and picked up the little cap she was working on. An hour, perhaps, of needlework; then she would reply to the latest letters from her mother and Maria. Then, if she did not dawdle overlong over her letter-writing, she might have a moment to indulge in the novel she kept tucked away between her receipt books before it was time to oversee the preparations for dinner.

Charlotte Collins was not, perhaps, radiantly happy. Still, all in all, she had much cause for contentment.