Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter 5

Author's Note: (With an Appendix*)

For quite some time, Mr. Collins' affairs in the way of his Estate have gone unmentioned. It was an oversight on the part of this modest authoress; she, too, has her faults, and it must be admitted that she had been blinded for quite some time - Blinded by the thought of Lieutenant-Commander Wellington Denny, who is, by far, a more agreeable subject. But enough! This pen does not allow for simpering, so the gentleman shall be left at that. The authoress shall take care to dedicate this evening's chapter to the Affairs related to Longbourn - and with it, our favourite theme, the Entailment.* (For an illustration of the Entailment, please see Appendix I.) It is a subject that, I trust, will settle all loose nerves. Let us, therefore, open this chapter on Mr. Collins' cousin, Thomas Bennet, Esquire.

In the last seventeen years or so, little had been seen or heard of the man, but if his occasional letter was anything to go by, we would have been assured of the intactness of his faculties and his sense of humour. One little thing, though, laid amiss. Since the marriage of his favourite daughters, Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, he had been accustomed to seek refuge in his library. And when his last remaining daughters were also married (not to more Bingleys or Darcys, mind you, but equally good matches, as I have been told by the Mistress of Longbourn), Mr. Bennet's library became Mr. Bennet's home.

Living amidst the books and the wine was not a sound living arrangement, mainly because he still managed to gain a daily dosage of his wife's poor nerves; only the room in which he heard her voice now was not so spacious, nor so impersonal. The steady draft air that accompanied his wife's liberal movements to and from his library also did nothing but compound his patience. In an ideal world, I would be inclined to think that, judging from the frequency of this daily exercise, Mrs. Bennet had learned to love her husband's books as much as she loved her new lace-trimmed dress. If only Mr. Bennet could give a little more credit in the first place to her highly-evolved literary taste! What bliss! - What delight they might have had in discussing such provocative, scholarly works as Madame Phillip's Marriage Is Every Rich Man's Estate or Madame Long's Let Us Meet the Rich New Neighbour. But, alas, Mr. Bennet was quite adamant against holding parleys with anyone whose temper was as cultivated and refined as his wife's own.

On one of these trips to the library, Mrs. Bennet in her greatest excitement began to open a subject of infinite interest to herself, hoping that the joy she found in its communication would also be shared by her patient husband. It was not long, though, before she discovered that her husband's attention was not hers to command.

"I wish you would cough less and listen to what I have been trying to say," Mrs. Bennet said, quite peeved at having her narrative disturbed. She had been telling the most thrilling part of The Local Gossip of the Day, which allowed for no coughs at its climax. "I am sure that there is nothing to cough at over Mrs. Phillips' daughters, though I will say they will never be as pretty as my Jane."

"I am sure," said Mr. Bennet in between fits, "That I may cough as much as I please-in my own library. And if you do not like it-you had better tell Hill all your gossips.-They have no place here."

"Oh, Mr. Bennet!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, "You unfeeling man! You have no compassion for my poor nerves! How you do take delight in vexing me!"

But as Mr. Bennet was too occupied with his hacks and wheezes, he would not make his usual stoic reply, and as his cough became truly worse by the second, Mrs. Bennet (with unusual good sense) sent for Hill for help, who sent for the boy servant, who sent for the neighbour, who sent for the doctor, who arrived as quickly as his legs would carry him.

A head cold, pronounced the doctor. A head cold, repeated Mrs. Bennet to her friends. A head cold, but he coughs so dreadfully, Mrs. Long told her husband and daughter. It was a head cold that soon - with successive telling - became a fever, bronchitis, ague, and pneumonia. A wonder it was, that by Sunday night, Mr. Bennet was not also declared, by every drawing room of England, to be consumptive! Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, excitedly refused to receive company for as long as company came to see her. The romance of having a husband dying, and oneself close to the end of mortality too, was of the greatest comfort to Mrs. Bennet. She proved her loyalty to her spouse by faring continually worse under the declining conditions of her husband, though she was, occasionally, strong enough to walk and sit about the house, waiting for her eager visitors to arrive, visitors who might come and find her confined again to her bed in her very sad state.

News of "Mr. Bennet's pulmonary collapse" got around to Kent - to Hunsford, to be precise, by way of the two former Miss Lucases; and Reverend Collins, the pious man, resolved immediately to pay his respects to his cousin. It was not at all because he thought of the Entail. Oh, no, no, no - quite on the contrary! He would never dream of it! His wish was merely to be with the man through his last mortal affliction, and offer him the condolences of a dutiful clergyman. Mr. Collins only hoped that he was not too late in comforting his cousin, and to make the man see what good hands Longbourn would fall into after Mr. Bennet's passing.

Mrs. Collins, who had learned to be apprehensive towards all her husband's schemes, knew that she would have to guard her husband in some way from exhibiting their entire family to ridicule. She remembered keenly the sort of pomposity her husband had presented when he left Hunsford for Longbourn many years ago, in order to "console" the Bennets over the scandalous elopement of their youngest daughter. Mrs. Collins had learned from her friend, who was then still Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that Reverend Collins had shown himself to be a most arrogant and disagreeable man. Charlotte Collins had no desire to renew such a review of her husband, indifferent as she was towards him.

"We will go with you," decided Mrs. Collins. "Franny and I will visit my parents, as will Maria and her children, and we may as well all go together."

The prospect of a long journey away from Hunsford, the first in Franny's entire life, and in the company of the Somersets, cheered our heroine greatly. An entire autumn! With cousins that she liked! And many miles away from Rosings Park! Had it not been for the grave reason behind their journey, Franny would have rejoiced openly.

"And are you excited to have your wish at last? A 'swash-buckling' good adventure? I say, you may run into a few crusades there if you're not careful. You know how desperate mamas of single, younger sons are like," Arthur said jokingly to Franny one evening as they were charged with looking after the younger children. They were once more on good terms, for Franny was never one to hold a grudge long against one so willing to win her good opinion again.

"Oh, I shall see Grandpapa and Grandma again and that is good enough," answered Franny cheerfully. "It has been long since they've come to Hunsford. Grandpapa's health is not so good as it once was."

"That's not very capital is it?" said Arthur, eyes twinkling. "And tell me, where are you staying at in Hertfordshire? I am sure you won't be at Lucas Lodge with the numerous Somersets invading it."

"We're staying at Longbourn of course," Franny replied, though it struck her for the first time that she'd never thought about it. Her mother had acquainted her a bit with the nature of their relations with the Bennets, and of the fortune that her father expected to come into upon Mr. Bennet's death. Again, she could not help but think what a relief to her father she might have been if she had been born a son.

"Mrs. Somerset tells me that you may be rather taken aback by Mrs. Bennet. It seems that she is of a nature that does not wholly permit her to be in company with Reverend Collins long," Arthur remarked lightly. "I am sure that if you do not wear your finest laces to see her, she shall take more to you than to the good reverend."

"If you must know," replied Franny, "I don't own any lace or finery like that. I do wonder, though, whether we will stop by in London."

