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Posted on Sunday, 9 December 2001

Faithful readers of Pride and Prejudice will remember all too uneasily of the little man who, with much pomp and ceremony, proclaimed the advent of a certain young "olive branch". So much speculation has been given to the livelihood and happiness of a certain Mr. and Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley, and of the rivaling joys of a certain Mr. and Mrs. Bingley of Netherfield, and yet, the authoress cannot help but wonder at the lack of similar, idle interest into the enviable comforts of Mr. and Mrs. Collins of Hunsford Parsonage. Let there be no mistake-this ensuing novelette shall have nothing to do with the trials and tribulations experienced by the latter happy couple-Rather, there shall be indubitable attention placed upon the life of their so-called "olive branch". However, the kindly authoress wishes to remind all readers that this is not a story to be filled with little Lizzys, little Janes, little Charles or little Fitzwilliams. Expect no beauty, no money, nor wits. This will be a story focused on one star alone. Let other pens dwell on the joys of the ridiculously rich and fortunate kids. This pen shall remain most humbly faithful to the Tales of Hunsford, and its heroine.

Chapter One

A singularly remarkable day, a singularly remarkable place-Such was the situation under which was born the first, and only, child of the Reverend William Collins and his wife. Mrs. Collins, latterly Miss Lucas of Lucas Lodge, Hertfordshire, had been silently knitting in the grand sitting room at Rosings Park, attending to yet another one of Lady Catherine de Bourgh's words of wisdom in regards to spring pruning, when the first signs came about to show that things were amiss.

Foremost, it had been the first day of summer. The summer solstice was, as Reverend Collins had just recently preached, a mysterious day-One upon which pagan sacrifices were made to God.

Second, Mrs. Collins had missed a stitch. It was not something that she ever did. Calm, practical as she was, she never ever made a mistake in the ways of knitting and needlework, and so, it was to no one's surprise when she gave out a rather bizarre little cry over her first error.

"What is the matter?" asked Lady Catherine de Bourgh in irritation, for she was unused to being curtailed in her manifestos. "What is it with you Mrs. Collins? I took you to be of a little more politeness than this, to interrupt me in my words."

Mrs. Collins, face quite blanched, held up the little coverlet that she had been working on, unable to speak at all. Meanwhile, her husband, the devoted clergyman, rushed into a hasty rush of insincerities and apologies.

"Oh stop it you fool," Mrs. Collins was reportedly heard to utter under her breath. "It is coming"

Had it been any other time, Mr. Collins would have been furious at being called a fool, but his wife's grave announcement quelled all such indignity. "What is come?" Reverend Collins asked in bewilderment. In his heart, of course, he knew that it was his Son and Heir, the little baby who would grow up to become a great, educated, wealthy young man, who would inherit Longbourn after him, and bring great fame to their family name.

There was no time to bring Mrs. Collins upstairs to one of the rooms. A surgeon was quickly sent for, Mrs. Collins was made to lie down upon Lady Catherine's very good Oriental rug, and all other womenfolk were sent out of the room.

Needless to say, after an hour of difficulties, Lady Catherine no longer desired to keep the rug she had bought at a very good Oriental shop. Instead, she gave it to the Collins as a token of her generosity. At least, it was to her generosity that Mr. Collins attributed the receipt of such a handsome, if not soiled, gift. (He never could understand afterwards why his wife would not let him put it up in their snug little parlour at the parsonage. "No," Charlotte Collins replied firmly, even seventeen years after the event, "I should rather sell it to a fool than to have it displayed in our house for all to laugh at.")

The disappointment felt by Mr. Collins was all too keen when he discovered that a daughter had taken precedence over a son.

Many restless nights did he try to deal with the fact that he would have no one to take Longbourn after him, except for what ever distant relation of his who might lay claims to the place after him. He took comfort in the fact that at least, William was not such a name that would be too difficult to revert into one of a more feminine tune.

"I refuse to call our daughter Williama," his wife said in disbelief, upon hearing his suggestion. "I shall not christen her by that name. No, nor Catherine, nor Charlotte neither."

At last, the couple settled on Frances Maria. Frances was the name of Mr. Collins' late mother, and Maria was a perfectly holy appellation, in his opinion. Charlotte reflected. The name Maria would remind her of her favourite sister, who had lately made such a promising match with a dashing young widower, and heir to a rich uncle out in Somerset.

The news of the birth of a girl was an unending source of joy to Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, who had always felt that Mr. and Mrs. Collins deserved the lack of a male heir. At least, if Mr. Collins was to take Longbourn away from her and cast off her and her children, his wife and child would experience the same sort of entailment horror. And then, after so many years, as the Collins ceased to have any more children (now, one could hardly blame Charlotte Collins for that), Mrs. Bennet had the benefit of knowing that there would be no rich siblings to rescue young Miss Frances Maria Collins out of her penniless fate.

Despite all this, or rather, in ignorance of all this, Franny led a relatively happy childhood, with only three major items to shatter a bit of that joy. The first was the breaking an ankle during a fall when she was ten; she had been obliged to stay indoors for a full six months with no prospects of playing outside. The second was the obligation to attend church service above twice a week because of her father's profession. The third was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. (Need one ask why?) Thus, up until the age of sixteen, she had led a relatively sheltered life, not unlike other young, brotherless, sisterless daughters of the world. It had its ups and downs.

And Franny would not have wanted it any other way, but for an event that changed her life around entirely upon her seventeenth birthday. It was the sudden engagement of Aunt Anne that made Franny question her own existence.

Aunt Anne was not really her aunt. In fact, Aunt Anne was Lady Catherine de Bourgh's daughter, a sickly, ugly thing, if one would recall properly from one's previous acquaintance with her. There had not been anything to recommend her, except her money, the possibilities of inheriting Rosings Park, the promise of a haggling mother-in-law, and the history of being jilted by another man (her cousin). To top that off, she had been ill and frail all her life. So it was that the entire world threw its eyes open in an expression of utmost astonishment when forty-year old Miss de Bourgh, arriving at Franny Collins' seventeenth birthday on the arm of a retired naval officer, announced that they were engaged, nay, had secretly married, and had come back only to see Franny, and to pack up Miss de Bourgh's Mrs. James Hunte's things.

Franny had been both elated and dismayed by the news. She had loved Miss de Bourgh just as intensely as she had hated Miss de Bourgh's mother. In spite of Lady Catherine's coldness and severity, she had found warmth and comfort by Miss de Bourgh's side-except of course, the times when Miss de Bourgh was truly very sick and could not leave her room. But, her lovely Aunt Anne had always doted on Franny, lavishing her with the little gifts of kindness that Lady Catherine had never learned to give, and at times, Franny was almost afraid to admit to her own practical mother that Aunt Anne was as dear to her as the woman who gave her life.

Franny should have known, of course, that when her uncle Mr. Somerset and Aunt Maria came to visit Hunsford the previous summer, bringing along with them naval captain James Hunte, something of this nature would happen. Never had she seen Aunt Anne so active, so full of vigour and life and spirit-and music!-as when James Hunte happened to be close by. Franny had even once caught Aunt Anne cutting a lock of hair and kissing it before wrapping it in a handkerchief, and it was a shame, thought Franny, that she had not realized it then. She was losing her closest friend, and she did not like the thought of it, even if she were to lose this friend to a deserving man who had sailed at Trafalgar. (Franny herself was rather partial to the tales relating to the naval feats of Lord Nelson.)

Aunt Anne had laughed a little when Franny confessed this to her.

"I'll always be your friend, no matter how far apart we may be in miles," she said, sniffling a bit. "James promises to be very good to me. We shall have you come and visit us when you come to Bath. I will always have my best spare room furnished for you, my dear Franny."

Franny's father had sniffed at this when he heard Franny recount the joyful news to Mrs. Collins.

"I certainly shall not have it so," proclaimed the reverend. "No clergyman's daughter ought to been seen in Bath, let alone pay visits to a family so wholly unconnected to her."

"I shall not be to visiting just any family. I shall be there to visit Mrs. Hunte. And other than that, I do not care a whit whether I am seen or not. No one there shall know me, let alone realize that I am a clergyman's daughter." Franny had grown up with a bit of her mother's practicality in her brain, as well as a sort of daring from somewhere in her nature unblemished by Reverend William Collins' own. Her father had stared at her with a look mixed with shame and horror, and then ordered her to stay in her room, and not come down for supper. Pouting, Franny trudged upstairs.

"You can't mean that," Franny heard her mother plead downstairs. "That is really quite unfair. On her birthday too? Could you not at least postpone such a punishment for the morrow?"

"She is trying to be smart with me, and I shall not have it," Mr. Collins answered indignantly. "What are little girls good for? Better that she starve and be humbled before the sight of the Lord, before she makes a fool of the rest of her family."

"She is seventeen. Besides, what she said was not so foolish, Mr. Collins."

