“Combed the blasted—er, bloody---, er, countryside, ma’am!” said Sam. “Not a trace of them.”
“Did you know Miss Anne has two suitors here for Christmas?” I asked.
They both nodded. “Her is a sweet little thing,” Abel offered. “Would love to fatten her up, though.”
“Have you seen either of those two gentlemen out here?” I asked, trying not to show my anxiousness at the question.
They looked at each other. “The beanpole one, yes,” said Abel. “I’ve seen him a few times hanging about here, asking a lot of silly questions.”
“Rather disrespectful, too,” Sam put in. “Even had the cheek to say Wilberforce should lose weight!”
Abel tutted in agreement, but clouted Sam across the head in an educational manner. “The ways of the Quality are not ours to understand,” he chided the younger man.
I chewed my lip thoughtfully. What in the world would Sir Francis want with a visit to the pig sty? He did not strike me as the type of man who had much interest in local farming.
I turned to go, and as I did, I saw a pair of bright eyes duck back into the nearby barn. A shy child, no doubt.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I have to go meet my husband now, but you have been very helpful.”
“Ah, Mr. Collins?” Abel asked.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling a brief flash of embarrassment. I was afraid I would be able to see a dislike of my husband in their eyes, which always made me feel shy and awkward. But they surprised me.
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Sam said.
“Rather a chatty young fellow,” said the equally garrulous Abel. “But he’s not too bad, ma’am. I like to see one of the Quality out in the garden instead of sitting inside playing cards.”
“One time our cow Daisy had broken out of her enclosure,” Sam put in. “And he charged across the field, lecturing her like he was at a Sunday sermon, and she turned right around and came right back home without further fuss.”
I couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t hear praise of my husband very often, and it touched me to hear it from Abel and Sam. Williamwasoften the first one to wade in with any domestic or rural trouble.
I made my way home, thinking about what they had said. Was Sir Francis the sort of man who would think letting two prize-winning pigs go was hugely amusing? I thought perhaps he was. I didn’t know much about young men, especially ones from London, but I knew he had a very juvenile sense of humor.
I also thought about what Abel and Sam had said about my husband. I thought that since I been married a year I was used to the looks on people’s faces when they were around Mr. Collins. He was too big and clumsy, his big body often barely fitting in sitting rooms and delicate couches, and everything else about him was clumsy, too. His praise of Lady Catherine went way beyond effusive, and landed somewhere into gratingly subservient.
Many people assumed he must be insincere in his praise, that he was just doing it to improve his standing with his patroness, and how could I tell them the truth? That after how he had been raised he was truly, deeply, heart-swellingly grateful for Lady Catherine giving him the Hunsford living? I couldn’t tell people that without sharing his cold, unfriendly childhood, so I said nothing, letting them think he was just an insincere flattering sycophant.
I tried to moderate him, to modulate his praise, but I didn’t want to press too hard. William was so proud and happy with everything he had—his house, his gardens, his position, the fact that we had dinner at Rosings twice a week, the fact that a great lady came to our home to give us tips on how big the portions of our meat should be. I didn’t want to discourage him from the joy he got in those things, especially since he had made such a plain, sensible choice in his wife. How could I criticize Lady Catherine’s advice when I knew perfectly well that it had been her advice to be sensible and not shallowly concerned with looks that had made him choose me?
I felt very lucky to have such a comfortable home. My husband was good to me, even though he did not love me.
Even though it was December, I felt sweaty and warm after going down to where Wilberforce and Julia had been kept, and felt an unaccustomed irritation as I prepared for dinner at Rosings.
When we arrived, Anne beckoned me into her luxurious room. “Have you been able to find out who took Mama’s acrostic necklace?”
“Not yet,” I said, a bit surprised that Lady Catherine had told Anne.
“Do you think either Mr. Radcliffe or Sir Francis did it?” she asked, her big eyes dilating at me.
I hesitated for a moment. I couldn’t see Mr. Radcliffe letting a pig out of its pen, but the two crimes were not necessarily connected. Perhaps the necklace had been stolen and the pigs sprung free on the same morning merely by coincidence.
“I am not sure who did it yet,” I said.
She let out a low breath. “I was just hoping for a little help,” she said in a small voice.
“Help with what?” I asked curiously.
“Deciding between them,” she said, so quietly I barely heard her.