"And why do you have a sudden wish to go to London?" asked Arthur, slightly alarmed.

Franny laughed. "Why have you got that look on your face, as though you were a deer caught in a trap? Is it so strange that I should like to see London?"

"I never thought you were the sort who was eager to see the sights and hear the sounds and smell the smells of the Town..." There was a twinkle of mirth in his eyes which told Franny that her cousin was only speaking in jest.

"Thank you for that enlightening remark," said Franny, a little impertinently. She watched her young cousins play. "Oh, Ashleigh, do be good and refrain from teasing your sister like that!"

"Do clergymen's daughters not enjoy a little enlightenment? Or is it because they simply dislike it?"

"I do not know what you're talking about, and certainly now is no time for frivolous jokes," said Franny, standing up to extract Ashleigh and Annette from each other's fury, cutting short their conversation.

On another occasion, while Franny helped her mother to shell peas, Arthur came by and, again, tried to rouse the conversation towards Hertfordshire.

"You are anxious to take the journey, Arthur," Mrs. Collins observed, not looking up from her work. "Are you accompanying your father and mother there as well?"

"I suppose I am expected to," answered Arthur with a shrug.

"And what of your father's mill?" asked Mrs. Collins.

"The mill?" asked Arthur uncertainly. "Oh, that. He hasn't asked me yet to take over, and I've never reminded him of it. I don't wish to sound eager to take over at the mill."

"And why not? Should not a young gentleman take interest in occupying his time with useful things?"

"Well, madam, to be quite honest, the profession of the mill was not what I had hoped for. I entered school hoping to gain other things." Arthur gave a hesitant smile.

"What had you hoped to gain by attending Oxford?" asked Mrs. Collins patiently.

"Knowledge, wisdom. To work, to write. 'To lead the life of an independent gentleman'. I do not mean that my father has none of these - indeed, he is more of a gentleman than ever I shall be."

"Be certain to remember that idleness does not suit any man. But I cannot find fault in your filial piety. Your praise to Mr. Somerset would make any father jealous," commended Mrs. Collins, with only a hint of disapproval to ruffle the placidity of her words.

"How have you bade farewell to your friends, Franny?" asked Arthur, relaxing again.

Franny looked up from the basket peas. "Why do you suddenly ask?" she inquired politely.

"I imagine Mrs. Denny will miss your company for quite some time."

Franny coloured, remembering the subject of their last dispute. "Mrs. Denny is not without other friends. I am sure she will not miss my company too much. Besides, we will write to one another regularly."

"It seems," interrupting Mrs. Collins again, as though she felt it was prudent to interrupt them, "that the Bingleys have moved into Netherfield once more. You have not seen Netherfield before, Franny. You may see it, and the Bingleys again, once we settle in Hertfordshire. Netherfield is not far from Longbourn, three miles, and is but a few minutes ride by carriage, now that the roads are so greatly improved. My friend, Mrs. Darcy, once walked the length of the way, from Longbourn to Netherfield, and she found it to be no great distance on a mild day."

"Yes, I am sure," answered Franny, who didn't think much of the Bingleys. It was not that she did not like them; it was only that they were too nice all the time, making her at times feel quite guilty for not doing more as a clergyman's daughter.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Collins. "I thought you like the Bingleys."

"Oh!" said Franny. She handed her finished basket to her mother. "I do like them. How can anyone not help liking the Bingleys? They are always so nice to everyone. I remember their daughter Cynthia was like that particularly, I knew I hardly deserved it. But they are just that - nice."

"'Nice' is an indifferent adjective, is it not?" spoke Arthur, his eyes twinkling. "'Nice' has been used to describe so many things that it has quite lost its original meaning, and is now nothing more than a generic word of description to be used on anything very good, mildly good, and even things that are not good at all."

"Why should anyone describe something not good as 'nice'?" asked Franny in bewilderment.

"Is it not obvious? One uses 'nice' whenever one is at a loss of words. Allow me to give you an example. It fills the same amount of time it takes to say, 'I want...uh...um...a...slice of bread', as it takes to say: 'I want...a nice slice of bread.' Naturally, using a useful adjective like 'nice' to modify any noun can be considered, if not clever, at least more articulate than hesitating 'ums' and 'uhs'. It is universal because one can be demure, neat, or trivial, and still fall under the label of 'nice'. It also allows us to be critical without being mean. One can come across a very homely item at a shop, and say, 'Oh, what a nice feathered turban!' or 'What a nice orange dress!' An owner of a shop who understands anything about his customers would therefore be able to remove the item discreetly from his display, with as little embarrassment accosted to him as possible."

Franny laughed. "It is all very fine of you to say that, but you know that you are talking nothing but cruel nonsense."

"Ah, Franny, there is another misused, much abused word. 'Fine'. What is 'fine'? Is it used to describe a figure, an object, an idea, or is it just another passing phrase that one uses when one is at a loss of words? To be sharp is to be fine; to be keen is to be fine; to be expensive is to be fine; even 'accomplished' and 'ornate' are replaced by the adjective 'fine'. Why, people even use 'fine' to mask the unhappiness in their debauched lives. 'I am fine,' is what they say, when really, they would much rather borrow your shoulder for a good cry. Therefore, pray, do specify what it is you mean to say when you use that dire word."

"I hope that there is nothing unpleasant about 'nice' in the case of the Bingleys," checked Mrs. Collins. "It isn't often that one meets with a family like the Bingleys that is so sympathetic, congenial, and agreeable."

Arthur had nothing to say to that.

Yes, thought Franny, her mother was right. The Bingley case certainly did not apply to all. For example, how had such nice parents as the Darcys resulted in such mean-spirited children as William, Bennet and Bella? She wondered whether it was likely that she would see the Darcys at Hertfordshire also. And how strange it would be, with the Bennets, Bingleys, Darcys, Somersets, Lucases and Collins all assembled within easy distance of each other.

Strange? I cannot say that I agree with our heroine, and I cannot say for myself that the upcoming journey to Hertfordshire deserves such an adjective either, but I shall leave off at present, for my pen begins to fail me. If you would kindly retain some patience, I may endeavour to tell you more upon our next rendezvous.

*Appendix I.

A Simplified Illustration of the Entailment of Longbourn,
which holds little importance to the Narrative,
But which may, or may not, interest the Gentle Reader.
(Due to probable inaccuracies & discrepancies, the Reader's discretion is most humbly advised.)

				(1) Sir Thomas Bennet

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			-----------------------------------------

			| 		   | 			| 

	    (2)Thomas Bennet  (5) James Bennet Collins   (8)Cassandra Bennet

			| 		   | 			| 

	    (3)Thomas Bennet  (6)William James Collins   (9) John Bennet-Knight

			| 		   | 

	    (4)Thomas Bennet  (7)William Collins 

Chapter 6

When I last made mention of Franny's friendship with Mrs. Bets Denny, I did not mention how it was that Franny came to meet her friend. On that point, I have only to say that they met as a result of Franny's benevolent father.