"Aye, but to have uttered them within the hearing of Lady Catherine de Bourgh? What must my dearest patroness think of all this? She must believe my child to be the very little heathen, most uneducated in the world. No, I am resolved that Frances Maria must be punished."

Franny, crouching at the top landing of the staircase, winced. She hated it whenever her father called her Frances Maria. Each name by themselves were pretty enough, but together, it made her sound as though she belonged in a nunnery-and Ophelia she was not.

"Then at least punish her in a more impressionable way," said Mrs. Collins soothingly, though Franny could not mistaken the tension underlying her mother's voice. "Starving her, why starving your own child-I am sure that before the sight of God, it would be much more suitable if you sent her to be educated, so that she may become what you hope her to be. Denying her sustenance would be as great a cruelty as ever that I did hear of."

There was a bit of silence, and then Mr. Collins sighed. Franny could imagine him shaking his head to himself as he was wont to do, and then quote a few lines from scripture, attribute them to his merciful patroness, and then, aloud,

"Call the girl down, my dear Charlotte."

At this, Franny dashed into her room, and waited for her mother to fetch her.

"Have you heard all?" Mrs. Collins asked, walking in with a slightly bemused smile. Her eyes were warm, her arms ready for an embrace.

"I don't suppose I'd wish to lie," said Franny lightly, giving her mother a kiss.

"You are really quite unmanageable," her mother replied, stroking her child's hair. "I don't know how it is that you've grown so headstrong. You quite remind me of my friend when she was still Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Why, she had a defiance that I should have liked to have had I only the will to accept it. I was too practical for my own good though, always. But there, I suppose, at seventeen, you are nearly a grown-up, and I must not treat you like a little child all the time. One of these days, I suppose you will surprise us as much as Miss de Bourgh has done today."

"I shall not want it," said Franny decidedly. Such a thought made her shudder in horror. "All the boys in Kent are-" She stopped herself in time.

Mrs. Collins laughed, placing a finger over her child's mouth. "Dreadful, aren't they? I would have said so myself, but not in your father's presence. Now, you will try to be repentant, and make amends with your father. You know how it is. You will be obliged to attend church more often this week, I dare say, but do it for me, so that I may never have the fear of knowing that my own child is being punished in some other way."

Franny promised. What else could she have done? But secretly, she wished that Aunt Anne and Captain Hunte had come and taken her away with them. It wasn't that she wished to be as bad as one of her father's cousins. She certainly had no desires to flee her home in a scandalous fashion, but it would be nice to leave Hunsford for once. She would dearly like to see the Lakes, and country around Derbyshire as well, but they were out of reach in terms of Aunt Anne's new situation. And Franny was not going to ask her father's cousin, Mrs. Darcy.

It was not that she held anything against Mrs. Darcy. If anything, she liked Mrs. Darcy. She was a woman of the upper echelon of society without the typical sort of haughtiness that was so inherent in all of Lady Catherine's acquaintances. Of Mrs. Darcy's children, though, the same could not be said. There was not a bunch of worse, more snobbish children around. Her father's cousins, the Bingleys, were angelic playmates. The Darcys were a horror.

Franny remembered the first time when she met the three Darcy children. She had been eleven. The others were ten, eight and six. William, the oldest, had haughtily called her the stupidest girl he'd ever met, because her father was the slowest turtle in the world. He'd heard the servants say so, and servants knew everything. Little Bennet and Little Bella had followed suit, copying their brother's example. Franny, growing very red, had actually defended her father. Though she did not admire her father, there was a sort of involuntary loyalty and affection she held for Reverend Collins, and so, she would not stand such teasing.

She boxed William on the ear.

William never told, of course. It would have hurt his pride too much to allow others to know that he had been beaten by a mere girl, a clergyman's daughter, but he never forgave his assailant. Franny found that William Darcy at sixteen was just at obnoxious and ready as ever to set her in her place. He still called her Miss Holiness in a most disdainful way, and made no efforts towards civility above what was required by politeness. (His parents and her parents all thought that William's nickname for Franny was rather cute, and did not realize that there existed any animosity between their children.) The worst of it was that on the night of Franny's birthday, after her father's imposed, and then released grounding, she was obliged to go with her parents to sup at Rosings Park.

The sudden loss of a daughter had been a great trial to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but at least now that she was reconciled with her exceedingly wealthy nephew, she could take solace in something else. Lady Catherine welcomed her nephew Darcy, greeted Mrs. Darcy with cold, but polite, manners, and welcomed the brood of children as her own. For young Master Darcy, she had grand designs. She saw something of her late sister in the child's profile, and also the fine manners of the Fitzwilliams in his words and demeanor. She could not let such assets go to waste.

"You will send him to Cambridge of course," said Lady Catherine, smiling affectionately at her nephew's oldest son, who was pleased with the attention. "A boy must not always be taught by his mother at home."

"Undoubtedly," replied Mrs. Darcy coldly. "William has been at school these last three years, and has had a superior education. He is merely with us because he is on his holiday. But as to being taught by his mother, I should hope that my children shall never grow so 'educated' and haughty as to suppose his mother's teachings inferior to that of his masters."

"No, certainly not, but I would not dote on my own son so much if I had the blessing of a son. A boy must learn to become a man on his own, without his mother's guiding hand." Lady Catherine nodded at no one in particular. "That I can say, and safely too, was the upbringing of my nephew your husband. Darcy makes no ninny. You see how well he has turned out."

"Thank you ma'am," Mr. Darcy replied, quietly mortified by this address, and an awkward pause ensued.

Relief was not at hand.

"If it is not of too much of an intrusion on the part of a clergyman to say," broke in Franny's father in his usual clumsy way, "I would dare say that on the whole, upon the whole, education cannot be deemed a finer thing, for what would become of all man, women too, but all Man, what would become of our kind if education were not there for us to flourish our talents so that we may better serve our Lord?"

"No one denies the merits of education," answered Mrs. Darcy. Franny saw that something about her eyes indicated a suppressed tempest. "You must be so good as not to suppose I could downplay the benefits of good schooling. Your kind, after all, is much too st-genteel for that, I gather."

"Naturally, naturally, and that is why, my fair cousin, I do believe-"

As if her father's display was not embarrassing enough, at this most unlucky moment, Franny knocked down her glass, spilling her drink clear across the plate next to hers-conveniently Miss Bella's plate. William's face broke into a genuine look of delight, though all the adults were quite vexed by Franny's bungling.

"Oh, Franny!" vain little Miss Bella exclaimed, darting up and examining her new dress. "Franny, how could you be so clumsy?"

"Bella Darcy," cried Mrs. Darcy, with a face as red as Franny's, "That is no way to speak to a lady. Please apologize immediately."

"Oh must I?" Bella asked, her twelve-year old narcissism smarting a great deal upon hearing this news. "But William says we may never need to apologize to those beneath us."

Young Bella Darcy could hardly be blamed for such an innocent observation. She had, after all, only followed her revered brother's example. Her brother had, in turn, been quite bright enough since his infancy to pick up his father's and mother's unspoken, but mutual, contempt of the foolish, foppish Mr. Collins. It never occurred to him that despite his parents' dislike of Mr. Collins, their disdain did not extend against Mrs. Collins or her daughter also. Thus, coupled with the blow he had suffered at age ten, lay the root cause of Master William's striking dislike of Miss Frances Maria Collins.

Rising to the occasion, Franny apologized to Bella. She knew that it was exactly the sort of thing her parents expected her to do, and it would be the only thing to allay a bit of Lady Catherine's future lecture. But as to her truly being sorry for her clumsiness-well, it would be impractical for anyone to suppose that Franny could have a choice over her awkwardness. If she had the power, she would have chosen to be a boy, or at least a grown woman as elegant and fashionable as Mrs. Darcy; but nature had resigned her to the post of the ungainly, plain, simple girl of seventeen, and there could be little expectation for improvement in a confined quarter such as Hunsford, always within proximity to the hounds of Lady Catherine and the sermons of her all-wise father. No, dear reader, we must be satisfied for the time being with Franny's rather deplorable lot in life. If you will attend to the next chapter, perhaps, we may discover happier news...

Chapter 2

The authoress understands that the last chapter may have done nothing but astonished you. It is her hopes that you find Franny Collins' behaviour, if somewhat inexcusable, at least conceivable. After all, Franny was more deprived of childhood delights than she ought to have been. She had known nothing of life except the persistent lectures of her father's employer, and the arid flattery that her father paid to such a patroness. Had it not been for the gentle influence of her own dear mother throughout her more formative years, then all the frustration that she felt may have made her quite an inferior being. Especially in the tenderness of youth, when everything that one does seems to be misread by adults as youthful rebellion, an appropriate pillar of strength must always be at hand; therefore, the authoress cannot emphasize enough the benefits that Mrs. Collins brought on her daughter. I only tremble to think of what sort of nastiness may have befallen little Franny otherwise, for many at her age, and perhaps many before her age, have been known to marry, settle down, and bring up large families. (Indeed, we have already been acquainted with one such example in Mr. Collins' cousin, Mrs. Wickham. If you pretend to not know of whom I speak, then I am afraid, my gentle reader, that our relations henceforth shall not be an easy one. Deception, in the authoress' modest opinion, is a very mean art.)

