He had honestly not expected the parson to show his face. True, as Miss Elizabeth had said, this Mr. Collins could not be a sensible man. Still, the effrontery required to invite himself to Longbourn and then to ignore the master’s refusal to host him! Of all the conceited presumptions!
Having heard a coach of some sort approaching, he had followed Bennet to a window in the drawing room that overlooked the entryway. And there Mr. Collins stood, bold as brass, loitering before the entrance because Bennet had instructed Mr. Hill not to open the door.
The man lifted a walking stick and used the metal head to knock three times.
“Why does he not employ the knocker?” Bennet grumbled. “He will damage the wood.”
Mr. Collins was a large man, but not in the same manner as Darcy. He was as tall as Fitzwilliam and twice as wide. Broad, but soft. Not ill-favoured, but not handsome. Dressed in sombre clothing but with an extravagantly tied cravat, as though he could not entirely dampen his enthusiasm for fashionable things. It was all that prevented Mr. Collins from being entirely unremarkable.
“He is younger than I expected,” Darcy muttered to Bennet. The man had to be his own age if not a few years younger. “His writing style was so . . .”
“Pompous?” Bennet asked with a snort. “Do you have your coat?”
“I requested it . . .” Darcy began as he followed Bennet to the corridor. Mr. Hill was waiting with Darcy’s very large, very heavy greatcoat. The servants had done a remarkable job cleaning their outerwear after their work at the mill, and he had been sure to compensate them for the additional trouble. They had always treated him well, but now they seemed almost eager to assist.
Darcy bent his knees so that the elderly servant could reach to help him with his outerwear. He stooped a little further so Mr. Hill could properly arrange the collar.
At last, Mr. Hill stepped back.
“Are we going somewhere?” Darcy asked. He looked around. “Fitzwilliam is not here.”
“Your cousin knows that promptness is essential. Even Mr. Collins was true to his time. Fitzwilliam shall have to find his own fun.”
The parson knocked again. It might have been Darcy’s imagination, but this second knock sounded impatient.
Bennet shook his head at Mr. Hill and opened the door himself. Mr. Collins’s stick was still raised in mid-air.
The man lowered it and straightened his coat. “I am Mr. William Collins.” He peered at Bennet. “You do not look like a butler.”
“That is because I am not,” Bennet responded boisterously. “Who did you say you are?”
“Mr. William Collins,” the man began again. “I am expected.”
“By whom?” Bennet asked, then pushed himself outside, Darcy just behind. He felt a perverse sort of satisfaction when Mr. Collins blinked up at him and took a step back.
“By Mr. Bennet, of course. I wrote a few weeks ago to tell him I would arrive today.”
Bennet narrowed his eyes. “Did he invite you?”
“He did say there were other visitors, but I was quick to alleviate any anxiety on that score. I am the heir to this fine estate.”
“You are not Mr. Bennet’s son,” the general said, stroking his chin. “You cannot be the heir.”
“I am next in line to inherit,” Mr. Collins replied. “Therefore, I am the heir. My position as a clergyman and my patronage by the excellent Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park are circumstances highly in my favour, and I insist you allow me to enter!”
Darcy coughed. He had not read Mr. Collins’s letter himself, so he had not been aware that this imbecile had a connection to his own aunt, his mother’s overbearing, prideful eldest sister.
“Ah, you are the heirpresumptive,” Bennet said.
Mr. Collins blinked.
“You shall have to excuse us,” Bennet added, his words clipped. “We are on our way out.”
Darcy’s mind was awhirl. His mother, Lady Anne, had been entirely neglected by her eldest sister. She was nothing more than an afterthought to his querulous aunt, the youngest sister who had not only made the mistake of not being born the spare but had also made the least financially advantageous marriage.
“Keep your coat on,” Bennet said. “You will have to come with us, Collins.”
“That is Mr. Collins to you,” the parson sputtered. “I must insist that you introduce me to Mr. Bennet. Immediately!”There was a flurry at the doorway before Fitzwilliam skidded to a halt next to them. He was already in his coat. “Are we off, then?” He stepped up to Mr. Collins until they were almost nose to nose. “Who are you?”