As it was, Miss Bets Maudlyn, the natural daughter of a Somebody, educated to the very sixth level of a local school for girls, received Reverend Collins' charity one Sunday morning while reading a book. As it was a Sunday, and as Miss Maudlyn was sitting in a church, let us assume that the book was her Book of Hymns, despite the fact that Miss Bets held no interest in music, whether her life depended on it or not, and despite the fact that she was actually perusing an impassioned love note which she had tucked so slyly in between the pages of the aforementioned book.

Mr. Collins was walking into the church with his nose in the air, proud of his humbleness as usual, when he passed Miss Maudlyn's pew. He had just had a comforting, reassuring conversation with his ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh and had cause to think that his salary might now be augmented. Unknown to himself, he dropped his purse, and thinking that it belonged to Miss Maudlyn, handed the purse to her. Miss Maudlyn, scrambled to slam the book shut, but relieved to find that the reverend had not discovered her secret, she accordingly took the proffered pouch from his hand, and kept it.

At Miss Maudlyn's wedding, Mr. Collins' daughter was present to help with the simple ceremony. She observed the clergyman's daughter's plainness both in looks, speech and attitude. She silently remarked upon the clumsiness of the clergyman's daughter. She saw the simple faith the younger girl had in Miss Maudlyn's veneration and flattery. Henceforth, sharp-witted Mrs. Bets Denny acquainted herself with the reverend's plain and unassuming daughter. Their three-year long friendship flowered from there. Ah, how highly must the reverend be commended now for his role in bringing on his daughter's friendship.

The Collins' temporary departure from Hunsford was therefore met with mixed feelings by the Dennys. John Denny, who, aside from his handsome face, was really no more than a regular dolt (he had left the army and gave up his red coat in order to marry a girl who had wanted to marry him because he had looked so dashing in his red coat) did not see the departure of the Collins as a subject of severe gravity. He might miss a chat or two with that young chap that was Miss Franny's cousin, but other than that, he really did not miss them.

Mr. Denny's wife, Bets, was more aware of the implications. This was the first time that Franny was away from Hunsford for so long. For at least a month, they could not expect to receive her charity. Bets Denny had just spent the money she earned from Franny's handkerchief. For at least a month, they could not expect to have any such luxury, and bitterly did Bets resent this. Why should she, a Maudlyn, with ancestral lines that probably traced back as far as the French Madeleines, be reduced to such an impoverished state, and to have been so blinded as to marry for love, when love did nothing but brought one down? Franny was three years Bets' junior, but Franny was going to be made a little mistress of a relatively substantial property in Hertfordshire called Longbourn. (Bets was not aware of the entailment of Longbourn, for if she had, she might have felt less offended.) Was this fair? No - certainly not. She greedily fingered the bonnet that Franny had so thoughtlessly left behind. She felt that she had a perfect right to be jealous, though of course, with her schooling, she did not put her feelings to herself in quite those words.

"Who is at the parsonage in place of the Collins?" Bets asked her husband. "You passed by earlier, did you not?"

"Oh yes, indeed, I did as you asked. I went and had a grave chat with the reverend, Mr. Bertram, you see, who's quite a smart man if I can say so." John Denny laughed at his own joke. "Do you get it? A 'grave chat' with the reverend. Ha!"

"Mr. Bertram?" She ignored her husband's levity as her own gloominess lay heavily upon her. Her brain tried to churn. "Is he married?"

"Yes, I would imagine so. He's none so young, and he had his wife and two children by his side. Fairly young things too, his children. Not more than ten or eleven, I would say."

Bets pouted at the news. It did not sound as though there would be any more guileless young ladies her age to befriend. As she thought this, her baby Nicholas began to cry, and leaning over the cradle, she swooped the bundle into her arms. "Do look at your son," she scolded her husband. "Look at him. That's all he does, cry all day. He knows sorrow even without his mama telling him. Do you want your little son to be poor as a poor wretch his whole life through?"

John Denny looked on in guilt, wondering why it was his sweet little Bets had suddenly taken up one of her moods. Women, he was wont to think in pity to himself, women were so puzzling.

"I hope you'll go out there then, and court the Bertrams' friendship," exclaimed Bets. "What do you stand there for? They'll like you, a honest fellow. We can't live on your brother's money alone for a entire month - You get yourself there at once, John, and see what you can do."

John Denny nodded meekly, and grabbing his hat, he stepped out of the cottage.

"This is all Miss Franny's fault," Bets said bitterly to her child. "And worse, her cousin Somerset will open her eyes and make her clever, and then where shall I be? No, this will never do, and I must not let it happen. But what can I do? Oh, I see, you don't care what happens to your mama, you cold-hearted thing. You just want to make noise."

Putting the shrieking baby back in its cradle, she grabbed a pen and paper and began to address herself to the first Lieutenant-Commander Wellington Denny.

Chapter 6, Part B

Had Mrs. Bets Denny only stayed and watched the way in which the Collins and the Somersets prepared for their leave from Kent, she would have found enough substance with which to quell her jealousy, and ample food on which to feed her contempt. Why so, you may ask? The party that left Rosings Park had exited in this fashion:

Tucked and squeezed into two carriages. It would have reminded Mrs. Denny of a crumb of bread being assailed by a swarm of ants.

When the Collins and the Somersets were at last proud of their achievement, they pronounced themselves to be quite comfortable. But not a minute had passed before Mr. Collins remembered the trunk of books and readings that he had meant to take along with him to Longbourn; he had forgotten to remove them from his study at the Parsonage. They had to return. Mr. Bertram, who was to be the interim clergyman at Hunsford, had to be disturbed in order to lend his hand in assistance. Further shuffling then took place in order to accomodate Mr. Collins' large, heavy, oak box; and yet, tug or push as they would, neither Mr. Bertram, Mr. Collins, nor Mr. Somerset could fix the situation. Lady Catherine de Bourgh finally applied for the use of one of her discontinued gigs; two hours later, the Collins and the Somersets left Rosings.

"And this is all because of her ladyship's favour," mused Franny's father as he leaned back comfortably in his seat. "Where shall we all be without her constant advice and sweet condescension. We shall be at Longbourn before dark after all." Mr. Collins sighed in self-satisfaction. "Though, I am heartily glad to add, it is hardly what I call a perilous journey from Kent to Hertfordshire, let me assure you, my dear Charlotte. Should Lady Catherine have condescended to lend us her donkey cart, our journey would have been just as safe, just as secure. Many times have I made this very trek across our two counties, and as you can see, nothing ill has ever come of me."

"To be sure, I had no concerns over our safety," said Mrs. Collins indifferently. "I know what it is like to travel from Kent to Hertfordshire and back. I do not fear our being there before or after dark. I only wondered at the inconvenience we must cast upon the Bennets, should our arrival be later than they anticipated."

"It is of course an inconvenience, but no more than can be expected, my dearest Charlotte. In fact, I think it should not be at all extraordinary if they should expect to wait for our arrival." He sensed no impropriety in his words as he continued. "After all, they must be hurrying themselves this very moment, making Longbourn acceptable for our arrival. To give them an extra hour, two hours, even three, would-I am certain-give them generous time to present themselves decently to their guests. It has been my experience-or should I say, it has been the experience of my honourable patroness-that anticipation can contrive much good. You recall the time she had Flacks put the shelves in our closets?"