But we must return our attention to Miss Franny Collins.

In our short acquaintance with Franny, we have drawn a mental list of her likes and dislikes. We know for a certainty that she dislikes Lady Catherine's arrogance, her father's numerous sermons, the Darcy children, and being called Frances Maria. There are other little things as well that could annoy our heroine exceedingly, but they are so very trivial that we must not trouble ourselves with them. As for likes, it is a comfort to know that Franny was not born such a simpleton as to not appreciate a gentle mother's presence, the riveting tales of soldiery from Aunt Anne's cousin the Colonel, nor anything that had even the slightest ring of chivalry and adventure. Franny may indeed have been born with slight insufficiencies in the ways of money, wits and beauty, but she had a fierce, intense liking for adventure.

Tried as she was the evening of her seventeenth birthday, and tired as she was after the uproar she had so inadvertently caused, Franny hoped to at least absolve herself with some dignity.

"Come here, Franny," said Mrs. Darcy in warm invitation as the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving Mr. Darcy, Mr. Collins and the boys to do as they pleased at the dining table. (Really, Franny could never help but wonder what it was gentlemen did and spoke in there. Did they have a good time? Did they have to sing silly ditties to each other, just as the ladies of Lady Catherine's circle were obliged to do after supper?) "Come sit by me. Never mind your mother. She and I are good friends, so she will have to resign herself to her loss for a few moments."

Shyly, Franny attended to Mrs. Darcy. She couldn't help but admire the woman's brightly lit eyes-It was like looking at the sky on a starry night, Franny thought. Mrs. Darcy's hair, too, was so beautifully shiny and curly that the girl would have loved to touch some of it, just to see how it felt like. She was shamefully aware of her own plain, brown tresses-so straight that nothing could ever be done with them.

"Do let me have a good look at you," said Mrs. Darcy, tipping Franny's face a bit. Usually, Franny hated to be examined in such a fashion-there was something so disparaging in it-but the tenderness in Mrs. Darcy's voice and hands were such that made Franny wish to do nothing but please the lady.

"I am glad," Mrs. Darcy said at last, her eyes smiling, if ever eyes could smile. "Do you play?"

Slightly confused, Franny stammered yes.

"A little," said her mother from the other side of the room. "But I am afraid, Lizzy, I have been the only means of teaching her."

"Do play something on the pianoforte for me, will you, Franny?" Mrs. Darcy asked, smiling still. "Just to oblige an old friend of your mother?"

Franny looked at Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but luckily, her father's great patroness was quite occupied with Miss Bella to take much notice. Feeling a slight sense of naughtiness, as if what she was doing was going to shock Lady Catherine greatly, Franny approached the pianoforte, lifted its cover and gingerly placed her fingers on the keys.

Which shall it be? she thought. She had been learning a new sonata, but she was quite timid to try it out so soon without much practice. There was always the invention by Bach. The only time when Lady Catherine allowed her to play on her pianoforte was when she played Bach. Would it not be deliciously amusing to play something daring like Beethoven? Or something romantic like Chopin? She could imagine the sort of howl she would provoke from Lady Catherine's mouth.

On the other hand, such a few moment's pleasure would surely add to the severity of the morrow's religious studies, and that would certainly not be worth the trouble.

Franny must have sat there for a very long time, for her mother and Mrs. Darcy cleared their throat simultaneously.

"What is the matter, Franny?" asked Mrs. Darcy. "I hope I have not scared you. Please do not think that I am any great musician. Indeed I am not. I simply wish to hear you play. I have not a greater pleasure than to hear dear Charlotte's child play. Mr. Collins tells me that you perform exceedingly well."

Upon hearing this undue compliment-for Franny had never once performed for anyone-Franny flushed in her nervousness. She should not keep them waiting. She should start. She struck the first chord. She hit a wrong note in the left hand. She struck the chord again. Another wrong note. Suddenly, she turned cold. "I have none of my music with me," she stammered aloud.

"Can you play any little strain by memory?"

Franny swallowed and shook her head.

It would be difficult to guess who was the more embarrassed-Mrs. Darcy, who was afraid she had made herself appear pompous and snobbish by placing her own friend's daughter in such a position, or Mrs. Collins, who promptly turned a paler shade of white. Sheepishly, Franny returned to her seat beside her mother, not knowing where to look.

"Well, that is nothing grave I suppose," said Mrs. Darcy, attempting cheerfulness. "I always find it difficult to play without my music. Perhaps another time."

Lady Catherine, by now, had urged Bella to go up to the piano, and bright, little Miss Darcy, all the more eager to display her talents, launched into a delightful, breezy little French song that her mother had only just taught her during the week - all played from memory.

"Bravo, bravo," exclaimed Lady Catherine, clapping her hands loudly. "Excellent playing indeed. And who is your master, Miss Darcy? Is it Mr. Sharp, whom I advised to your papa?"

"Mama taught me to play it," answered Bella with a beaming face. The soft curls framing her round, pink cheeks bounced as she sat down beside her lovely mother.

"It is a beautiful song at least," said Lady Catherine, stiffening in her chair. "I suppose you deserve a little congratulation for that, Mrs. Darcy."

Mrs. Darcy sat up a little straighter, her fair face fixed with a look of determination. "Thank you, your ladyship. A little praise has always served well as encouragement, but even without it, I suppose Bella should have played just as well."

The rest of the evening, including the arrival of the two gentlemen, was a strained affair. Franny was relieved when Lady Catherine hinted to her father that the Collins should be gone. Of course though, it did take several gentle prods before the reverend was done with his speech of farewell.

Franny was very sorry for the embarrassment that she had given her parents. She must indeed be a source of grief to her mother especially, after the incident with Bella Darcy and the debacle at the pianoforte. She felt very sick inside, as though she wanted to burst, but she would try to be brave and say nothing. For not the first time, Franny wondered whether it might have been easier had she not been born.

"But then, even Lord Nelson must have been unhappy before in his life, and yet look what became of him-well, before he died?" Franny tried to console herself as she retired to her room that night. "Surely once or twice in his youth he must have been miserable. But if he had never been born, there would be no Trafalgar." Her optimism and her dream of ships and battleship flags carried her through her sleep.

The next morning, she ran downstairs, eager to start the day, determined to forget the events of the previous night. She still felt a little strange inside, but she decided to ignore the feeling.

"Not so hasty, my child," said Mr. Collins. "Not so hasty."

His sharp tone reminded Franny of the "punishment" she was supposed to receive, and she accordingly slid into her chair with an air of servitude. If she had remembered that she was probably going to have to read and comment on ten chapters from the scripture that morning, she would have taken her time leaving her bed. Somehow, the thought of explaining the mystical signs from Above did not seem as exciting as interpreting the battle codes of Home Popham.

"I do wish you would think a little more kindly of your poor father, and his dependence upon the condescension of his patroness," said Mr. Collins, adopting his frequent Best-serve-Lady-Catherine tone of voice. He even shook his head a little as he chewed on his bacon. "Frances Maria, you are seventeen now. Your mother indeed confirmed it yesterday, not that I would have argued against it had she failed to remind me, but indeed it is true, you are seventeen now, my child...and no longer much of a child. You are quite a grown-up now."

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as Franny heard the beginnings of what she felt could only be a speech to bid her farewell and good riddance from Hunsford, and welcome to the nunnery in some obscure German village. "But we're not even Catholics!" Franny was half-inclined to exclaim. Yet somewhere deep down, something that she must have inherited from her mother, made her sit still on her shaking hands.

"...I did not think it wise at first to..." continued Mr. Collins.

Franny lowered her gaze and stared down at her breakfast. There were four strips of bacon on it, whereas Cook usually only gave her two, no matter how hungry she was, or how much she had grown. This sudden kindness was a very bad sign. Cook must have known that Franny was going to be sent away, like the poor little orphans that Franny often read about. The feeling of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach suddenly returned, except with a force threefold as strong.

"...My dear Charlotte, your mother, confirms, and has agreed with me that..."

Franny lowered her head and groaned.

Mrs. Collins was immediately at her side, and so would Reverend Collins have been, had not the hem of his right sock, at that unfortunate moment, been caught on a loose nail in his chair. Within half a second, the scene in the Collins' morning room was a sight to behold, with Mrs. Collins crouching over her child, who was doubled over in pain, and Mr. Collins, sprawled across the floor, with one short, chubby leg buried under his chair.

Franny, one hand resting over her forehead, the other clutching at her stomach, moaned again.

Mrs. Collins called for Cook, who entered in a hurry. Ignoring the astonished look written over her servant's face, Mrs. Collins asked her to send round a doctor.

