“Precisely. Though I would not object to meeting a few pleasant ladies in the process—ones whose conversation does not revolve solely around pianoforte practice or lace samples.”
James grinned. “Now who is describing unicorns?”
His brother chuckled. “No, merely hoping for companions who speak without simpering.”
“Then I wish you luck.” James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “As for me, I will smile where I must, bow when required, and pray that no one sees through my polite indifference.”
“You would be more comfortable if Mother had not filled your ears with expectations.”
“She has made no secret of her wish for a fine daughter-in-law,” James said wryly. “But a daughter of Pemberley? That would be a coronation. She would parade through Meryton with a crown of laurel and never speak kindly to Sir William Lucas again.”
“I believe she would settle for a modestly rich baron’s daughter,” Elias offered, deadpan.
They shared a brief, conspiratorial laugh—dry, familiar, and without malice. Beyond the window, the road curved past a low hedge and a sign for a market town barely large enough to merit one. A stand of trees whispered in the breeze, their late-summer leaves fluttering faintly gold.
Elias looked ahead. “Look. A large house on the rise—there, beyond the hedgerow. That must be Rosings, I suppose.”
James followed his gaze, frowning faintly at the sheer scale of the structure just visible through the summer haze.
“If it is not,” he said dryly, “then I should like to see the house that dares to dwarf it.”
Elias smiled. “In that case, we are nearly at Hunsford. Prepare yourself.” He settled back into his seat. “Brace yourself, James—we are entering the lion’s den by way of the rectory.”
***
The carriage creaked as it turned off the main road, its wheels crunching over the rutted drive that curved past a row of wind-bent hedges. A neat wooden gate, freshly painted and unnecessarily polished, stood open to welcome them. Beyond it, Hunsford Parsonage emerged: a modest, well-kept cottage, brick-faced and ivy-framed, its garden trimmed to within an inch of military order.
James took one glance and murmured, “That hedge has been terrorised.”
Elias smiled. “Charlotte’s hand, no doubt. She hates cutting textile fabric—why would she enjoy cutting hedges? Mr. Collins may boast of it, but she is the steward here. He has two left hands when hand labour is involved.”
The carriage slowed and came to a halt. Before the driver could descend, the front door of the parsonage burst open, and Mr. Collins himself appeared, arms already extended in welcome, his entire countenance alight with the satisfaction of having important guests.
“Mr. James Bennet! Mr. Elias Bennet!” he called, approaching at an eager pace, one hand raised as though to blessthem. “This is a signal honour, and a true joy to my humble home! Charlotte—my dear Charlotte, they are here!”
Mrs. Collins appeared a moment later, composed and unhurried, with one hand at her lower back and the other gently smoothing her apron. Her expression was tired but warm.
“James. Elias.” Her voice was calm, her eyes steady. “Welcome.”
Elias was first to step down and bow. “It is good to see you again, Charlotte—I mean, Mrs. Collins. You look well.”
He hesitated, noting the pallor behind her smile.
“As well as might be expected.” Her mouth curved.
“Which is to say,” her husband added philosophically, “as well as a woman can be in her confinement, married to a clergyman, and enduring Lady Catherine’s hourly opinions on the matter.”
James descended next, brushing dust from his coat and casting a sidelong look toward the looming silhouette of Rosings in the distance. “We passed a house on the rise—quite vast. We took it for Rosings.”
Mr. Collins swelled with pride. “Indeed, sir. Rosings Park is the architectural jewel of Kent. Her ladyship’s residence reflects not only her noble lineage, but also her refined sense of proportion and taste. I have lost myself in its corridors more than once. You will see it more closely tomorrow. But now—do come in!”
They were ushered inside without further delay. The entry hall was small but spotless, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. A child’s voice echoed faintly from an upper room, followed by a muffled thump and a nanny’s firm shushing. Mr. Collins made a vague gesture upward.
“My son, Nathanael. He is—energetic. Very spirited. Alas, too young yet to attend the festivities, though he clamoured most vigorously to wear his boots.”
James raised a brow. “How old is he now?”
“Three in autumn,” Charlotte answered. “With the lungs of a choir.”