"I do," said Mrs. Collins, remembering the circumstances too well.

"Flacks arrived late in the day, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh was quite benevolent and generous towards him. She said-I cannot recollect the exact words that she used, but they were something to this meaning-she said to Flacks, 'Now, Flacks, you should take to you a watch ere you go on another errand. I understand that there is much good and bad to come of all things, but tardiness, in all aspects, is most disagreeable, unless you can claim that our waiting was profitable to ourselves.' And then her ladyship gave him her watch to keep. That was courtesy indeed. And what was it that her ladyship pronounced so decidedly? Why, 'to profit by waiting.' Oh, there will be a good sermon for the very Sunday that we return - or, I should say, if we return. 'To profit by waiting'! What a prudent message it will be to my congregation."

"I believe that you have said so many times."

Glad to hear his wife's affirmation, Mr. Collins nodded and leaned once more into his seat. "You know, my dear Charlotte," he said after a pause, "Within the ease of one of Lady Catherine's carriages, I almost think we need not stop over at London."

Both Franny and Mrs. Collins were taken by surprise.

"But what do you wish to be in London for, Father?" Franny asked. "I thought-Would it not be out of our way?"

An expression of indignance showed itself on the reverend's face. "It is not out of our way, Frances. And I dare say, you have grown very bold, my child," said Mr. Collins, studying his daughter with the aspect of a patriarch. "But if you have any concerns for your father, as I have often wished you had, then you would not question. You surely do not expect us to go the full distance from Kent to Hertfordshire without so much as a stop along the way? In my time, my child, in my time, it was always considerate to think only of the comforts of..."

"Mr. Collins," interrupted Mrs. Collins patiently. "Franny meant no disrespect by it. She has never been away before, and the sudden prospect of going to London must have caught up with her. For myself, I had thought we might pass by that way, but certainly, I had no hope of doing so."

"Well, we shall not stay long there, if that please you," said Mr. Collins. "London, after all, is not the most suitable of places for young ladies, and yet there shall be many of us there to escort the children. I think we shall be quite comfortable. I know of an inn, where we may take our meal."

"Pardon me, Mr. Collins. You know of an inn in London?" asked Mrs. Collins, hiding an amused smile.

"I have stayed in London before," said Mr. Collins quickly in his own defence. "And the Somersets have advised me of a particular inn. They themselves have been in town, as you know, quite frequently, though they have not a house there yet. You need not look at me in that way, Charlotte. Your sister Maria could confirm this."

"I am not suspicious, I do not need to confirm a thing with my sister. I take your word for it," answered Mrs. Collins. She looked out the window, and steering her husband to other subjects, she expressed her relief at seeing the calm, clear sky above them.

Franny herself enjoyed the ride as much as she could but when, at last, they were in town she was glad to step out of Lady Catherine's old, rickety gig.

The Collins were soon joined by the Somersets at the Copperflute, but still, they were not the only ones in the dining room of the inn. Many there were also travellers, like themselves. Shawls and jackets hung from the back of chairs, hats rested on empty surfaces, and bonnets dangled carefreely from hooks at one end of the room. The soft, continuous murmurs of a dozen conversations filled the room. Franny took in the whole scene before her. The place was altogether warm and homey. The furnishing was rustic but elegant, the paintings along the walls simple yet haunting. Pots of flowers grew indoors, and by every window, there were clusters of violets and pansies; their cheerful petals of yellow and purple basked indulgently in the warm, afternoon sun.

Seating themselves as snugly as they could, the Collins and the Somersets ordered their meal. Franny tried not to concentrate on the smell of smoked and peppered meat that was wafting into the dining room of the Copperflute, for they had none of them taken much breakfast that day, nor any luncheon at all. As she averted her eyes from the door of the kitchen, her gaze fell upon a merry table not far from her own.

They were sailors, yet they were also gentlemen. Their table was once laden with food; now, only empty plates and empty glasses remained. The eldest of the three (a stocky gentleman with the short neck and the short stubs of mouse brown hair) began to pour a glass of ale to one of his companions. The man who received the glass from him was quite a bit younger than him; he was also pale-anemic in the face-He had the look of perpetual seasickness, and this, Franny could not help but observe with some amusement, for she thought that as a rule, all sailors-regardless of their rank-were hardy and weatherblown.

But out of the trio of naval officers at that table, only one drew Franny's interest. That man was also sitting down, but he was evidently tall, for there seemed to be hardly any room for his knees under the table. His blue uniform, trimmed with gold, hung well upon his broad, stalwart frame, as though the habit had been shaped to fit him alone. His locks of hair, dark as ebony, were swept back away from his bronzed, Apollonian face, and when he talked and jested with his men, his dark eyes gleamed and were bright in their blackness. Here he was, Franny thought to herself, the very man of heroic chivalry. He was the sort of man who could have invoked more inspiration than even Lord Nelson had in declaring: "England expects that every man will do his duty." He is superior to all others, Franny could imagine Mrs. Denny whispering in her ear. Was the man an admiral? Perhaps too young for that. A captain, then? And yet, there was an air about him that commanded greater dignity.

His gaze seemed to meet Franny's quite suddenly. It was a look of indifference. Before a fraction of a second had passed, his attention was back on his comrades; stranger had not noticed young Miss Collins at all.

The food arrived, and Franny was compelled to eat, though she now forgot her hunger. She tried her best to engage in her conversation with Mrs. Somerset, and to look after little Morris, but every moment she could, she glimpsed over at the table of sailors, and could not help but wonder what they were doing in London.

As Mr. Somerset did the honours of slicing the ham for the company, Franny saw that the naval officers had all stood up from their table. She gathered that they were leaving, never to sit under the same roof as herself again. But there was nothing she could do. Besides, for all that, she was sensible of the silliness that raged in her head, her silliness for being so easily struck by a uniformed young man. She turned away.

All of a sudden, there was a crash; and the clatter and clang of fallen dishes that accompanied it drew the attention of everyone at the Copperflute. There, in the middle of the dining room, was one of the officers, disentangling himself from a young waiter. A heap of mess laid upon the carpet. Mr. Somerset was the first to reach the scene, and lending the waiter a hand, he hoisted the boy up to his feet while the anemic sailor stammered an uneasy apology.

"Do look after yourself, young man," said Mr. Somerset, now with a careful look at the sailor. "You do not look to be in the best of colours."

"Thank you, Sir, but I am well," answered the pale man.

"Indeed, I say you are not," said Mr. Somerset. "You had better sit down. Your forehead is cut. Has anyone a handkerchief about them? Maria or Franny? Franny, have you got one?"

Franny accordingly handed her handkerchief to her uncle, who then pressed it against the clumsy officer's brow. Like the two other sailors, Franny looked on in curiosity, though the rest of the people in the Copperflute had gone back to their duties.

"Franny," said Mrs. Collins gently prodding her to return to their table.