"What is the matter, Franny?" asked Mrs. Collins, fear flashing in her brown eyes. "Do speak up, my child. Please do not scare your own mother."

Franny would have liked to answer, and she did try very hard to answer, but if only she had known the answer! One moment, she was preparing herself to hear her father's bad news, and the next, she was struck with the most violent pain. Instead of answering, she closed her eyes and laid her head against her mother's bosom.

If ever Mrs. Collins was to be called a calm person, let that caller be corrected. For nothing made Mrs. Collins lose her tranquility more than the remembrance that her child was mortal.

She really believed for a moment that her child was going to die, though, for what reason, for what cause, she hardly knew. Her chosen life path had always been accepted indifferently, or she would not have settled for William Collins. She had not expected much love to come of her marriage, but then she had never been romantic; material comfort was what she most required. It was true that for some time after the wedding, she had been slightly disillusioned by the life she thought she would be leading, and nothing had prepared her for the constant idleness of her husband, but Charlotte had been resourceful, and knew exactly the sort of errands and "clergy's duties" that would keep her husband busy and out of the parsonage. She had not liked the thought of starting a family with him, but when she gave birth to Franny, and looked into the pair of round, soft brown eyes that were so like her own, and saw that the baby resembled nothing of its father, Charlotte Collins loved her child. Franny, she acknowledged, was all that she had, and if her child was to be taken now, well then, she prayed fervently to the Lord that she might be taken too.

All this was reflected upon by Mrs. Collins until the arrival of Mr. Jones, and all this caused her to wring her hands about, and pace to and fro along the length of the hall as the doctor examined his patient. She ignored even her husband's complaint of a bruised leg.

The door to her child's room opened at last, and Mr. Jones emerged, his face drawn. Mrs. Collins, who knew herself to not be the sort to swoon, pressed her hand against her mouth, not daring to believe the worst. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, fluttered his arms about, prepared to exclaim in a frenzied manner, "Oh, dear God, my Lord, why?"

"I do beg that you will be calm, Mr. Collins," said Mr. Jones. His face broke into a slight smile in spite of himself. "The illness itself is not grave. I could find nothing wrong with her except a pain in the stomach and a slight dizziness. She is also a little exhausted." Now, his face grew serious again. "What have you been feeding her, Mr. Collins?"

Mr. Collins blinked but said nothing.

"It is quite clear to me that whatever the ailment is, it has something to do with what she has eaten in the last twenty-four hours. I believe that something she's consumed, most likely something that she had before going to bed, has largely disagreed with her system."

"Well, we did sup at Rosings Park last evening," said Mrs. Collins in recovery. "But it was nothing out of the extraordinary. Are you quite certain that there is nothing to diagnose?"

Mr. Jones shook his head. "Franny is a very healthy, sturdy girl. It would of course be complimentary to her if she could gain a little more weight, perhaps a little more colour in her face, but she is all in all a very healthy girl. This has nothing to do with her and everything to do with what was given to her last night." Mr. Jones put on his hat. "As for medications, I have given her none. Sanitation in food and drink is of utmost importance. What Franny requires is something plain and simple for the next several meals, lots of fluids, and lots of rest. In a day or two, her digestion will have returned. She should receive lots of exercise then."

"Oh, there is no doubt that Franny receives much exercise," Mr. Collins protested. "I send her out everyday to walk through the park."

"Then you must get her to keep up the habit," said Mr. Jones, tipping his head politely at both of them. "Be wary of the cleanliness of her food consumption. Good day to you, Mrs. Collins. Good day, Mr. Collins."

Of course, this arrangement suited Franny just fine. Oddly enough, her little sickness could not have come at a more convenient time. She was not obliged again to entertain the Darcy children for the remainder of their visit.

Another excellent outcome was that her father's punishment was quickly forgotten, and she was even excused from attending church on both days that she stayed in her room. Most of all, she had the privacy to read the books that Aunt Anne had secretly given her to keep. They were gloriously bound titles-Candide, written by a funny little French man called Voltaire; Romance of the Forest by Mrs. Radcliff; and then, there was the one that Aunt Anne had told her expressly to hide away from all sight-the deliciously funny and daring novel Tom Jones, History of a Foundling.

Franny would rather die, or at least she thought she would, than to have her parents discover her secret library. Firstly, her father disapproved of novels. Secondly, they were not novels that one could exactly boast of reading. She remembered some girls at church whispering and giggling in embarrassment about the "scandalous nature" of Tom Jones. Miss Fitzpatrick, in particular, had talked about what a "bad, bad man" Tom was. Privately, Franny felt sorry for the hero. It wasn't as though he had control over circumstances created by Blifil. Well, yes, she had to hold Tom accountable for his bad judgements, but in some ways, his weakness made him all the more pitiable. Besides, was there not Sophia Western to reform him? In the end, Tom turned out all right because of Sophia. Yes, Franny was beginning to approach the age when she felt love from a lovely lady could reform any reckless rogue.

Not that Frances Collins expected to meet with such luck. She had the practicality to understand that she was much too plain for anyone to fall in love with-William Darcy had stated as much, and if the boy was irritating, he was at least worthy enough a judge of beauty, since he had seen so much of society. But this realization did not stop her from dreaming. She had, what one might call, an annoying habit of surveying possible matches for her fellow mates. She did not actually go to the lengths of matchmaking, but she did have a tendency to create a sort of story out of newly engaged couples, and then weigh the advantages and disadvantages of the matches made. When she first laid eyes on Miss Fitzpatrick's future husband, she invented a bright, brilliant past for him-Mr. Gibson was a great equestrian, a hunting man, and once served as a colonel in the royal cavalry during the Battle of Waterloo. Or, since he was a little young for that, at least, his brother had been there, and Mr. Gibson was known to be as brave as his brother. Now, that was woeful news indeed, for Miss Fitzpatrick was the sort of prim and proper young lady who never did anything to put a speck of dirt on herself, and what good was a doll for a cavalry man?

Franny soon began to do the same sort of thing with other young men in the county, whether she knew them or not. Then, when she had written a history for each of them, she began to invent future successes for the boys she knew whom she thought needed most improvement. She made the goggle-eyed Charles Bragg into a famous barrister in London, she made Robert Findlay a well-respected doctor, and Robert Grantley into a fashionable leader of London society. Of course, when Miss Fitzpatrick learned of Franny's game, she expressed her proper horror, and refused to "stretch her imagination" as Franny encouraged her to. Franny, naturally, could not understand what Miss Fitzpatrick's fuss was all about. It was merely a childish, harmless activity, and it kept her quite amused for weeks.

This game lasted even to the day when her mother received a letter from her aunt, Mrs. Somerset, the one whose name Franny bore. Mr. Somerset's mother had been related to Lady Catherine's late husband, and their family was now obliged to accept an invitation to Rosings Park. Would the Collins be so kind as to receive them at the parsonage as well?

"And why should I not?" asked Charlotte Collins in delight. "Indeed, why should Maria doubt my happiness? She has become so fashionable that she must adopt sarcasm, I see. Well, William, we must certainly welcome Maria and her family to Hunsford."

"I will be more than pleased to welcome them, though our home may be much more humble than what they are so accustomed to receiving..."

"Maria also writes," continued Mrs. Collins, "That Mr. Somerset's son, by his first wife, has recently returned from Oxford and will be joining them on their journey to Kent. This means that their party shall not be a small one at all."

"Mr. Somerset's son?" repeated Mr. Collins. "Returned from Oxford? I shall be very honoured to meet him. I have not heard much of him, but I am sure that as he bears the same distinguished name as his father, and as he is an Oxford man, we shall do quite well with his company. I do wonder what Lady Catherine de Bourgh would have to say to all this... She must approve of the younger Mr. Somerset already, as he has received such a good breeding, and has secured such an excellent education. It is, I believe, a custom for young gentlemen of his kind to...."

Franny hid a yawn behind her hand as she listened to her father ramble on. Already, without having to meet the younger Mr. Somerset, she knew that he would be a bore-perhaps educated, and learned, but most definitely a bore. Aunt Maria's stepson would turn out to be as insignificant in looks as herself. He would preach more weary sermons than even her father's friends. He would probably walk into the parsonage dressed in strict, unconforming black, and insist on speaking about breeds of dogs and how to properly prepare a pen for writing business letters. All the young gentlemen whom Lady Catherine, and consequently her father, had ever spoke highly of turned out to be nothing more interesting than a fleck of dust in the corner of the room-though with a slight exception in the case of Mr. Darcy, but then he was married to Mrs. Darcy! Franny hoped that when the Somersets did arrive, she would not be obliged to attend to them too often.

"What must Aunt Anne be doing now in Bath?" she wondered silently to herself-"Could anyone possibly lead a more commonplace life than me?"

Indeed, these are questions that even the authoress is tempted to ponder over, and perhaps she will take a moment's repose now to do so.

