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William Collins had never known a morning like it. The sun, pale and wintry though it might be, nonetheless streamed through the window to his study with viciousness brightness, jabbing at his eyes so that they stung, and making his head, already weak and foggy, flare with pain.
What possessed me to sleep in my study? he thought, staring about him groggily, as if he was surprised to find himself there, and not in his bed, where he ought to have awoken. His shoulders and back attested to the truth of the fact that he had, indeed, chosen to sleep hunched over his desk, rather than in the usual manner, and he struggled to recall if he had been busy at work on a sermon the night before. Occasionally his work, or his attempt to appease Lady Catherine and meet all of her editorial recommendations had caused him to work late into the night, but no, his desk was clear.
The previous evening came back to him in pictures, flashes of memory that caused him almost as much pain as the sunlight when he strove once more to open his eyes. They had dined at Rosings, he and Charlotte, and Elizabeth Bennet. Of course, his cousin was come to stay with them. Well, that was hardly a reason for him to vacate his own room: they had plenty of accommodations for guests, particularly one who travelled as modestly as Elizabeth had.
He recalled, then, his irritation at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s apparent good-terms with Charlotte, and how he had reached for the brandy not once, not twice...
With a groan, he fell back in his seat. He was a fool and a-a drunkard! It was hardly worth crediting. He, William Collins, who had lectured more than one man on the vices of liquor had fallen prey to it himself, and in the presence of his friends and - worse still - Lady Catherine.
His eyes fluttered shut, as if he might block out his remembrances with his vision, but alas, they came after him still. His twittering about Miss de Bourgh’s playing, and his nominating Charlotte for her turn and then - his crowning glory - bullying his poor wife into the piano seat, and causing her so much anxiety that the only path open to her was to flee in tears. Shame coursed through his veins and he felt a sharp prick of something that might, in a weaker man, have been tears. You were a bully, sir! he lectured himself. He, who had so often been on the receiving end of such treatment: from his father, from his so-called friends at school. He had now done the same to his own wife, who was so dear and sweet always, and deserved far better treatment than to be put on display in a manner she did not wish to be. He knew Charlotte to enjoy music as much as any other woman, but she had never professed a particular fondness for playing other than for her own amusement. She had never before shown any interest in playing for Lady Catherine, nor had he ever felt the urge to encourage her to.
“I shall apologise,” he whispered, launching himself upright with such determination that the room spun and it was all he could do to plonk unceremoniously back down in his seat, raising a hand to his head and waiting for the spinning to subside. “In a little while. I shall apologise in a little while.” He raised himself up again, more slowly this time, and shuffled out into the corridor, calling for his valet in a voice that was scratchy and hoarse, another personal penance for his foolishness.
Once he had drunk the entirety of his water jug, washed and dressed, he felt a fraction more like himself, but could not abide the notion of breakfasting on anything more substantial than a crust of bread.
“Please advise Mrs Collins that I shall not be at breakfast this morning,” he said to the servant who attended him with a tray in his room. “She and Miss Bennet must not wait on my account.”
“They did not, sir,” his servant said, with a brief bow. “I believe the ladies breakfasted early, in Mrs Collins’ parlour. They are there at present, I believe.”
“They have?” Mr Collins hoped his disappointment was not as evident to his servant as it seemed to be to his own ear. He had thought himself magnanimous, had hoped his encouragement to his wife might be the first step on the road to the apology he was still busy forming. “I mean, it is good that they have. Yes. Good.” He cleared his throat and pushed his plate to one side. “Perhaps I will make my way down and call on them there in a little while. I think I may sit here a little longer and attend to some writing if you would be so good as to fetch me my pen and a few sheets of paper.”
The man did as instructed, and Mr Collins fell to work. He always felt better with his pen in his hand and found his thoughts, usually a jumble of all that he wished to and all he ought to say or do, found some measure of organisation when written out in the elegant cursive he prided himself on having learnt.
My dear Charlotte, he began, before pausing, shaking his head (a motion he regretted almost as soon as he had done it) and crumpling the sheet of paper and discarding it. He had never been one for overly flowery professions of love, and he doubted his wife, pragmatic as he knew her to be, would care for them, particularly in the form of an apology. How best, then, to begin? My wife? My dear wife? Neither seemed quite right. Eventually, contenting himself that the perfect was the enemy of the good, he settled for the simplest option. Mrs Collins, he began. I must apologise for my ill-judged actions of this previous evening...
***
ELIZABETH HURRIED BACK down to Charlotte’s parlour. She had only been gone a few moments, just as long as it had taken her to hurry up to her room and collect a book that she had been speaking of to her friend, but she was reluctant to leave Charlotte alone for any longer than necessary. She could tell that her friend was still a little upset after what had happened the previous evening, and she could see dark circles etched beneath Charlotte’s eyes, suggesting she had slept little that night. She would not be pressed on her feelings, though, at least, not yet, and so Elizabeth determined that they would speak on happier things, and allow many times of quiet between them, so that Charlotte might feel free to speak of what she wished, when she wished. Lizzy pursed her lips. But she would only do so if she, Elizabeth, were in the room.
So intent was she on keeping her footing on the steep staircase that she did not spot Mr Collins until she had almost barrelled directly into him, and with her speed and momentum it was a miracle she did not, stopping at the last moment and exclaiming,
“Oh! Mr Collins, forgive me!”