"Yes, in a minute," Franny answered, unable to turn away.

Though the pallid officer had now took hold of his own wound, he continued to look rather disconcerted, and Franny's uncle had now sat down to speak with him.

"A nasty cut that was," Franny heard the stocky sailor say to the tall, distinguished officer. "I always said Hartright would land himself in something sooner or later."

"It wasn't the worst thing that could have happened," answered his comrade in a rich tenor voice.

"He's not himself. Hartright needs a holiday, but by God, see if he'll admit to it."

"Nonsense, Price," replied the taller officer dismissively. Crouching beside his injured friend, he asked whether he was yet ready to go, or whether they should remain behind another minute.

"I'm ready," replied Hartright, standing up slowly. "I'm sure Price will be quite relieved to hear this: I will not take another minute."

"Mr. Hartright, I think you had better get your wound looked to by a doctor, or at least to have it bandaged," said Mr. Somerset. "I would not trust any of my own family to walk out of the door with such an injury."

"Thank you Sir," interrupted the taller officer with a courteous bow, "But we have seen, and even received, worst blows than this in our careers. But do not mistake me-I have no protests against staying a while longer, yet it is clearly up to Hartright."

"And I say that I do not need to stay," declared Hartright. He held the soiled handkerchief away from his brow. "You see, it has just about stopped now. We can go. I would not, for the life of me, wish to be the cause of our delay. To whom does this handkerchief belong?"

Franny took a step forward, not knowing how else to reply.

"Thank you, Miss," said Hartright, "I'm afraid I've spoiled it. If you will allow me, I would willingly replace it with any fee you choose to name, though my purse is but lean at this time."

Franny shyly answered that she would take nothing in return, other than the assurance that Mr. Hartright would take better care of himself in the future.

"My niece will not answer to rewards for a trifling thing," said Mr. Somerset to the officers. "I will only echo her by saying that I hope you take care of yourselves. As part of the Royal Navy, you are, after all, the pride of England."

With some more words or gratefulness, Hartright seized each of his friends by the arm, and bade the Somersets and the Collins farewell.

"I am sure that the young man, Mr. Hartright, is not quite well," said Mr. Somerset as they returned to their table. He shook his head a little. "He is ill, I am sure of it. If the whole of the Royal Navy were to depend on such officers, then I dare say, I would better have depended the security of my country upon the Polish."

Everyone seemed to speak at once, each insisting upon hearing all that Mr. Somerset had learned from his conversation with the young officer. Beneath the din of noise, Arthur leaned over towards Franny and whispered,

"Everyone seems to like the navy."

Franny coloured. "Well, only think of the battle at Trafalgar."

"Yes, but to be sure, I must agree with my father in my opinion of them. The sickly one-"

"He had a name, I believe."

"Mr. Hartright, then, he was quite grateful, was he not? And his tall friend- I am sure I have seen him somewhere before."

"Have you?"

"Come, Franny, surely you must have recognized him too. Your memory is not so short as you make it out to be. To a young girl like yourself, surely a face of that kind would not escape your notice... I see you will not answer to that. Won't you tell me what you're thinking at this moment? Ah, you mean to write in your diary tonight: 'Cousin Arthur behaved atrociously today. He is nothing compared to the gentlemen I saw at the Copperflute today.'"

Disliking Arthur's tone, Franny answered as bitingly as possible. "How did you know? Those were exactly the phrases that I had hoped to use." Franny's words had the very effect that she desired. Arthur's next jest died upon his lips before it was could be born.

However interesting the appearance of the three sailors has been to you, I am afraid, gentle reader, that we must leave them for a moment now, and continue on with Franny's journey to Longbourn. After all, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet await us. If fate has its way, we may cross paths with the sailors again before long.

Chapter 7

The rest of the Collins' journey to Longbourn could be summed up as ordinary and unexciting, and unworthy of the few lines that the authoress now dedicates to it.

There were no more naval officers to cross paths with, and no more handkerchiefs to give out for bleeding brows. The Collins left London and drove through Hertfordshire. Their ride was by no means a precarious one; with the exception of some complaints of numbness on the part of Reverend Collins' left foot-little toe, the voyage went by remarkably smoothly. The Somersets took the fork in the road to reach Lucas Lodge, but the Collins continued on their own way. It was dusk when the Collins arrived at Longbourn. They were duly greeted by Mrs. Hill and the rest of the servants who bowed and curtsied to the good clergyman. The Collins' belongings were taken out of the carriage, and their persons shown into the great house.

The first thing that Franny could not help noting was the refinement of the Longbourn staff. Never in her young life had she ever had a servant wait upon her, for the idleness and stinginess of the parsonage's Cook could not be counted on as domestic help. Franny had almost grown up to believe that real help occurred only at Rosings, but here at Longbourn, she was immediately attended by a maid of her age.

Another thing which Franny found quite delightful was the reception that they received from the Bennets. Mr. Bennet had ventured downstairs from his room to pass a quick greeting to his cousin and his cousin's family. There was no unflattering sign of illness plaguing him, and despite the appearance of fatigue, he was in remarkably good health.

Franny's father shared in her surprise.

"Mr. Bennet," exclaimed Mr. Collins, "You astonish me! How is it that you are not confined to your room? You shall catch quite a chill leaving your bed so. Your delicate health, Sir-"

"Pardon me, Mr. Collins," interrupted Mr. Bennet with amusement, "But as you see, I stand here before you, sturdy as a tree. You will find, Mr. Collins, that my state of ill health has been grossly exaggerated. But you are all welcome to stay until I am afflicted with my next bout of sickness."

Mr. Bennet's wife, meanwhile, appeared to be more ill than her husband. Her face bore the whiteness of powder, and she kept pressing her hand to her bosom, as though the sight of the Collins grieved her greatly. Perhaps the poor woman thought that this visit would be the death of her. After all, to be so soon replaced by the next mistress of Longbourn, even before Mr. Bennet was cold in his grave, was too tragic a thought to long ignore. Mrs. Bennet fancied that Mrs. Collins was already ordering a new set of curtains for the sitting room. As a result, it took Mrs. Bennet all of her strength to hold her head high with composure and dignity. Her resolve was this: she would be gracious and cold to her guests-and see how they liked being displaced from their rightful home.

Franny's mother was quite pleased to meet Mr. and Mrs. Bennet once more - Mr. Bennet even complimented Mrs. Collins on "retaining some good sense after so many years. I hope your child takes after you." Mrs. Collins thanked him for the unusual compliment, and made no secret of her affections for her daughter.

"She is a good child," Mr. Collins said, not to be outdone by his wife. "A bit too forgetful and restless, but all in all, I suppose Franny is a good girl."

"It sounds like you doubt yourself, Mr. Collins," said Mr. Bennet, his blue eyes sparkling. He gave a little cough before proceeding. "I would certainly not wish to 'suppose' anything of my own children. Are you quite certain that you've made up your mind about yours? Is she to you what Mary and Kitty were to me?"