Chapter 3

Author's Note: After much reflection, this authoress must admit that she has known of no other life more dull than Franny's present one; but that is not to say that there was no promise of change lurking over the horizon. Let us turn our attention back to Hunsford and its heroine, so that you, faithful reader, can see into the logic of my bold assumption...

Some fine day, about a month following the events of the last chapter, the Somersets arrived in Kent.

At the time, Franny had been away from the parsonage, calling on Bets Denny, a friend who had just given birth to a little boy. The Dennys were young, and they were not well off. They ran a small piece of land as tenants under Lady Catherine, though there was always talk of them living one day on the Continent to set up an establishment of their own. At the moment, this was not a feasible idea; even Franny, with her romantic notions, had to admit as much. The Dennys depended their lot on the shoulders of their sole surviving relative, a brother who was a lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy, and who held the promise of a steadily rising career. Franny had never met their brother before, and knew him only by the miniature that was afforded to the Dennys as a keepsake.

"It's a immaculate portrait, a very like portrait," said Mrs. Bets Denny, pointing at the miniature in Franny's hand. "Is he not a aristocratic-looking man?"

"There is something very noble in his features," agreed Franny, observing the pair of bright dark eyes and covert smile in the miniature. "Is he an elegant man? Mr. Denny must be very proud of him."

"That is certain, and Wellington is a admirable brother, so very good to us, we could never ask him for money on such a frivolous thing as a image of him, but he paid for one all the same," chuckled Mrs. Denny. "I suppose it is something to remember him by. He has always been so entirely supportive of our welfare, I hardly know how best to thank him."

"Yes," Mr. John Denny agreed. "Last Christmas, Wellington sent us a bit of money to help us through the winter."

"And mind you, Brother Wellington is hardly a amply rich person himself," added his wife. "I cannot imagine how he allots his small pay, but he is surely a industrious worker, as ever I have seen. He does a good deal of niceties for the two of us."

"He must be a perfect brother," Franny mused aloud. "I am almost envious of you, to have an older brother to take care of you."

"Yes, with our baby here now, his support has been most advantageous. It is so difficult to support ourselves at times, especially during the winter, but Wellington has always made sure that we were not more in need," said Mr. Denny.

"Indeed, with his kindness, I sometimes consider John and I the very king and queen," laughed Mrs. Denny. "We may not be the wealthiest people, we may not have our own land, but we must be as rich as a emperor and a empress when it comes to receiving the kindness of others. I do sometimes wonder how it is that Wellington became so generous."

"Wellington was put in the navy at quite a young age," said Mr. Denny. "And my uncle put me in the army. But you see, I haven't the good fortunes of my brother. They are always more in need of naval men than soldiers."

"Was your uncle a naval officer also?" asked Franny, intrigued. Perhaps, Mr. Denny's uncle had once met Lord Nelson! Perhaps, perhaps, Mr. Denny's uncle helped to sail the Duke of Wellington across the sea to Spain!

Mr. Denny shook his head. "No, he was in the militia during the wars."

"Was he?" asked Franny, trying to hide her disappointment. But the militia never saw any action! She wondered what Lieutenant-Commander Wellington Denny was like--was he tall, dark, and melancholy in appearance? Or chivalric and daring? Was he decorated? How well his uniform must look if he had the same dark hair as his brother. It was ironic that he was not placed in the army with such a name as his. How complementary it would have been for him to serve the Duke of the same name! Very casually, she asked whether Lieutenant-Commander Denny would be visiting during Christmas.

"Oh, I imagine so," replied the officer's brother. "I imagine so. He was disappointed not to be able to come last year."

"Or the year before," added Mrs. Denny. "We went to London to meet him. That does remind me, you have never met."

"No, I'm afraid I have not had the honour," answered Franny, her heart pounding a little harder in her chest. "Pray, where is he stationed presently?"

"Oh, he's been at Plymouth, at Portsmouth, at Southampton. Perhaps he'll go to Dover some time. He is a agreeable brother," sighed Mrs. Denny, "And I am certain he will prove to be as charming a acquaintance. You ought to be introduced."

The hint was so obvious that Franny had to hide her blush behind her hands. She knew not what to say in response.

Bets Denny smiled almost slyly to herself, and interrupted Franny's reverie by demanding Franny's thoughts on her baby.

"He's very sweet," said Franny self-consciously, extending a finger to the little grabbing hands. "I believe he shall grow to be as handsome and pretty as his parents."

"I had wanted a girl at first," said Mrs. Denny by way of expressing her pleasure. "So I could name her after you, but you see, Nicholas came along, and I couldn't love him less, could I?" Everyone could recall Mrs. Denny's first child-a stillborn, a child whose life had been robbed even before it had a chance to seize its first breath.

"In any case," said Franny, "I am glad you haven't got a girl to name after me. Why should you wish to? I am terribly clumsy, and would not hope to have anyone take after me."

The Dennys laughed, somewhat to Franny's vexation, and Bets Denny invited her to stay for some tea. "Nothing fancy, of course. At times like these, I am ashamed almost of the scarcity of refreshments I offer. But you, Franny, are a intimate old friend, and I know you are not above tea with old friends. We could perhaps share the basket you brought over."

"Oh, no, no," said Franny, though she would have loved to try a bit of the cake herself. She darted up. "I brought it for you. And I really must go. You've reminded me that my parents expect me home about his time." Hesitating a little before she left them, she pressed a bit of her egg money in Mrs. Denny's strangely soft hand. "That's for baby," Franny said earnestly, and her friend simpered, though Franny saw it only as a smile of gratefulness.

Franny ran home, cheeks flushed, hair disarrayed, but she did not care for her wild appearance, for she had already begun to compose a sketch of Lieutenant-Commander Wellington Denny in her mind. She had just barely finished the portrait when she stumbled through the front hall of Hunsford Parsonage.

Her mother came to the door, signaling her to keep quiet.

"Where have you been? Where is your bonnet?" were the first words Mrs. Collins whispered.

Franny looked about her and scolded herself. "I must have left it at the Dennys," she said at last. "I don't know how I could have been so stupid as to-"

"Hush, Franny, and listen for a moment," said Mrs. Collins, not unkindly, "Your Uncle and Aunt Somerset are here."

"Already?" asked Franny sharply. She remembered miserably that she had forgotten to tidy up the parlour as her father had asked her to do before she set off to visit the Dennys that afternoon. All thoughts of Wellington were dashed immediately from her head. "Are the children here also?"

"Yes, Ashleigh, Annette, Morris and Arthur."

Arthur? Who was Arthur?

"Who is Arthur?" asked Franny, frowning a bit as she made some calculations in her head. Ashleigh and Annette were thirteen and twelve, and Morris was six. Had Aunt Maria given birth to a child recently without telling them about it?

"Arthur is Mr. Somerset's son from his first marriage," said Mrs. Collins patiently. "You know you met him at Maria's wedding."

As she had been a baby at the time of her aunt's marriage, she could hardly be expected to remember him! "Oh," answered Franny flatly, recalling her thoughts on the subject of Mr. Somerset's son. "Is he the one who went to Oxford, gives sermons and mends pen nibs?" Flushing immediately, she covered her mouth with her hands. That last bit certainly had not meant to come out!

"I do hope that you will be on your best behaviour," Mrs. Collins reprimanded her. Looking down at her soiled boots and petticoat, she added, "You may tidy up a bit before you come back down."

"IS SHE COMING OR NOT?" Mr. Collins called out impatiently from the parlour. "Is that Franny, dear Charlotte? Call the girl in this instant, or don't stand about there by the door."

"Father is a bit sharp today," Franny whispered sheepishly.

"You had better make your appearance now instead," answered Mrs. Collins, shaking her head. "By the way, I do hope that you realize I swept the parlour of muffin crumbs this morning before you're father was aware of them."

Upon hearing this, Franny blushed and murmured her thanks.

Franny did not know what to expect. When one is in company with family that one has not seen in over a year, it is only natural that one feels both anticipation and anxiety, the more so when these are relatives that one has generally liked. Would they continue to like me? one might ask. Would I like them again? Would she notice how unusually tall I've become? Will he have lost all his hair so that I must keep a straight face while I speak to his toupée? These, my dear reader, are natural reactions to have, and we must excuse Franny if she also had them.

Much to the girl's relief, Uncle and Aunt Somerset were just as they used to be. Her aunt's hair was still as gold, her eyes still as round and bright; her uncle just as tall and big as before, with his thick head of brown hair and grizzled side whiskers. Ashleigh had grown a full three inches since she last saw him, Annette was still eager to be in her cousin's company, and little Morris had outgrown his shyness. Franny didn't know what to make of Arthur Somerset, though. He did not wear glasses, he was not old, he was not balding, and he refused to talk about Oxford. Nor was he stiff as a pontiff, or unnaturally polite. For a moment, everybody talked, and then, silence fell.