He had winced and stepped aside, raising a hand to his head as if in surprise. His features, too, betrayed his discomfort, and there was a faint grey tinge to his cheeks, his usually ruddy complexion pale.
“Are you -” Lizzy swallowed the urge to laugh, feeling a wave of surprising sympathy at Mr Collins’ plight, however self-inflicted it might be. “Are you quite well, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice weakly betraying his assertion. “I am quite...quite well, thank you, Elizabeth.”
“Good.” Lizzy folded her arms around the book she had run to fetch, hugging it into her chest and regarding her host with curiosity. “Did you wish to speak to us, Mr Collins? Your wife is within, I am sure she will not object to your joining us.” This was not entirely true, but Lizzy knew that, if presented with her husband, Charlotte would not prevent his entrance, and she might somehow engineer to broker a peace between the two spouses.
“Oh, no!” Mr Collins laughed, but the response seemed to have been a challenge. “I would not dream of imposing on her personal space - that is, I do not wish to prevent you enjoying your time together...ladies...discussing...things...” He struggled for words to effectively illustrate his point, and in the end, abandoned it altogether. “I wonder, though, Elizabeth, if you might be willing to do me a small favour. I have this note.” He thrust his hand forward, clutching a thin piece of paper so tightly that it creased. “I wonder if you would be good enough to pass it on to my - to Mrs Collins.”
Can you not give it to her yourself? Lizzy felt the urge to ask, but instead, she nodded, and took the scrap of paper, promising that it would progress straight to Charlotte’s hand this very moment. She mustered the effort to once again invite Mr Collins to come in with her, but before she had laid her hand on the doorknob, he turned and scurried away, so that she was left regarding nought but the empty corridor. Once more I cannot begin to think you deserving of the affections of my friend, Mr Collins, she silently told the retreating figure of her cousin, and it was this sigh of frustration that was on her lips as she entered the sitting room.
“Here it is!” Lizzy said, brandishing the book with a smile, as Charlotte glanced up at her. “And -” she paused, her eyes falling upon the note as she strove to smooth out its creases. Almost before she had realised it she had read its first few lines and her heart sank. Why, it was so formal! So dry! More like a letter one might write to a servant than to one’s own wife. Lizzy’s resolve returned to her twice as strong as it had the previous evening, and she determined to act, and act now, before Mr Collins could contrive to make matters worse between he and his wife than they already were.
“And what?” Charlotte asked, with a laugh of faint amusement. “Do not leave me on tenterhooks, Lizzy, what else besides the book?”
“I found - I found this note,” Elizabeth said, reaching into her sleeve with an expert sleight of hand and retrieving the note she herself had penned the previous evening, having slipped into this very room unnoticed and consulted Charlotte’s poetry book for a particularly pretty verse to use as a template. It was this note, and not Mr Collins’ formal sermon of apology that she passed to the unsuspecting Mrs Collins. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think it is from your husband, who I believe is most apologetic over his behaviour last evening.”
Charlotte sniffed, as if she did not share Lizzy’s belief, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she reached out for both book and note, and glanced over the letter with feigned disinterest. Lizzy watched her friend carefully and was gratified to see Charlotte’s brows climb, first in confusion, then in disbelief, and at last, matched with the ghost of a smile and a faint pink tinge to her cheeks, with delight.
“Well, might we forgive him?” Lizzy asked, affecting to examine the cuffs of her dress as if testing a loose thread. Every one of her senses was, in reality, attuned to Charlotte, and she was gratified to hear her friend’s voice catch a little as she responded.
“He has - he has written me a charming note, Lizzy. Quite - quite the nicest note he has ever written to me, in fact.” She shook her head, in disbelief. “He must be quite sorry indeed.”
Smiling mischievously, Lizzy leaned a little closer to her friend.
“I am sure you would have run, tearful, from Lady Catherine many weeks previously if you had known it would elicit such a response in your husband!”
This was quite scandalous and both girls laughed uproariously.
“Now, I shall not ask to see it for you know I believe such correspondence should remain between husband and wife. But I am glad to see you on happier terms. Perhaps we will invite Mr Collins to join us on our walk later on, for I do not doubt he is in need of a little fresh air and exercise to rid him of his ill-feeling.”
“Oh, I hope he does not suffer too badly,” Charlotte said, her sympathy returning with all haste. “Perhaps I ought to go and see if he requires any assistance.”
“Would that you might!” Elizabeth said. “I am afraid he ran away as soon as he noticed my approach.” She winked. “I believe he was attempting to find the courage to present this letter to you himself. Or perhaps to recite it!” She clasped her hands to her chest in a mimed passion. “Who knew that in the body of sensible Curate Mr Collins lay the heart of a romantic!”
The notion of Mr Collins as anything even close to sentimental would ordinarily have been a source of great amusement to Lizzy, but the effect this letter had wrought on her friend made her almost wish it were true. Perhaps, now that her meddling had had so great an impact she would tackle Mr Collins next. A few choice suggestions here, a sprinkling of You know, Lady Catherine thinks it a fine thing, there, and she might transform Mr Collins into something like the husband Charlotte deserved.
Delighted in her plan, Lizzy allowed Charlotte to chatter happily about her books and her sewing, little hearing a word but noticing only that her friend seemed, for the first time in a long time, truly happy.