Page 52 of The Lost Prophecy

By the time they reached the High Street, Kitty had identified three red coats in the distance, Lydia had identified five, and Mr Collins had reached the subject of Lady Catherine’s preferred arrangement for preserving fruit.

Mrs Philips emerged from a draper’s shop before Elizabeth could steer the party home. She embraced Lydia and Kitty, kissed Mary, exclaimed over Elizabeth’s stay at Netherfield, and received Mr Collins with such delight that his comfortable living appeared to have been bestowed on the entire family.

“Our cousin from Kent,” Lydia announced. “He is to inherit Longbourn, but Papa has not died yet.”

Mrs Philips’s smile faltered only briefly. “How pleasant to meet you, Mr Collins.”

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” He bowed over her hand. “I have already been gratified by the warmth with which Mrs Bennet and her family have received me, despite the unfortunate legal arrangement which will one day place their home in my possession.”

Mrs Philips stared at him.

“He means the entail,” Elizabeth explained.

“Yes, indeed.” Her aunt recovered and took Mr Collins’s arm as though preventing him from explaining it further. “You must all come home with me for tea. I shall send word to your mother.”

“We cannot remain long,” Elizabeth began. “Jane is still recovering, and I promised...”

“We should be delighted,” Lydia answered, walking beside her aunt.

Kitty followed with equal speed. Mr Collins expressed gratitude on behalf of the whole party, leaving Elizabeth and Mary to accept an invitation which had acquired the force of an abduction.

Mrs Philips ushered them into her drawing room and ordered tea, cakes, and enough bread, and butter to sustain a regiment. Mr Collins examined the room with approval before his obligations to Rosings overcame him.

“A most comfortable apartment,” he pronounced, turning slowly under the central chandelier. “It resembles one of Lady Catherine’s smaller breakfast parlours, although her ladyship’s windows are taller.”

Mrs Philips sat forward. “You are often received at Rosings, then?”

“At least twice every week. Lady Catherine values my conversation and summons me when she wishes to impart guidance concerning the parish.”

Mrs Philips drew her chair closer when Mr Collins finally sat. Within moments, she had obtained a description of Rosings, its windows, chimney pieces, number of servants, and probable annual expenditure. Mr Collins answered every question with expanding importance.

Elizabeth settled next to Mary and enjoyed her temporary freedom.

“You might have found the Hunsford poultry shed interesting,” she murmured.

Mary opened the book she had brought with her. “I have no wish to observe chickens from an upper window.”

The arrival of several male voices in the entrance hall caused Lydia and Kitty to abandon the cake plate. Mr Denny entered first, followed by Mr Carter and a third officer whom Elizabeth had not seen before.

He was remarkably handsome. His features had an easy openness, and his smile moved through the room with warmth. He greeted Mrs Philips as though her invitation had rescued his day, bowed to Mary, listened attentively while Kitty reminded him of her name and allowed Lydia to present him to Elizabeth.

“Mr Wickham, this is my sister Elizabeth. Lizzy, Mr Wickham has only just joined the regiment, although everyone already knows him.”

“Not everyone, Miss Lydia.” Mr Wickham bowed. “But I am encouraged by the speed of your campaign.”

Lydia laughed and pulled Kitty to the sofa, where Mr Denny and Mr Carter had seated themselves. Mrs Philips summoned more tea, Mr Collins rose to another introduction, and the room reorganised itself around the officers.

Mr Wickham received the information that Mr Collins was a clergyman with suitable respect. “Hunsford, you say? I believe I have heard of the parish.”

Mr Collins had been advancing towards him, but he stopped several feet away.

His expression changed with no apparent cause. He glanced at Mr Wickham, then at the chair, and moved that chair backwards before sitting. When Mr Wickham approached to shake his hand, Mr Collins reached for the tea table instead and pulled it between them.

“I am honoured,” Mr Wickham said, allowing his hand to fall.

“Yes.” Mr Collins cleared his throat. “Quite.”

Elizabeth stared at him. She had known Mr Collins for little more than a day, but the discovery that he had a one-word answer deserved investigation.