"Well, Miss Collins, we meet at last," Arthur Somerset said during the pause. "Or at least, we meet again. The last time I saw you, I believe you hadn't even spoken your first word yet."

Everyone laughed merrily at that, except Franny, who tried to forge a smile. She caught him scrutinizing the hems of her petticoat, and she reddened.

"I see you've had a turn about the grounds," added Mr. Somerset's grinning son, as though the sight of mud on skirt hems amused him.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I've been hiding in the flower beds," retorted Franny with as much dignity as possible. She had wanted to reply with something smart, but that ridiculous phrase was all that she could think of on such a short moment's notice.

"Is that not charming?" asked the young man to the silent company. Laughingly, he continued. "Tell me, cousin, are all the girls of this county so very quaint in their ways? Do all the girls around here like to hide amongst their lilies and daisies? I have often heard Kent called 'The Garden of England', and now I certainly see why." As he uttered this, everyone but Fanny laughed again.

"You must think yourself very clever," said Franny, "But I thought Oxford might have turned out brillianter wits."

"'Brillianter'?" repeated the young man, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, causing Franny to flush crimson.

"Franny, dearest," broke in Franny's aunt. "I know the children must be restless staying indoors after so long in the carriage. Will you be so kind as to bring them round outside? I see the grounds about the parsonage are very delightful this time of year."

Franny was all too glad to oblige, and casting her mother and aunt a grateful smile, she led Ashleigh, Annette and Morris outside. Her mind, though, was seething with spite against the "hateful man! He's worse than all of Father's bores, and more."

They were just examining a caterpillar on a leaf when Mr. Somerset's son came out to join them.

"What are you all doing?" he asked cheerfully, watching them watch a leaf. "Ah, Miss Collins, have you been teaching them how to camouflage themselves 'brillianter-ly' in the dogwood?"

"This is not a dogwood," Franny grimaced, "This is lilac. And they are only examining nature, not mimicking it."

"If this is lilac, where are the flowers?"

"It's past its season of bloom."

The young man shrugged. "I never knew much about lilacs. Perhaps I will join you on your little tour of the grounds. I always thought I might learn a bit about greenery."

"But would you not rather engage in mature conversations than to trail behind a bunch of children like us?"

"Oh, I don't know about 'children'," answered the young man smugly. "You've got a tongue sharper than a child's. Besides, I am much closer in age to you than to them." Here, he nodded his head in the direction of the house.

"But I'm only seventeen."

Arthur Somerset looked slightly hurt. "What age did you take me for? Surely you did not think I was as old as my father?"

Franny blushed. "No-I can't tell what age you are," she said honestly, "But I didn't think you were so young either. You've just graduated from Oxford."

"Pray, mention not that name again."

Franny was surprised. "But why should you be ashamed to hear it? Have you not been educated there, and received excellent schooling? Only think of the people who would long to take your place."

"In that case, I am most sorry for myself that I could not change places with them. I may be good at very little, but if there is one of my few recommendations which I hate, it is to be looked up to as 'an Oxford man'."

"Well, it is something you must resign yourself to," answered Franny unsympathetically. "I am not the least bit sorry for you. I never can feel sorry for people who has got everything and yet continue to pity themselves for their good fortune."

"That is, I suppose, something which Mr. Collins has taught you? It is so righteous and reeks of holiness. That is just the sort of thing a clergyman's daughter would utter."

Franny flashed out spitefully in reply. "I wish you would not call me 'a clergyman's daughter' as though it were some kind of disease. We may have little choice over our births, but I am sure I am very lucky in contrast to many others, Mr. Somerset."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Collins. What would you prefer me to call you then?"

"I would much rather you call me nothing but Franny."

"'Franny'?" he repeated, wrinkling his fine nose. "No, I shall have to call you something else. Meanwhile, you can call me Arthur."

"I shall call you whatever I like, or not at all," answered Franny, affronted by his behaviour. "And I will not trouble myself to be called by any other name, Sir." She marched back to the children, who had by now moved on to a different part of the garden. To her distress, he followed her.

"Come now, Franny, let us be friends. This is all very silly. You have befriended my brothers and sisters, and yet we cannot even hold a civil conversation."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Somerset, I never try to befriend those who offend young ladies upon a first meeting. I am sure the Duke of Wellington would not have done so with strangers, even in his brasher-no, in his worst moments."

Arthur laughed. "Well, we are not exactly strangers, Franny. We have met before, even if neither of us can remember it. We've been acquainted with each other for far longer than one would think, so you need not rob me of that, my little French cousin." Bowing gallantly, he turned and headed back for the parsonage, much to Franny's perplexity.

"But I'm not French," she called out vainly after him. Vexed as she was though, she had to admit that her "cousin" had some small claims to charm.

Chapter 4

Arthur Somerset's wits were certainly as attractive as any that a lady of society could hope to marry, but such displays of facetiousness held no power over our Franny. She was not to be deceived into a flutter of heartbeats because Mr. Somerset's son chose to speak in exquisitely jocose words. No, to be sure, as a month passed, and as Franny got to know her cousin better, she found him more and more amiable - for who could not be attracted to such a cheerful beaming face in the dismal drawing rooms of Rosings? - But as to anything more... A Grecian god, Franny certainly did not think him. He was merely a welcome change, and after the initial cross of swords, they called a truce and began what could only become a flourishing friendship. Arthur grudgingly told Franny about his studies, taking care to say very little about his life at Oxford. He occasionally went as far as mimicking professors he disliked, making Franny laugh harder than she had ever been accustomed to do, but never did he dwell on the subject of fellow classmates, or of anything he did outside of classes for that matter. In turn, Franny withheld a bit of her secret infatuation for warlike heroes, but she told Arthur about the games she and Aunt Anne used to play, and of the books that she had and liked to read.

"History?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows. "You like reading about military history?"

"Oh, well, I am not a violent sort of person, if that is what you fear," Franny said slowly while blushing. "But I must admit, that learning about battles is more exciting than memorizing a list of kings and queens."

"You mean you have never fancied becoming queen? Not even for a moment in your daydreams? Do not all young girls day dream about princes on white horses?" Arthur's tone was light and jesting. "I suppose you like military history because you think they're all knights in shining armour."

"Ha, I know they do not wear armour anymore," returned Franny in hesitation, her colour heightening. "You must admit, though... Captain-General Churchill was incredibly clever. I could never be as clever as him, even if I went to school. For as long as I can remember, no one has ever found me particularly clever, and I will not try to argue that I am. School would have done me little good-for I am so clumsy. Now, take Lord Nelson. Surely, he would have been just as intelligent whether he went to school or not. A natural genius. Would you not have liked to be at Trafalgar? I always imagine myself at the battle-what a splendid feeling it must be, sailing on the high seas, knowing that you've defended the pride and glory of England."

Arthur was amused. "But you're a girl."

"I know, and I think it's a pity that I am. As they do not let girls fight, how I should like to have been born a boy, and lived in the time of Marlborough or Lord Nelson."

Arthur could think of nothing to say in reply, except to laugh, and say, "Unfortunate, isn't it, my little French cousin?"

He continued to call Franny by this address, simply out of sheer whimsy. These were times when he found something unusually humorous about Franny - some little expression of the face, or some little word that he thought was either curious, countrified, or unusual- "Very quaint but sweet, like French delicacies," he said. Other times, he might call her Frances or Franny just as others did. There were also times when Arthur would call her France, but Franny had not yet learned to decipher his mood when he applied such a name on her.

It was after a particularly trying dinner at Rosings that Arthur called her just that.

"France," he said, as soon as the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, "You will do us the honour of playing a little song on the pianoforte, won't you?" He sat next to her, as though his presence might compel her to submission.

Franny had not yet been accustomed to performing for anyone, not since her lapse of memory in the presence of Mrs. Darcy, and she felt herself not quite up to another similar display.

"Franny never performs," Lady Catherine promptly interjected. "I am sure that you are wasting your breath trying to convince her."

"I am sure, your ladyship, that you mean Franny has not yet performed for anyone," answered Arthur in his usual tone now. "I've heard her practice, but she is timorous as a mouse. As soon as she hears anyone approaching, she calls out 'Halt!' to her fingers."

Franny shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she felt all eyes on her. Uncle Somerset must have been calculating something in his head, while she could almost note Aunt Maria shake her head a little. Oh, how she wanted to speak back and punish her cousin! Indeed, her fingers wished to say what her voice would not, and it took her mother's calmness to smooth out the tingling in her muscles.

"Franny-" said Mrs. Collins with a tender smile at her child, "-dislikes display of any sort. I do hope, Arthur, that you can try to understand your cousin's abhorrence of making exhibitions."

At these words, Arthur looked from his aunt to his cousin. "I meant no harm in my suggestion of course," he said. "I meant only to express a wish to hear Franny play, but I shall not press the matter."