Mr. Collins was left quite speechless for a moment, floundering about like a fish out of water. Franny looked up at Mr. Bennet and saw that there was only mirth, and no real meanness in his attitude or expression. Franny liked Mr. Bennet already, but she could say nothing; shyness had overcome her tongue.

Upon Mrs. Bennet's cold announcement that supper was prepared and waiting, Franny went to her room to dress. Franny had been told that the room once belonged to Miss Mary Bennet. Being unacquainted with the lady, she could not understand the look that her mother exchanged with Mr. Bennet. However, as soon as she stepped through its doors, she comprehended.

It was the plainest looking chamber that she had ever seen. It was even plainer than the room that she had at home. If it had been an old, decrepit shaft in the ground, she would have had cause to complain or abuse it, but this room held no such advantage. It had only the advantage of being neat in its bareness. No holes or blemish marred its walls. There was a bed, very simple in make, a severely unembellished wardrobe, and a drawer and table. On the table lay an old, cracked jug and basin, a crucifix, and an old, crooked mirror. Franny sighed, falling onto the bed, but she groaned in shock as the mattress neither budged nor gave in under her weight. This certainly said a lot about Miss Mary Bennet! Mary Bennet would have made a perfect missionary! Did Franny's parents really expect her to live in this room for the next month? Where was the thrill of being a guest? She missed her books, she missed her fresh daisies, she missed the watercolour paintings on her wall. Franny suffered a most unmerciful pang of homesickness, and it only became more acute, the more she thought of the parsonage.

A knock on the door, and a few muffled words from her mother on the other side of the door reminded Franny of supper. She quickly changed out of her travelling clothes and returned downstairs to the dining room, where sure enough, all were waiting.

"Good, I see you have decided to join us," said Mr. Bennet, smiling. "Ah, you seem surprised to see me again, Miss Franny. Your good father has just taken care to inform me that I am the very paragon of disease. However, his diagnosis must be contradicted. My doctor tells me that I am not contagious-that I am absolutely well. In short, I may enjoy a meal with my wife and my guests as an active, breathing member of our party."

Franny smiled, containing herself just enough to drown a rising giggle, and sat down next to her father at the table. Much to everyone's (including Mrs. Bennet's) surprise, the master of Longbourn made a brief commotion with his hands.

"No, no, Miss Franny, you may sit next to the old man this evening," said Mr. Bennet, pointing at the chair beside his. "Don't worry, I am not as fearsome as you may think. As one might say, 'my bark is worse than my bite'. I can assure you that I am perfectly decontaminated, at least for this evening, but I may grow worse as your welcome wears itself out."

Franny grinned, and obliging her host, she sat down at her new place.

Mrs. Bennet, at the other end of the table, sniffed. She gave little credit to Franny for being anything but Mr. Collins' daughter. She had always found it difficult to receive Mr. Collins since his marriage to Lady Lucas' eldest daughter. She impressed herself with the thought that at least Franny was nowhere near as pretty as her Jane or Lizzy or Lydia. Why, Franny Collins was too round to be called slim, and too ordinary to deserve merit! And her features were altogether unremarkable: her eyes were too light to inspire much beauty, her hair was neither dark enough to be a pretty nut brown, nor pale enough to be gold. Her complexion-Mrs. Bennet shook her head-well, she would save that particular review for the next time her sister Phillips came around.

Her husband was more charitable in his silent ponderings. Mr. Bennet's intention at first was to discover as much as he could about Franny-whether Franny was like her father in mentality. Outwardly, she had the semblance of curviness, but it was due more in part to the remains of childhood than to Mr. Collins, and Mr. Bennet recalled that Charlotte Lucas, as a child, had been healthy and robust. To note that Franny's features were not her father's was enough to satisfy Mr. Bennet in that respect. As for Franny's intellect, he would have to try her-She had remained quiet after her initial laugh; was she perhaps shy, or simply slow?

"I suppose," said Mr. Bennet, "I ought to ask you all how you liked your journey. No one was attacked by gypsies, I hope?"

"We were in the cradles of safety, Sir," said Mr. Collins immediately. "Though in London, I could not say the same, for a most unfortunate event took place there that might have resulted in the demise of oneself, had fortune not been on one's side."

"Pardon me?" said Mr. Bennet, all ears.

"A young man was accosted, Mr. Bennet-Accosted by a most hapless young waiter at the Copperflute, the inn at which we took our midday meal, with the Somersets. A most unfortunate event, as I have told my dear Charlotte over and over. It was an affair most providential that his wound was short of a real injury."

"I wonder what your Lady Catherine de Bourgh would have submitted to say to that," said Mr. Bennet, indulging himself in the absurdity of his cousin. "Knowing how seriously you take your duties, Mr. Collins, I am to infer that you have befriended both victim and perpetrator of this accident, and made converts of them all?"

"You understand me too well." Mr. Collins nodded his head in a dignified manner. "I could only flatter myself with discovery of the victim's profession, although, had the opportunity arisen, I would have suffered to do more. He is an officer of the Royal Navy. Of what rank or parentage, I am not to know, but his manners are certainly of the highest, and he, at least, may be commended on that fact."

The mistress of Longbourn gave an interested little gasp upon hearing this. "An officer?" she repeated. Her animosity towards the Collins was immediately washed away. "Of the navy? Why, you did not say so earlier. There would have been a time when any of my friends might have fancied a navy man, you know. I, for one, never thought blue looked so well as red. But then, those were in our younger days, before I met Mr. Bennet....It is a wonder they never come by Hertfordshire anyway. I do not see why the sea should draw away all the navy. And what was this young man's name? Surely you must have discovered his name, Mr. Collins?"

Mr. Collins turned to his wife. "My dear Charlotte, what was his name?"

Mrs. Collins shook her head indifferently. "You ought to ask Franny. She was attending to him with her uncle, so surely she must know."

All eyes now turned to Franny.

"What was the officer's name, child, the name of the officer who fell?" prodded Mr. Collins impatiently.

"I believe it was Mr. Hartright, Father."

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Mr. Hartright. You see, Sir, that is his name."

"Hartright is not a very common name, though I have know one or two in my time," said Mrs. Bennet. One could see that in her head, she was already calculating her next manoeuvre. "Are there not Hartrights near Longbourn, Mr. Bennet?"

"There were never any Hartrights in Longbourn or Meryton...and if there had been, none of them had money nor connections enough to recommend themselves to your attention. Therefore, Mrs. Bennet, do not trouble yourself."

"I cannot imagine what their business was in town," interrupted Mr. Collins, after clearing his throat a bit. "There was a trio of them, as I have previously mentioned. London is a distance from the coast, after all, so whatever business it was that had brought them thither-"

"Must certainly not be our own," finished his wife as sweetly and mildly as possible. "You know how Lady Catherine, our most obliging neighbour, advises us often against idle speculation."

"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Reverend Collins.

"What do you think of Longbourn, Miss Franny?" Mr. Bennet asked abruptly, after an awkward pause. "Does it suit you?"

Franny hesitated. "It is nice, Sir." She recalled something of an old conversation she had. "I mean, it is very nice, as in very pretty and neat."

