He stopped himself, coughed lightly, and resumed with visible effort. “That is to say—refreshment is always restorative after travel.”
Papa’s eyebrow rose a fraction.
Elizabeth, watching closely now, felt the distinct sensation of a sentence postponed rather than abandoned.
Tea arrived in a flurry of cups and polite fussing, Mama presiding with particular satisfaction as Mr Collins accepted his cup as though it were a sacrament.
“I am much obliged,” he said gravely. “Nothing fortifies the constitution so reliably as a properly conducted domestic table.”
Papa murmured something agreeable and leaned back in his chair.
Mr Collins cleared his throat. “I ought, perhaps, to begin by explaining the circumstances under which I have undertaken this visit,” he said. “Not merely as a relation, but as one whose position places him in a certain—ah—responsibility toward the family.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her saucer. A faint pulse stirred at her temple again—there and gone before she could do more than notice it. She resumed the motion at once.
Mama brightened at once. “Responsibility! How very considerate.”
“Yes. Indeed.” Mr Collins inclined his head, pleased to be encouraged. “I am, as you know, in holy orders—and it is in that capacity that I enjoy the singular advantage of serving as rector to a most distinguished patroness.”
Papa lifted his teacup. “Ah.”
Mr Collins’s chest expanded. “Yes, I had the honour of writing of her to you, Mr Bennet, but I would very much like to indulge your family with the magnanimity of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. The name meant nothing—and yet Collins had spoken it as though it ought to. The pressure returned, no stronger than before, and she shifted slightly in her chair, attributing it to the stiffness of sitting so long after illness.
Mama, never one to leave a silence unused, leaned forward. “And LadyCatherine is—?”
“A lady of rank, fortune, and the most elevated sense of propriety,” Mr Collins supplied at once. “She resides at Rosings Park in Kent, where her benevolence is felt far and wide. Her interest in the moral improvement of those beneath her care is both constant and comprehensive.”
Papa’s mouth twitched. “Indeed! And such a person has taken an interest in your humble self, sir? Why, that is indeed a boon.”
“I am fortunate,” Mr Collins continued, warming to his theme, “to enjoy her guidance in all matters of conduct. Few men are so privileged as to receive instruction so… personally delivered.”
Mary leaned forward. “Does Lady Catherine take an interest in theological discourse?”
“Oh, most ardently,” Mr Collins replied. “Indeed, she frequently condescends to offer suggestions—not merely upon sermons, but upon household arrangements, decorum, and the proper regulation of family life.”
Mama looked faintly awed. “How very kind.”
“Yes,” Papa said. “Condescension is a rare gift.”
Mr Collins nodded and set down his cup carefully. “Precisely. It was at her encouragement that I resolved to renew acquaintance with my cousins. Family harmony is a subject she esteems greatly.”
Papa inclined his head. “A noble sentiment.”
“Quite.” Mr Collins hesitated—just a moment too long—then continued with visible restraint. “There are… connections, you see. Associations of some significance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to his face. The faint ache returned once more, sharper only in its persistence, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to indulge it.
Connections to what?
Mr Collins seemed to feel the question pressing upon him from all sides—and resisted it, with a very great flourish. “But,” he concluded briskly, “such matters are best discussed when all parties are properly present. It would be quite premature to speak at length.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her teacup.
Mama, however, was already nodding. “Of course. One must never be premature.”
Mr Collins relaxed, satisfied. The explanation—postponed, not abandoned—settled into the room like a wrapped parcel set carefully aside. Tea was not going to be the most exhausting part of his visit.
