And with that declaration, she advanced at once to the plans she had already formed in her mind, treating their execution as inevitable, and the concurrence of all present as a foregone conclusion.
***
Mr. Collins had scarcely quitted the parlor at Rosings when, upon the spacious landing of the great staircase, he encountered Mr. Bingley, who appeared to have been lingering there with some design. The gentleman stepped forward at once, intercepting his path with an ease that bespoke anticipation rather than accident, and leaned a little nearer, addressing him in a lowered voice with an air of confidential good humor that invited openness rather than reserve.
“So,” Mr. Bingley began, smiling with unaffected anticipation, “we are very nearly fellow travelers, Mr. Collins. I have been hoping for a word with you in private, if I may be allowed. You must prepare yourself to be questioned without mercy, for I am heartily tired of hearing only general praises for properties in Kent. Tell me plainly—what sort of country do you propose to introduce me to?”
Mr. Collins brightened at once, pleased alike by the inquiry and the manner of it—and quietly gratified at the opportunity to speak of the neighborhood where his cousins resided, whose merits he could not but consider with partial affection.
“Hertfordshire, sir, is not a county that dazzles at first glance,” he replied with earnest warmth, “but it improves upon acquaintance—which, I am persuaded, is the soundest recommendation any place may possess. Its villages are well ordered, its society respectable without pretension, and its inhabitants—particularly those of the middle and clerical ranks—are disposed toward civility, improvement, and mutual consideration.”
“That already sounds promising,” Mr. Bingley replied cheerfully, his eyes lighting with genuine interest. “I ask for very little, you know. A house that feels my own, air that does not reproach one for breathing it, and neighbors who will dine with me without examining my pedigree too closely. And a garden fit for walking. Anything beyond that I consider a luxury.”
“You would find yourself very comfortably situated, I believe,” Mr. Collins assured him, his tone conveying quiet confidence. “Longbourn itself is a handsome property, though not to be let; but Netherfield Park—should you approve it—is admirably placed, with sufficient distance to ensure privacy, yet near enough to society to prevent stagnation. The walks are pleasant,the grounds well kept, and the house of a size to accommodate hospitality without encouraging ostentation.”
Mr. Bingley laughed lightly, his amiability undimmed. “Ostentation is exactly what I wish to avoid. I have two sisters in London who would gladly manage my household for me, should I allow it—but I confess the prospect alarms me more than solitude ever could. A little peace, Mr. Collins, is all I ask; peace, and the liberty to invite whom I please.”
Mr. Collins nodded with understanding that was perhaps a shade too earnest—his thoughts turning inevitably to the serene gentleness of his cousin Jane, whose disposition seemed so admirably suited to afford just such peace to a gentleman of Mr. Bingley’s open temper.
“Domestic harmony is a blessing too often undervalued, sir,” he observed gravely. “I have observed that when a gentleman’s establishment is governed by his own principles, rather than the anxieties of others, he is far more likely to enjoy both comfort and independence.”
“Well said,” Mr. Bingley replied, with a nod of appreciative agreement. “And independence is exactly what I hope to purchase with a lease.”
There was a moment’s pause, in which Mr. Collins, encouraged by Mr. Bingley’s openness, ventured upon a question of his own—prompted not merely by curiosity, but by a growing conviction that the reserved dignity of Mr. Darcy might find its counterpart in Elizabeth’s lively discernment.
“We shall travel, of course, in company with Mr. Darcy,” he said, with respectful curiosity. “May I ask—how exacting is he in his expectations? One hears various accounts.”
Mr. Bingley’s smile took on a new character: amused, affectionate, and faintly resigned. He leaned back, folding his arms with an air of indulgent recollection.
“You will hear it said,” he began, “that Darcy has no preferences at all—that nothing positively offends him, and that he is content wherever propriety is observed. It is true enough, as far as it goes; yet he is exceedingly difficult to persuade in many particulars. Convince him of a thing once, and he will never yield it again.”
Mr. Collins listened with the gravity of one receiving instruction, his expression one of attentive respect.
“His Achilles’ heel, however—if one may accuse him of such a weakness—is a dish so plain that no one would ever suspect it.”
Mr. Collins raised his brows, intrigued, his expression inviting the confidence with polite encouragement.
“Cold roast beef,” Mr. Bingley continued, lowering his voice still further, as though imparting a confidence of real consequence, “served with horseradish sauce. Aristocratic, yet sober; English to the marrow; neither ostentatious nor French, and decidedly not fashionable. It is eaten cold, which suits his temper exactly—nothing hurried, nothing indulgent. As for the horseradish, it demands a precision of hand that very few possess: rasped too coarsely it becomes violent, prepared too timidly it is insipid. Darcy will endure either without complaint—but he will never be satisfied.”
Mr. Collins could not suppress a faint smile of comprehension. “A discerning palate, then—though governed by principle.”
“Entirely,” Mr. Bingley agreed, with a chuckle. “Only one person ever made it to his mind: the cook his mother kept atPemberley. Mrs. Grant had learned the balance by heart—how long the beef must rest, when the root must be freshly grated, how the cream and vinegar must meet it at the very last moment. Lady Anne would never allow the method altered, and Darcy has never since found it replicated. He says nothing of it—but when the dish is set before him, you may observe whether it is done properly. He always knows.”
Mr. Bingley straightened again, his expression lightening with renewed cheer.
“It is a small thing, to be sure—but with Darcy, small things are often the most revealing.”
The clergyman considered this with thoughtful respect—his mind already forming quiet resolutions to ensure that any hospitality extended at Netherfield or Longbourn should reflect the care such discernment deserved.
“Then I shall take care,” he said gravely, “that nothing at Netherfield—should it become your concern—is hurried, careless, or ill-prepared. A gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s discernment deserves at least that degree of attention.”
Mr. Bingley laughed outright, clapping Mr. Collins lightly upon the shoulder in a gesture of spontaneous camaraderie.
“If you manage that, my friend, you will have secured his good opinion more firmly than half the houses in England.”
And with that, their conversation—having ranged from counties to kitchens, from principles to pot-roasts—settled into a comfortable understanding, each gentleman quietly pleased with the prospect of the journey before them.
***
