Page 68 of A November to Remember

Darcy raised his, and the two men sat in companionable, barricaded silence, sipping their tea while the circus raged around them.

Two minutes later, Hill’s voice sliced through the low hum of conversation and Mrs Bennet’s loud whispering.

“Miss Charlotte Lucas.”

Charlotte stepped inside, absorbed the density of embroidered waistcoats, silk gowns, and aristocratic confidence occupying the drawing-room, and hesitated for the briefest of moments. She recovered instantly, sinking into a curtsy that was the very picture of polite indifference.

“Mrs Bennet.” Charlotte rose, her hands folding neatly before her sensible brown gown. “You were kind enough to invite me for tea. I hope I do not intrude on your company.”

“Dear Charlotte! Not at all, not at all.” Mrs Bennet abandoned Viscount Keathley with a speed that suggested she had been waiting for this moment for some time. “You are exactly on time. Come in, do not dawdle. Do sit by Lizzy. She has been hoarding the teapot all afternoon like Cerberus. A very polite Cerberus, but a dog nonetheless.”

Charlotte offered a nod to Jane, who smiled tightly from her embroidery frame. She acknowledged the wall of gentlemen with a single polite inclination of her head. They bowed in crisp unison—a ripple of tailored coats and flawless manners—and resumed their seats.

Charlotte navigated the maze of side tables and noblemen’s sprawling legs with the skill of a seasoned acrobat, taking her designated seat beside Elizabeth.

“I was under the impression I was attending a simple country tea.” Charlotte leaned to accept a cup from Elizabeth. “I was not informed your parlour had been annexed by the House of Commons and the British Army.”

“The population swelled after luncheon.” Elizabeth handed her the sugar tongs. “The colonel is consuming sandwiches at a rate that defies human comprehension. Lord Keathley and my mother are engaged in some conspiracy involving the future of the nation. And Mr Darcy is hiding behind the financial columns. Papa corrupted him.”

The clock in the hall began to chime. Four resounding tolls echoed through the house, accompanied shortly after by the sound of carriage wheels outside.

Mrs Bennet gasped, her fan snapping shut with a sound like a pistol shot. “He is here. Girls, stand straight! Lizzy, pinch your cheeks! Jane, do absolutely nothing, you are perfect! Mr Bennet, put that paper away this instant! And for heaven’s sake, stop looking so amused!”

Chapter Sixteen: The Clergyman Cometh

November 18th, 1811

Hill entered and announced Mr Collins. The gentleman crossed the threshold, and everyone held their breath.

He was a tall, heavy-featured young man of five-and-twenty, whose gravity had been applied thickly and early—varnish laid on before the wood beneath had any chance to season. His eyes were wide open, his mouth already shaping the first of what would prove to be an inexhaustible supply of compliments. He halted at the sight. The room contained more people than his prepared speech had allowed for.

His gaze moved from Mrs Bennet to the six young ladies, then to the gentlemen, and back again. His mouth opened, but nothing emerged. Mr Bennet felt a moment of concern, but Mr Collins was made of sterner stuff. He recovered.

His bow to Mrs Bennet was a perilous, creaking descent that tested the stitching of his coat to its limits, the patience of the room, and possibly the circulation in his brain. He remained there for a time, during which everyone had the opportunity to study the top of his head in detail.

Kitty began counting under her breath. “Seven.”

“Eight,” Lydia whispered.

Mr Collins remained folded.

Keathley leaned towards the colonel. “Do we intervene at fifteen?”

“At twenty. He may be praying,” his brother answered.

Mr Collins began the ascent.

Lydia sighed. “Fourteen. You owe me a ribbon, Kitty.”

“You said thirteen.”

“I said more than twelve.”

“Silence,” Mrs Bennet hissed without moving her smile.

Mr Collins straightened and began. His compliments had evidently commenced in the hall, gathered momentum through the doorway, and achieved speed the moment he lifted his head.

“I am entirely overcome, madam.” He clasped his hands together, his gaze sweeping the plasterwork of the ceiling with reverence, as though he believed God might live in the cornice. “The noble proportions of the vestibule! The elegant disposition of the staircase! And the dinner, which I have not yet had the supreme privilege of tasting, but which I am certain will be a triumph of provincial culinary excellence, worthy of the tables of Rosings! Though I must say, the staircase could do with a second banister. For safety. And aesthetic balance.”