"In my days," spoke Lady Catherine with an air of authority to match her age, "In my days, we spoke not of display, and exhibition as though it were something to be pressed out from a lady. An accomplishment, we called it, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. No, indeed, or we would not have forced ourselves to accept the lessons of art tutors, drawing masters, dancing masters, music instructors... It would appear to me to be very disagreeable if all that effort back then was merely the result of pressure. No, or we would not have delighted ourselves in our accomplishments, for so many countless hours as though there was nothing else left in the world."

"And pray, if you do not find my inquiry impudent, what was your particular art?" asked Arthur with a glint of smile so subtle that only Franny was able to detect his mirth.

"I suppose if I had taken lessons at the pianoforte with my poor sister Lady Anne, I too would have been a true proficient. But Sir Lewis himself was partial to my needlework and my painting, and it was at those arts that I excelled."

"Is that one of those hanging there above the mantelpiece?" asked the elder Mr. Somerset.

"You have a keen eye," pronounced Lady Catherine. She was, what one might call "pleased as punch" when Mr. Somerset complimented her on its subject. He was honest though, about the technique - and luckily for him, Lady Catherine's ear, so used to ignoring Mr. Collins' flattery, found Mr. Somerset's unfeigned opinion refreshing. In a happier mood now, Lady Catherine even extended to Franny a bit of kindness, offering her the use of her pianoforte, in a room where she could not possibly be in anyone's way. Now that her daughter, Anne, was gone, she could not imagine what good the pianoforte would be for. Franny thanked her ladyship sincerely, as did her mother. Mr. Collins, as usual, let out a long speech of gravity and gratefulness.

"Some time, Mr. Collins," interrupted Lady Catherine impatiently, for she was beginning to learn a bit of Arthur's way with words, "I believe that you must repay me for every minute of time I must spend hearing your profusion outside of church."

Mr. Collins spluttered, stopped in his speech, and stared at his patroness in stupefaction.

"I mean, Mr. Collins," said Lady Catherine restlessly, "that you had better save your sermons for Sundays."

By the end of a month, the influence of Arthur on the country around Rosings was beginning to show. Twice or thrice, he accompanied his siblings and his cousin to pay visits to the Collins' friends in the parish. Miss Fitzpatrick was known to be very impressed with Arthur, even if she was already advantageously engaged; and enraptured as well was Miss Grantley, who upheld a family talent for making beautiful screens. In honour of the acquaintance, she had begun a new screen on silk, with images of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. Arthur had laughed secretly over this with Franny, because he quickly informed Franny that he had not been named after the legendary hero, but after the tyrant great-uncle, from whom his father had inherited his property and his mills. Naturally, Franny said nothing of this to Miss Grantley, but she could not leave off grinning every time Miss Grantley showed her the work in progress.

"And is he really an Oxford man?" Miss Grantley once asked Franny. "Why, he's so young and handsome though. Is he really a Somerset? I wonder whether it would be bold of me to present one of my screens to his mother?"

If Miss Grantley's love was not echoed by other young ladies in the county, at least her curiosity in the man was. The Dennys, whom the reader has, I trust, already met in the previous chapter, held an interest and fascination for the young man, who was introduced only as Franny's cousin. Mr. Denny was quite awed by Arthur's words and expressions.

"High-flown, just as an educated gentleman ought to be," was his conclusion. He himself was not a particularly well-schooled individual, though in his childhood days, he was one of the brightest at arithmetic, geometry, and Latin, out of his set. (He had only been second to the genius of the class, his revered older brother.)

Mrs. Bets Denny, not so easily taken up with this new acquaintance, kept an inventory of Arthur's general knowledge - his connaissance of current events, of colonial news, of continental affairs, and of influential figures of society.

"I do not know whether I like your cousin," Mrs. Denny had to admit frankly to Franny when questioned by her friend. Arthur had stepped out for a moment with Mr. Denny, facilitating a private discourse between the two ladies. "I had a immense curiosity to know him, but now that I have, I hope you will forgive me for saying so, Franny, I do not like the way he speaks and holds up his head, in that mighty fine way as if he was superior to everyone else."

"But that's just the way it is with Arthur," Franny said kindly. "At first, it was quite difficult to like his company, but after a while, it wears on one, and one gets used to it."

"That is exactly what I think is dreadful," said Mrs. Denny, her eyes growing large. "I should hate to think that I must grow 'used to' a man before I am able to enjoy his company. You will pardon me for being blunt - Though I may not be a excellently fine lady, I do doubt Mr. Somerset. I do not see why he must put up a air here. I may be humble, but I am not without reserve. I've never felt so broken-hearted about my own lowly situation until today." As her eyes grew damp, Mrs. Denny expertly applied a grubby handkerchief to them, making sure that such a gesture was noticed by her friend.

"You mustn't call your situation lowly," said Franny, distressed by her friend's tears.

"It was never so with brother Wellington. He was a excellent man."

Franny dug around for her own handkerchief. It was nothing nice, but at least it was clean. She handed it to Mrs. Denny, who took it gratefully.

"Thank you, you are most kind," said Mrs. Denny, her voice pressed with emotion. She dabbed at her eyes and nose again with a practiced hand. "I always thought you equal even to brother Wellington. Indeed, you must not let your kindness be ruined by others." She sniffed and gave a little cry as she looked at the hanky in her hand. "Oh! I am very, very sorry. I wish I was not always such a irritable little goose. Look what a clumsy thing I've done to your nice handkerchief."

"Never mind that, Bets," said Franny, her generosity encouraged by the benevolence of the Wellington Denny." You must keep it. I have so many more at home."

Mrs. Denny's face reverted to a smile. Perhaps she was already calculating how much she might be able to pawn the muslin for as she thanked her friend for "a inestimable gift", but as an Objective Writer, I must not allude to this; I shall only say that Mrs. Denny showed herself to be very humble, and that Franny would not hear of the thanks, insisted that no trouble was taken at all, and in her open, artless way, made Mrs. Denny feel as though it was Franny who ought to be showing the indebtedness.

Franny was troubled by Mrs. Denny's judgement of Arthur, but she was even more aggrieved to discover that the dislike was returned by her cousin.

"Do you think," Arthur said thoughtfully as they walked back to Hunsford together, "that perhaps you ought to spend a little less time with the Dennys?"

"Pardon me?" asked Franny, with a bit of surprise. "Do I really spend that much time with the Dennys?"

"Since I've arrived in Kent, I have met them twice with you, while on at least eight other occasions, you have gone there alone. Now, Frances, do not tell me that these visits are not often. You hardly pay half as much attention to Miss Fitzpatrick and Miss Grantley, who would make you better companions."

Franny sighed. "Is it so objectionable that I should like to keep up my friendship with Mrs. Denny? I have known her for so many years." (Three years, to be exact, but in such defenses as these, the precise number is, and should remain, insignificant.)

"No," said Arthur firmly, "perhaps not the friendship, but this intimacy certainly is objectionable. What sort of benefits can you possibly hope to gain from your frequent tête-à-têtes with Mrs. Denny?"

"I don't know whether you ought to speak of benefits in such a calculating way," said Franny, playing with a daisy. "I think it is enough that we can find a moment's peace and diversion in each other's company."

"Never mind that flower just now, and mark my words." Arthur tried again. "Unless you wish to speak of 'a esteemed man' and 'a excellent brother, my Wellington' all day as she does, without regard to the simplest of grammar or the scruples of decency, I cannot see why you enjoy her company. Moreover, I notice that every time you set off, you have got some basket or pouch with you, and you always return empty-handed."

"And so, you have been watching, as well as counting the number of times I have set off in their direction," said Franny, offended. "I am grievously upset that you would resort to espionage. I am sure that if you had asked, I would have answered you quite truthfully. There was no need to act as though I would evade an honest answer."

In spite of his impatience, Arthur found Franny's spoken italics amusing. He wondered from which novel she had learned to pick up such a tool of emphasis. "I was merely watching out for you, my little French cousin," he said, as though reminding himself that she was really still a child.

"I was only doing the duty of a clergyman's daughter."

Arthur groaned impetuously. "No, you don't see. You are not Lady Bountiful. You are not one of those insanely rich daughters with ten thousand a year. You are not obliged to part every little shilling you've got just because someone you know claims to be a poor lost soul."

"I am obliged to do my Christian duty, to do good unto others and seek not to reap rewards."

"How like a clergyman you speak, Miss Frances Maria. Remind me to propose to your father that you should preach on Sunday," answered Arthur irritably.

"Do not speak so lightly of my father's profession," said Franny, whilst her temperature rose against her will. "I will not have you say such things against his vocation."

"I am sorry. I said that against my better judgement. But it was nothing bearing south of the compass of truth, was it?" Arthur shook his head. "You ought to open your eyes, Franny. Your friends, the Dennys, have heaps of more goods in their so-called hovel than what the truly devastated can ever dream of having."

