18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The chill of a December morning crept through Mr. Collins' coat as he stepped out into the streets of Meryton. The town was filled with festive cheer, bright red ribbons and sprigs of holly decorating the shopfronts, and the market bustling with people intent on their Christmas preparations. Mr. Collins had never felt so alone.

He walked through the square, his hat pulled low on his brow against the cold wind, and attempted to greet those he knew. "Good morning, Mrs. Long," he called, but the lady turned her head and walked quickly away. "Mr. Goulding, a pleasant day to you," he tried again, but the man crossed the street to avoid him. Mr. Collins' frustration grew with every step he took. These were people he had imagined he would be in the best of company with once he became master of Longbourn, all eager to be included in the patronage of the Bennet family. He had thought himself a respected member of the community, but it seemed that he was wrong.

"Good day, Mr. Jones," he said to the apothecary, but the man looked right through him as if he were invisible. "Mrs. Goulding," he called, but she pulled her child close and turned away, and in the still, cold air he heard the child say "Why, Mama, it is only Mr. Collins," and Mrs. Goulding's reply, "Hush, Emily," followed by a string of words too softly spoken for him to make out.

He continued through the market, past the groups of people who fell silent or began whispering behind their hands when they saw him. Mr. Collins swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He had never felt so isolated.

Finally he stood alone, looking around himself. It was clear that he would find no assistance here. None of the servants who had fled Longbourn had returned, nor would the locals accept work from him now. He would have to go to Hatfield, to the hiring fair there, and hire servants for Longbourn, immediately. The farmer was feeding the horses in the stable, but Mr. Collins could not and would not manage on bread and cheese another day!

It was early in the morning of the following day when he set out. There had been a heavy snowfall overnight, and it was a bitterly bleak day when Mr. Collins finally mounted his horse and turned in the direction of Hatfield. He had wrapped himself in his heaviest coat, but it did little to warm him against the biting wind. He shivered miserably, huddled in the saddle, his hat pulled low against the cold. He was unused to riding, and it was a long journey to Hatfield. He was soon sore and uncomfortable, and he had long since lost all feeling in his extremities.

The landscape was desolate, the fields brown and bare, the trees mere skeletal branches against the grey sky. The roads were muddy and rough, and more than once Mr. Collins was forced to dismount and lead his reluctant horse through particularly difficult patches. His boots were soon caked in mud, his coat splattered, and he was sweating with the effort of dragging the recalcitrant beast through the mire.

Every step of the way, he reflected bitterly on his circumstance. If the Bennets had only been more accommodating, how different his situation would be! But no, they had set themselves against him from the first, all of them! If Elizabeth had but been sensible and accepted his very gracious proposal, he would not now be in this situation at all. He had been wronged, grievously wronged!. It was all, he was sure, the result of a concerted effort on the part of the Bennet women to blacken his name as revenge for his throwing them out of Longbourn.

By the time he reached Hatfield, Mr. Collins was seething with anger and resentment. It was all he could do not to take his horsewhip to the first person he saw.

And yet, he could not afford to let his feelings show. He had to make a good impression if he was to hire the servants he needed. He could only hope that the hiring fair would be well stocked, and that the servants available were not as choosy as those in Meryton.

Mr. Collins looked around in distaste at the hiring fair. The servants stood in groups, talking quietly among themselves, and he could see the looks they gave him as he rode past. Cold, unfriendly looks they were, and he felt the first stirrings of desperation. He could not return to Longbourn without any servants.

Well, he would hire what he could. He would have new staff at Longbourn by the end of the day, and they would just have to manage.

Mr. Collins rang the bell for tea, waiting impatiently in the drawing room. It seemed an age before he heard footsteps approaching, and then one of the new maids – what was her name? He had not yet learned them all – came in, bobbing a curtsey. "Tea, sir?" she asked, and scuttled away before he could say a word.

He paced the room in growing annoyance, muttering under his breath about incompetent servants. It was ten minutes before the girl returned, carrying a tray.

"Set the tea down," Mr. Collins snapped impatiently. He looked at the tray in disgust as she put it down. The tea looked weak and watery, the milk jug was missing, and there were no hot buttered crumpets, no little tea cakes, no small biscuits. "Take this away and do it properly," he barked, and the maid fled, wide-eyed and terrified.

Dinner was no better. Mr. Collins descended to the dining room to find it cold, the fire not properly lit. The food was poorly cooked – the fish was dry and overdone, the potatoes undercooked, the beef stringy and tough. He was angry and disappointed, but he knew he could hardly expect better from a group of hastily hired strangers… and he suspected the butcher at Meryton was sending very poor fare to Longbourn. He'd have to send someone to Hatfield if he wanted decent meat, and he raged at the expense and unfairness of it all.

Christmas was a solitary affair. Mr. Collins sat at the head of the table, staring at the empty chairs around him. The dinner was underwhelming. The new servants were making an effort, but they had no idea of the little touches that made a festive meal. The table was set plainly, the food adequate but not special, and the room was cold and unwelcoming.