Mr. Bennet pounced directly on her words. "Why do you change your mind so suddenly? You described Longbourn first as nice, then as pretty and neat."

"I want to sound neither silly nor ignorant," said Franny, taking courage. "My cousin Arthur tells me that 'nice' is a very indifferent word, and I did not wish for you to think that I might be indifferent to Longbourn. With one small exception, I think it is the most delightful place in the world."

"What is that 'small exception'?"

"Well, I do not think that I shall ever like Miss Mary Bennet's room much."

At this, several people around the table either coughed or stared at Franny, bewildered by her forwardness, but Mr. Bennet, who was quite amused by the state of things at his dinner table, laughed. "I dare say, I hope you will find many silly things to say to me while you are here, Miss Franny, for I have not been in the position of being amused in my own house-Not since all my daughters left me."

"I beg your pardon, Sir," answered Franny, blushing madly. But she tried fervently to set her shyness aside. "I did not think I would be here as your comic jester."

"Like Harlequin?" asked Mr. Bennet amid Mr. Collins' horrified gasp.* (* Editor's note: Mr. Collins had once, in his youthful Oxford days, attended a student theatre version of this type of French comedy. His restrained and moral sensibilities were so rudely blasted by these actors-they were bent on fooling him with a bit of trickery-that Mr. Collins soon preached contempt against all comédies françaises.)

"Franny-" Mrs. Collins interrupted, "Please do not forget-"

"No, go on, my child," said Mr. Bennet, leaning forward a bit. "I should like very much to hear this. What is this about jesters? What do you know about jesters?"

"Well, I believe that-That is, Arthur said-" Franny stopped. Her father was staring daggers at her from under his greasy brow; her mother was silent; Mrs. Bennet looked confused; and Mr. Bennet was encouraging her wild, rambling words! Franny tried, but faltered again.

Mr. Bennet leaned back and thought a bit. "Who is your cousin Arthur? Is he the man who inherits Longbourn after your father?"

"Ah!-" interrupted Mr. Collins. He was pleased with this swift change in subject. "Arthur, Arthur Somerset. He is not the next in line to Longbourn- He is the son of Mr. Somerset from his first marriage, and is also his heir. Mr. Somerset, as you may well know, Sir, is the husband of my dear Charlotte's sister, fair Maria. As you may be well aware of, the Somersets stay at Lucas Lodge this very day. Further, it has been-" He paused a moment, looking upwards towards the ceiling as if to work out some calculations- "It has been some six...Well, in any case, many months since Master Arthur finished his studies at Oxford, and I believe- No, I am informed that it shall not be long before Master Arthur meets his good fortune and settles down as the owner of one of Mr. Somerset's mills."

"'One of Mr. Somerset's mills'?" Mrs. Bennet asked sharply. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Somerset has many?"

"I believe he has two or three."

Mrs. Bennet gave another gasp of surprise. "Is that true, Mr. Collins? Only think, that Lady Lucas breathed not a word of this. Oh my, what a handsome thing. Three mills, you say? He must be quite rich, then. And his son, you say, is his heir?"

Mr. Collins nodded proudly. "Yes, Master Arthur Somerset, his eldest son, is to be his heir."

"He is handsome, I suppose?"

"As a rector, I would not permit myself to judge one of God's creatures by such means as my own eyes, for it has been said that the outer trappings does not make a man-and that even evil can work its way beneath the greatest beauty-But Master Somerset has been accounted handsome by some, and not so by others. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, though, in all her finest capabilities, has sometimes observed that he has his father's colouring, and her gracious ladyship has a enthusiastic eye for such matters."

Mrs. Bennet, greatly pleased to hear this, answered, "If the younger Mr. Somerset resembles at all the older gentleman, I dare say he must be agreeable enough."

"You seem to know a lot about this young gentleman's history," interrupted Mr. Bennet, as he wrestled the subject away from his wife. "I would have thought myself that you were his father."

"Oh, no, no, you are too generous," replied Mr. Collins, without sensing Mr. Bennet's sarcasm. "No, all I can claim for myself is but a modest, humble knowledge of my own nephew's history, for nephew he is to me through various family alliances, and I should not like to think of him as anything less. Two men of Oxford in one family is, after all, Sir, hardly a trifling matter."

"No, I never thought so myself," replied Mrs. Bennet loftily, not to be outdone by her guest. "-Had I but sons, they would all have attended Oxford, or else Cambridge, or else one of the other universities. We would be comparing observations right now on their studies."

Mr. Collins expressed himself to be very regretful indeed that he had not such cousins-for "he feared, that had the present been other than what it was, had there been no question of a direct line of heirs, he should not feel so apologetic over the subject of Longbourn."

His humility was very pleasing to Mrs. Bennet, who was not a woman to dislike such brilliant apologies made to her, and the lady proceeded at once to forgive him for his birth. "After all," she said generously, "If I had been blessed with sons, you, I dare say, would all have been good friends."

"Yes, that would be, ma'am," exclaimed the Rector of Hunsford enthusiastically. "I should have liked to have such cousins. Well-read, all of them, like their fair sisters Jane and Elizabeth. Oh! And I have all but forgotten about your extensive collection of books, Mr. Bennet. You must allow me to come by some time and pay your books a visit. Have you found that wonderful collection of the bishop's sermons?"

"That I have not, Mr. Collins, and I can assure you, my collection at this time is no more extensive than it was before, if what you endeavour to find are books of sermons. But do not mistake me, I will be more than happy to accommodate you if you hold an interest in all or any of my novels. After all, one cannot profess to be a great reader unless one reads some fiction."

This invitation, being contrary to what Mr. Collins had expected to hear, was declined rapidly but politely, and the giver of the invitation himself could only suppress a sigh of relief upon hearing his cousin's refusal. Mr. Bennet now turned his attention back on Franny.

As the meal advanced, he was warmed to find that Franny did not revert to the use of long, flowery words, or in any way refer to the terms "Rosings", "flattery", "patroness" or "humbleness". If her initial awkwardness could be overlooked, Mr. Bennet found that Franny had a wit of her own, however unpronounced and unpracticed it was at such an age. If her education had been deficient, her nature was not, and with a little encouragement, and the proper company, Mr. Bennet felt that something might yet be made out of the girl. All Franny lacked, really, was some experience in society. But the authoress of this tale is ahead of herself; for some time, it would only be Mr. Bennet who would discover such merits in the Collins' daughter. Everyone else would simply find her plain, ungainly, and certainly not worth the extra regard.

Chapter 8

Franny soon found herself occupied with the pleasures of Longbourn. Every day, there was something fresh and new to discover about the surroundings and the people near her-about the age of the house, Mrs. Bennet's favourite things, Mrs. Hill's secret recipes, even a bit of the Bennet family history. The latter was of infinite novelty to Franny because her father never indulged her with tales of their ancestry, nor had he ever bothered to explain to her how exactly they were connected with the Bennets. Now that Mr. Bennet was willing to share the chronicle with her, Franny was ecstatic. Seated comfortably on a sofa in the library, she listened with great attentiveness to her host.