Arthur's insinuations against the Dennys were too much for even a placid soul to bear silently! "Then they owe it to the kindness of their brother," fired Franny indignantly. She knew the Dennys too well to think that they could be capable of mercenary intentions. Many reduced to their situation may have resorted to fortune hunting, but that was far below the honour and uprightness of her friends! Aloud, she uttered, "If you must know, their brother provides for them. That is their fortune. They have committed no crimes to obtain their present comfort."

Arthur smiled ironically. "Then their brother is as great a simpleton as you are, and a tyrant as well if he is so well-off and won't raise his family up with him. And pray, what is he? A merchant in London? Or a merciful mill owner?"

"He is a Lieutenant-Commander in the Royal Navy," said Franny, stopping at last in front of Hunsford Parsonage. Her angry, flashing eyes met Arthur's own. "He may not have attended Oxford as you have, but he certainly is above your contempt. As to his manners, I am sure Mr. Denny's brother has proven himself to be far more the gentleman, for he does not try to deny or rewrite his history. He would not be so ungrateful as to renounce the existence of whatever education and qualifications he has earned, whereas, you absolutely refuse to speak of your life at Oxford, and would do much to contradict your being there. Now, what have you got to hide from those days?"

Ignoring her question, Arthur asked her mockingly whether she was "in an acquaintance with Lieutenant-Commander Denny." They both knew well that Franny was not. "As this is so," continued Arthur triumphantly, "then pray, do not go about favouring strangers whom you should wisely refrain from fancying."

His words had hit the truth so closely that Franny turned even redder and hesitated to reply. Without another word, she flew into the parsonage, taking care to close the door quickly and firmly behind her.

It vexed her, above all things, to know that her friends were looked down on, and that her secret thoughts on the subject of Wellington Denny were so transparent to Arthur. In the pangs of her girlish sorrows, she looked at her own reflection in the hallway mirror and tried to smile. No, this was not a face that Wellington Denny would likely defend, she thought dismally to herself, no matter how frequently she might try to defend his. She tried to force a warmer smile, but the Frances Maria in the glass would not grow prettier.

Sighing, Franny went to the parlour, where she dutifully greeted her parents, pulled a volume of text off the table, and sat down, devouring the book with her eyes, though it did nothing to calm her mind. Her disappointment was still keenly felt - and who could blame her? She was, after all, at an age where all of life's vexations were trebled in magnification. She had so wanted Arthur's approval of the Dennys, and yet he would not give it.

Up until tea, she spent her time in this fashion, her eyes doing one thing, her esprit doing another. Once or twice, Mrs. Collins looked up from her knitting, wondering whether her daughter was in one of her moods, and once or twice, Mr. Collins cleared his throat, barely able to keep himself from grinning. It was not until the tea tray was brought in that Franny took a good look at the book in her hand. Dear reader, you must forgive her for jumping out of her chair in shock, for the volume she clutched was no other than the Bishop's Sermons.

"You are a puzzle, my dear," Franny's mother observed. "I know not what runs through your mind."

"Like a stream," said Mr. Collins with unusual intelligence. "There is nothing still and calm in her mind. Nothing steady and dependable. But, if you read the Bishop's Sermons more frequently as you do now, you shall see the improvement it will make upon your little head."

"Mr. Collins," his wife spoke sweetly, "May I ask a favour of you, my dearest? I know how vexing this may all seem, but I believe I have left my embroidery over at Rosings last evening. I was only just reminded of it when the tea was brought in. Do you think you could run over there and...?"

The reverend was only too pleased to accomplish such an errand. It was always his pleasure to be able to assure his benefactor of his sincerest attentions and respect. He felt it was the only thing that secured his livelihood whilst he was clergyman in Kent. It was a lucky thing for his pride that he was ignorant of his wife's wishes to have him out of the room. He was soon out of the parsonage when Mrs. Collins regarded her daughter kindly.

"Now, Franny, we may speak as freely as we like. Your father will surely not return too soon."

Franny shook her head. "I don't know what you wish to speak of, Mother."

"Did you have a good walk?"

"I visited the Dennys." She ducked her head a little to hide her blush.

Mrs. Collins was pensive. "Was that all? Did you not go someplace with Mr. Somerset's son?"

"Oh, he merely walked with me there. He said he wished to call on Mr. Denny. We thought, since we were going to the same place, we might as well set off together," Franny said.

"It seems that you and Arthur are on very friendly terms with one another."

"You may say so if you like. He has a way with words."

Her mother was not entirely satisfied. "Franny, you know that you must not be seen too much in the company of young men in that fashion. No, hear me out. I understand, there is nothing wrong with walking a route in the company of a male acquaintance, but could the meaning of such open walks not be misconstrued by others if the acquaintance was often seen to be the same gentleman, and a gentleman who is not a brother or a cousin of the young lady?"

Franny, bless her innocence, did not at first gather her mother's meaning.

Mrs. Collins sighed a little. "Franny, I wish to warn you not to spend so much time with Mr. Somerset's son."

"Well, in general, I don't believe he is such a bad influence, is he?"

"Franny, I don't mean that sort of influence. I fear an influence of another kind."

"Oh!" Franny was so astonished, she knew not whether to be offended or amused. "Well, Mother, so you have said it yourself. Arthur and I are cousins, and indeed, we view each other as such. Do not think that I would attempt to fancy-" She giggled in spite of herself. "I fear you have read far too much into this."

"You do not know what men may think," advised Mrs. Collins. "As a young lady, you ought to show less feelings than you really feel for a man whom you care very little for. You do not wish to encourage the wrong man."

"Mother!" the girl exclaimed. Franny's embarrassment lay heavily on her inexperience in discussing such a subject so frankly, rather than for the reason that her mother suspected.

Mrs. Collins gave her child a rueful half smile. "In my youth, I was rather too practical for my own good. I believed that any man who could secure me a comfortable home would be good enough for me. I believed that to bound any such man, I ought to show more than I felt, and to know as little of his defects as possible, but I have since learned to see that I was much more imprudent than practical in my way of thinking. It is a folly to blind oneself to another's deficiencies. It is better to learn of all the vices of one's potential partner before any irreversible acts are committed; and that cannot be assured until one has had a thorough, understanding courtship of a reasonable length of time. I will not go so far as to say that I have grown to regret my earlier opinion, for my choice was a matter of luck, but I will say that I do not wish the same sort of revelation to befall on you when it is too late. You know so little of Arthur that it would be-"

Franny took her mother's hand and pressed it warmly. "Mother, I know what you must mean. Do not make yourself uneasy. I am still- so young, as Father would say."

Mrs. Collins sighed inwardly. "Will you promise me, my dearest, that you will never think of Arthur Somerset as more than just your cousin?"

"Well, of course," exclaimed Franny, trying not to be aghast at her mother's imagination. "I wish I could only assure you of it in such a way as you could never doubt. I can promise you that I have not and cannot think of Arthur in that way." Franny could not fathom how anyone could love Arthur. Cheery and witty, he might be, but he was no Lieutenant-Commander Denny. And after his recent display, Franny did not feel particularly inclined to forgive Arthur - at least, not enough to like him again.

"You may associate with any proper acquaintance as you like, but do remember your promise to me," said Mrs. Collins, at last satisfied in extracting such a pledge from her child. She had genuinely thought for a while that there was something serious meant by Arthur and Franny's friendship, but now that such a matter was cleared, now that she knew she had only feared an impossible and improbable event, she could enjoy her tea properly.

The telltale banging of the front door told the two ladies that the reverend had returned home. Sure enough, the dignified man, dabbing at his forehead and upper lip, re-entered the parlour, giving his wife the needlework that she had left at Rosings.

"Her ladyship was not in," he said, by way of explaining his quick reappearance at the parsonage. "I suppose I may take my tea now, my dear Charlotte. Has it gone cold? How I do hate cold tea. Ah, you have kept mine hot. Thank you, very thoughtful of you. How Lady Catherine would praise you on that, my dearest. As she would say, a wife who keeps the home warm and comfortable is the greatest virtue." He sank into his chair, taking a sip of his wife's heavenly brew. "On the way, I overtook young Master Somerset. He said he had a message he wished to pass on. Now what was it he said again?" The reverend knit his brows in thought, dabbing again at his moist upper lip. (Franny, in her childhood, had wondered at this peculiar gesture, and often feared that her father's lips might one day become as fat as sausages after a lifetime of the habit.) "Yes, that must be right, though it was a very curious remark. I dare say that must be his very words, but what ever he meant by it-"

"What did he say, Father?" asked Franny as patiently as she could.

Mr. Collins looked wide-eyed at his daughter. "Why, I am sure he said something about France being in a very forgiving season at this time of year. Now, I cannot imagine why he would suddenly wish me to take note of that, and really, what exactly is a forgiving season? It must be all the way young men talk these days once they leave Oxford. 'Forgiving season' in France? He is very fond of riddles, isn't he, that clever young man. In my days..."

The clergyman rambled on, but luckily, his daughter understood the message.

Continued in Next Section