Mr. Collins cut himself a slice of the roast goose and ate a little, but it was not the same. He had never spent Christmas alone before. There had always been his parents, and then the Bennets. The Bennet girls, he thought, would have made the table look lovely, and there would have been music and laughter.

It was all Elizabeth's fault, he thought grimly. If she had but agreed to marry him, she would be at the other end of the table, smiling at him, soon to be his wife. Life would have been delightful! But no, Elizabeth had refused him, and now they were all at Netherfield, no doubt laughing at him.

He put down his knife and fork, staring at the food on his plate. He thought of Mr. Bingley, whose wealth had easily won the beautiful Jane Bennet, and of Mr. Darcy, who was apparently courting Elizabeth. What chance did he have against them? None at all. They had ruined him, those Bennet women, and he was going to have to start all over again.

He sat alone in the cold, dimly lit dining room, staring at the unappetising food on his plate, and nursed his grievances.

The Assembly Room had been decorated for the festive season, evergreen garlands and sprigs of holly hung with bright red ribbons. The musicians in the corner played lively tunes and the room was full of smiles, bright chatter and laughter. Yet Mr. Collins stood alone, awkwardly, only too aware that he was the focus of many eyes. Eyes that turned away, many accompanied by whispers behind hands or sidelong glances and then people turning their backs on him, refusing even to acknowledge his presence.

It was the same everywhere he went. He had been shunned. Socially ostracised. Not one of the people in the room would offer him the slightest courtesy. And the Bennet ladies were not even present! They were, he supposed, at Netherfield, enjoying the hospitality of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, and he could not go there and demand to be allowed to see them.

He scowled around the room at the dancers, the young ladies in their pretty gowns, not one of whom gave him a second glance as they danced and flirted with the red-coated militia officers. It was not fair, Mr. Collins thought, and then he saw her. Charlotte Lucas. She was standing with a group of people, talking animatedly, a smile on her face. Oh, she was laughing at something one of the gentlemen had said.

He watched her for a long moment, then took a deep breath and walked towards her. He had not forgotten the last time they had spoken, when he had hinted that he still sought a wife and a mistress for Longbourn, and Charlotte had told him coolly that she would never consider him. But now... surely Miss Lucas must see that he was a man of substance, that he was worthy of the respect of the neighbourhood, that he had a fine house and an income and a position. And he had always liked Charlotte, who had been polite to him on every occasion they had chanced to speak. She wasn't as pretty as Elizabeth, or even Mary Bennet, but she was seven and twenty and must be running out of chances to find a husband. Surely, she must reconsider when he made his intentions clear.

"Good evening, Miss Lucas," he began awkwardly, bowing. "May I say how lovely you look tonight? "

Charlotte turned to look at him, and he saw the surprise in her eyes, and then the cool disdain. Her back stiffened and she put her shoulders back, and the smile on her lips faded. "Mr. Collins," she said. She did not bid him a good evening or acknowledge his compliment.

"It is very pleasant to see you," Mr. Collins said, trying to smile. "I regret that I have not had the opportunity to see you over the Christmas season. I would like to make it up to you by asking you to stand up with me for the next dance."

The group of people around Charlotte had fallen silent, looking at them. Charlotte did not move. "No, Mr. Collins," she said, and turned her back on him.

"Is that all the answer I am to expect?" Mr. Collins blurted, infuriated, and realised his mistake when Charlotte whirled back around, her eyes flashing with fury.

"I had thought, Mr. Collins, that you would prefer a simple refusal, than that I should tell you publicly what I really think of you," Charlotte said loudly, and the snickers began.

Horrified, Mr. Collins took a step back, hoping Charlotte would not say any more, but she held his gaze and carried on speaking in that loud, angry voice, a voice he had not thought the meek, quiet Miss Lucas capable of.

"You have behaved in the most despicable manner possible towards grieving ladies who deserved your compassion and consideration, not to be bullied and tormented," Charlotte continued, remorseless. "I would rather marry a pig than spend so much as one more minute of time with you, Mr. Collins. Frankly, I wish never to lay eyes on you again."

Mr. Collins retreated hastily to a quieter corner of the Assembly Room, flushed with anger and humiliation, pacing back and forth near one of the large windows. "Ruined," he muttered to himself. "It is not fair. Elizabeth should have been mine. Mine!"

A short distance away, Lieutenant Wickham lounged against the wall, watching the clergyman with a calculating look. He had heard, of course, the gossip that Collins had thrown the Bennet ladies out of their home, and he had also heard that Bingley and Darcy had taken them to London. He had been very sorry to hear it, for he had enjoyed Elizabeth's company, and he had hoped for better things. He had not, however, had much to do with Mr. Collins, who had seemed a rather ridiculous figure, but now he saw an opportunity to make a new friend.

"Mr. Collins," Wickham said smoothly, approaching the other man. "Are you quite well, sir?" He thought it a polite fiction to offer, for Collins was clearly not well, agitated and angry.

"Sir." Collins stopped pacing, looking at him. "I..." His mouth opened and closed a few times.

"I am sorry to hear of your troubles," Wickham said. "May I offer you a drink, sir?" He gestured to the refreshment table.

