Page 78 of A November to Remember

The tallest of the three inspected a display of periodicals, running a gloved finger over the covers. “Our masters are certainly finding the local society lively.”

A second man adjusted his lapel, examining a leather-bound history. “Indeed. The viscount was remarking on it while I tied his cravat this morning. The nephews of Lady Catherine de Bourgh are quite taken with the Hertfordshire ladies.”

Collins’s heart leapt into his throat. He pressed his face against the shelf, straining his ears. The viscount’s cravat! These men were the personal servants to Lady Catherine’s own nephews! They had intimate knowledge of the highest circles!

“I was speaking with Betsy, Mrs Philips’s maid,” the second man continued. “I must say, I am filled with admiration for Miss Lucas. Her management of Lucas Lodge is nothing short of absolute.”

Collins blinked. Absolute?

“It is true,” the third valet agreed, inspecting the spine of a novel. “Lady Lucas scarcely orders a joint of meat without consulting her daughter. Miss Lucas manages the entirety of the estate’s domestic affairs. She exercises her own independent judgement in all things, and Sir William relies on her good sense to govern the household.”

Mr Collins stopped breathing. Independent judgement? A woman who governed her father’s house? Lady Catherine de Bourgh permitted no independent judgement but her own. A clergyman’s wife was expected to be submissive, grateful, and dependent on the wisdom of Rosings Park for all instruction regarding joints of meat and household governance. A woman accustomed to ruling a lodge would never bow to the authority of a patroness.

The third man, broad-shouldered and gruff, crossed his arms over his chest. “Management is well and good, but one cannot deny the beauty of the Bennet daughters. Miss Bennet is admired in three counties. Her loveliness is the subject of universal praise.”

The tall man turned a page of a journal. “Too much praise, perhaps. A sensible man needs an unassuming wife, not a paragon who draws the eye of every passing gentleman in three counties.”

Collins clutched his Tillotson tightly. It was true. A spectacularly beautiful wife would draw attention away from the sermons, and worse, away from the patroness. Lady Catherine preferred her clergy to be unremarkable.

“And what of Miss Elizabeth?” the second valet asked, replacing the history book on the shelf.

The broad-shouldered man chuckled, shaking his head with respect. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a marvel. Rumour has it that she has never obeyed anyone merely because they expected it. She forms her own opinions and yields to no earthly authority without a debate.”

The blood drained from Collins’s face. Yields to no earthly authority? Lady Catherine was the very definition of earthly authority! If Miss Elizabeth were introduced to the drawing-room at Rosings, she would likely debate her ladyship on the proper dimensions of a hedgerow. The resulting explosion would level the parsonage.

“A fearsome intellect,” the tall man agreed solemnly. “Much like Miss Mary. She might seem quiet, but she owns opinions enough for an archbishop. She corrects the local vicar on his doctrine weekly.”

Corrects the vicar? Collins swayed on his feet, leaning on the bookcase for support. A wife who corrected doctrine! A wife who debated authority! A wife who governed households!

The gruff man moved further down the aisle, thoughtfully perusing a display of agricultural texts. “I saw a rather spectacular goat outside the inn this morning. It had a very distinguished beard.”

The second valet nodded slowly. “A fine animal. But about the ladies, I must conclude that Hertfordshire breeds women of extraordinary independence. They are formidable. Even the younger ones. Exuberant and formidable, they are.”

The tall man closed the journal and placed it back on the display. “Indeed. Formidable women. They need husbands more stubborn than they are.”

The three men turned and exited the library, their laughter fading as they descended the stairs.

Collins remained wedged between the shelves, gasping for air.

Formidable. Independent. Accustomed to exercising their own judgement. Exuberant.

He abandoned his hiding place, his mind reeling with fear. He had nearly made a disastrous error -when he had considered offering his hand to Miss Lucas. He had even composed the opening lines of his proposal in his head! If he brought a woman who exercised independent judgement to Hunsford, Lady Catherine would detect the insubordination instantly. She would despise her; she would despise him for choosing her.

Miss Lucas was a snare, a matrimonial trap disguised in a sensible brown gown.

The Bennet daughters were equally perilous. A woman who obeyed no one, a woman who owned the opinions of an archbishop, and a beauty who commanded the attention of three counties. The younger ones did not signify. They would bring ruin on his head. They would not listen to Lady Catherine’s advice regarding their winter petticoats; they would formulate their own opinions on the matter.

He looked frantically around him. He was surrounded by danger. Hertfordshire was a county of unmanageable women. He could not remain here; he could not risk an accidental engagement to a woman who had a mind of her own. He must flee.

He staggered to the door, leaving his volume on a shelf. He must return to Hunsford and throw himself at Lady Catherine’s feet, confess his failure to find a suitable bride among his wild, independent cousins, and beg her to select one for him. Yes. That was the only safe course of action. She would know exactly which woman had the correct level of subservience and an appropriate lack of personal opinions. She would guide him.

He descended the creaking staircase, and stepped out into the chilly November air, walking rapidly back to Longbourn to pack his trunks.

A pang of regret pierced his panic, stinging him. He had practised his steps meticulously and perfected his form in the privacy of his guest bedchamber, anticipating the glorious moment he would display his elegant footwork to the assembled county. He had intended to point his toe exactly as the dancing master had instructed years ago. He had even polished his dancing shoes.

He would miss the music and the opportunity to demonstrate his superior agility to Mr Bingley and his distinguished guests.

Collins quickened his pace, ignoring the mud splashing against his stockings. A cotillion was temporary, but the wrath of Lady Catherine de Bourgh was eternal. He must secure his seat on the very next post-coach. Not even the Netherfield ball could keep him.