"Indeed, sir," Collins said, and Wickham led him to the table, pouring two glasses of punch. "I must say, sir, I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"George Wickham, sir, at your service." Wickham handed Collins a glass. "I am, of course, in the militia here in Meryton, but I have known Mr. Darcy since we were children. "

"You have?" Collins sat at one of the tables, and Wickham sat opposite him.

"I have, sir. I was raised on the Darcy estate. My father was Mr. Darcy's father's steward."

"A steward?" Collins' eyes widened. "But I thought..."

"I was very fortunate that Mr. Darcy's father chose to provide me with a gentleman's education." Wickham smiled, one of his most charming smiles, and was gratified to see Collins relax slightly. "I should have entered the church, but Mr. Darcy did not see fit to provide me with the living that his father promised me I should have." He let his face fall into the woeful expression that had won him many a lady's sympathy. "I have had to make my own way in the world, and the militia was the best I could do."

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh is Mr. Darcy's aunt," Collins said. "She has always spoken of him as an honourable man. But I have seen myself, sir, how that man can ruin the lives of others. You have my sympathy."

"You are too kind." Wickham inclined his head, before pausing delicately and saying, "Did you know, sir, that the entire Netherfield party left for London before Christmas?"

"I..." Collins' mouth dropped open. "No, I did not know that!"

"I was sorry to see them go," Wickham said, lying through his teeth. He was never sorry to see the back of that sanctimonious prig Darcy. Although the pretty Bennet sisters were a sad loss to the neighbourhood.

"Elizabeth..." Collins was muttering to himself, and Wickham cocked his head, listening. "Elizabeth... Darcy... it is not fair. It is not fair!"

Wickham watched Collins closely. He had seen the other man's approach to Charlotte Lucas, and her very public rejection of him. He could only imagine the social ostracism Collins had faced, and like the rest of the neighbourhood, he was well aware of Collins' failed proposal to Elizabeth Bennet. He could see the man was on the verge of breaking, and he was very careful to offer only soothing, sympathetic comments as Collins ranted about the injustices he had faced.

"Miss Elizabeth," Collins muttered, and Wickham's ears pricked up. "She would not have me. I wonder now, sir," he addressed Wickham directly, "if it was not Mr. Darcy who had a hand in persuading her to refuse me."

"Indeed, sir?" Wickham said politely, wondering why Darcy would have bothered himself. Or did Darcy admire Elizabeth Bennet rather more than he had publicly let on?

"Indeed." Collins' hands clenched on the table. "And now he has ruined me. I am now quite friendless! He has stolen away the affections of the woman I would have wed, and now I am alone, through no fault of my own."

"That is very sad, sir," Wickham offered sympathetically. "I understand that you had hoped to wed Miss Elizabeth."

"I did indeed!" Collins' voice rose. "I had hoped to be able to offer her protection and comfort, and she would have been secure in her home and her future." He shuddered. "But Bingley and Darcy, I see now how they have interfered." His voice grew bitter. "I have no doubt that they were planning to carry the Bennets off to London all along. No doubt they had decided that they were going to marry those whom they pleased, and hang the consequences. Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth must have been planned from the start, for why else would Bingley and Darcy have installed themselves at Netherfield so conveniently?"

Wickham had no idea where Collins had gotten that idea, but he felt it prudent not to correct him. "You may very well be right, sir," he said.

"No doubt you are correct," Collins said. "Elizabeth refused me. Refused me, sir! I should have thought better of her, but no, she refused me. And I was... I was..." He stopped dead, and Wickham saw his mouth drop open.

"What is it, sir?" he asked politely.

"You said..." Collins was almost choking on his words. "You said you had known Darcy all your life, that you had grown up on the Darcy estate."

"Yes, sir. I have known Darcy since we were children."

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," Collins said slowly, "is Mr. Darcy's aunt."

"She is indeed," Wickham said.

"She..." Collins' face was red. "She has often spoken of Mr. Darcy – and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam – in the highest terms. I would not have thought..." He shook his head. "But you have known Mr. Darcy all your life, and I..." He seemed lost for words.

"It was not your fault," Wickham said slyly. "Why, how could you have known? You did not know Darcy before he came to Hertfordshire, did you?"

Collins sat heavily back down at the table. "I did not," he said. "I did not." He looked at Wickham. "And you say the entire Netherfield party left for London before Christmas?"

"They did, sir," Wickham said. "I was sorry to see them go."

"I..." Collins' mouth opened and closed a few times. "No doubt they are all staying at Darcy's house, and no doubt by now Darcy will have married Elizabeth! "

Wickham's head snapped up and he stared at Collins in shock. "Darcy... married to Miss Elizabeth?"

"Why not?" Collins snapped. "He asked Mr Bennet for permission to court her, before the man died. Now he has taken her away to London, no doubt he has already compromised her to the point where he will be forced to marry her."

Wickham thought of the haughty Darcy, with that teasing, tempting Elizabeth Bennet on his arm, and he was forced to admit that Darcy had probably never had a more difficult task in his life.

"That will not please Lady Catherine," Wickham said finally, and Mr. Collins sighed heavily.