"There you are," said Mr. Bennet cheerfully, passing to her a plate of Mrs. Hill's scones, "You keep yourself busy with that. I have been spending the last several years attempting to record the history of my forefathers, and I will most unashamedly tell you that I have been waiting and waiting for a listener. My Jane and Lizzy would never do of course-they have their own cares, and I do not wish to trouble them with my yarns-I believe you will do just fine."

Franny beamed.

"Where to begin?" asked Mr. Bennet rhetorically as he arranged his manuscript with a flourish. "Oh yes, here. We shall start from the beginning, Franny-for a beginning is a very sensible place to commence a tale, would you not agree?"

"But what of the title?" asked Franny.

"I have called it 'Tales of Longbourn'." Mr. Bennet laughed at Franny's expression. "I agree, it is a dull title-hardly one that will inspire much passion in my readers, but we shall see." And he began.

Franny sat enraptured from the first line. Mr. Bennet's dry wit was sprinkled over each chapter with generosity. When Mr. Bennet finished narrating what passed with James Bennet Collins, though, she interrupted with a question.

"Mr. Bennet-was my great-grandfather such a very wicked man?" she asked timidly. She had laughed over some of the things that Mr. Bennet said about all his ancestors, but she did not like to think that her own direct predecessor should be a dissipated, immoral fellow.

"I'm afraid he was," Mr. Bennet said seriously. "If you would much prefer, I shall leave him out, but was a universal knowledge, the sort of man that he chose to be. He and my grandfather never got along-a rivalry between brothers, I suppose, for my grandfather received the family inheritance of which James wanted a great deal, and James married the woman whom my grandfather loved. A hopeless case it was. What else can I say but that wealth corrupts a mind? For James, honourable as his thoughts may have been, when he became a rich man, he committed an act that was a crime in his father's own mind-that is, he changed his name to honour his benefactor, paying little heed to the perfectly good one given to him by birth."

"How could he love one woman, and marry another to spite his brother?" asked Franny. "I cannot believe he would do such a thing. Are you quite certain? Nothing ever happens to our family. He could not be so villainous."

"I am afraid that it was a rather public affair, and your great-grandmother bore it well, for she had the true Collins constitution in her. I met her when I was but a wee child, but I believe I loved her. She was a true Collins-or that is what my grandfather made me understand. She had such strength and character that even men would envy her. Nevertheless, when her husband shamed her in public, she would no longer tolerate it. That is all I will say on the subject."

"How did he-my great-grandfather-die?" Franny inquired, watching keenly as Mr. Bennet chewed on his lip in deep thought. "Mr. Bennet, do not hold back now. Please do tell me. I would very much like to know."

"Your father was killed by his brother-in-law in a duel," he relented. "Your great-great uncle, in other words, was defending the honour of his sister. Those were back in the days when duels were quite common, Franny, so you need not be shocked. Yes, those were brutal days." Mr. Bennet looked rather grave now. "I should like to imagine that duels no longer take place in our present time, but I am afraid, whenever a lady's reputation is compromised, there will always result some provocation to combat. In fact, had I been still been young eighteen years ago..." He shook his head, as if to rouse himself from his reverie. "Now," he said, smiling again, "You need not worry about that anymore. You must strive to live up to the true Collins blood, like your great-grandmother, though I hope you shall never share her fate. Do you know that her name was Frances?"

"Truly?" asked Franny in surprise. "But I was not named for her. My father tells me that I was named for his mother."

"What does that signify?" asked Mr. Bennet. "You share the original Frances Collins' name-and that is compliment enough."

When Franny was not in Mr. Bennet's library, she found herself exploring the grounds of Longbourn. There was a walled garden. It was something that she had always dreamed of having, but had never seen. As it was sometime late in autumn, there were not many blossoms left for Franny to admire, but the shrubbery was not lacking, and she decided that she liked the latter best after all. When she grew tired, she sat down, imagining how it must have been like for her mother, when her mother was young, to sit here in the pretty, quiet garden, perhaps chatting with her friend Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It was a soothing reflection. Now, another thought came to mind that made Franny laugh softly to herself: What would Lady Catherine de Bourgh think of her, enjoying herself in this place? - For the garden was not cultivated in the way that Rosings Park was-it was not a methodical, structured courtyard-only a sort of spontaneous, natural growth within a large enclosure. In other words, it was what Lady Catherine would call, with disdain, "wild savagery".

If Longbourn had its treasures, so too did Meryton. Franny soon discovered an old, rare bookshop, and she convinced Arthur to accompany her there some time. Clarke's Library was the name of the neat little shop. It was watched over by a tall, sallow clerk. He (the third Mr. Clarke to run the library) was often found slumped by the counter, tapping rhythms against the table top.

When Franny and Arthur first stepped through the shop doors, they heard the click-clickclick-clackity-clack of Mr. Clarke's fingernails, even before they saw him clearly. Gradually, their eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were rows and rows of books behind the clerk, in front of the clerk, to the right of the clerk, and to the left of the clerk. Some books lay in their brown paper, ready for picking up; others were stacked in piles on the ground, on the windowsill, on chairs, under chairs. Unlike many bookshops, the books that Clarke's Library sold were each unique. Some were bound in red; others were in green. Some had gold letters embossed on leather covers; others were wrapped in cloth. Some were new. Some were old and musty in smell. Franny flipped through one of these, and read the inscription that was written at the centre of the first page: "A present to myself. Christmas 1810. M.B." As Franny brought the book closer to the light to inspect the forlorn and spidery handwriting, the corners of the pages sailed up, beckoning her to open to the middle of the volume. She obeyed and found, within the chapters of the British-American War, the dried, withered blossoms of yesterday, petals of roses once pressed between the pages by a loving hand; these bits of gold and crimson crumbled and fell to the ground as she gingerly touched them, but the faint fragrance of a long gone summer still lingered between the leaves. The temptation was too great, and Franny could not hesitate to spend her money on this. There was magic in the volume-she knew it.

"I see you're excited about that war," said Mr. Clarke, wrapping up Franny's carefully picked treasure. "I have hardly seen anyone more excited about those since-Goodness, not since there were officers stationed at Meryton."

Because Mr. Clarke looked, in all appearances, to be quite cheerful in spite of his severely thin face, Franny asked, "And how long ago was that, Sir?"

Mr. Clarke counted on each of his fingers, and then recounted them. "Eighteen, nineteen years," he said at last. "Yes, eighteen or nineteen."

"How do you remember that so clearly?" Arthur Somerset asked.

Mr. Clarke guffawed at the compliment. "I was twenty that year, young man. I remember it very well. I suppose, if you've ever felt love in your youth, Sir, you might understand. The young Miss Bennets of Longbourn were not much younger than you were, eighteen years ago. The milliner's shop used to be beside this one, and I saw them enter the shop next door nearly every day. I don't suppose you know much about them?"

"About whom? The Miss Bennets? My father is a cousin to them. I am staying at Longbourn," said Franny, struck by Mr. Clarke's easiness.

"You come from Longbourn!" exclaimed Mr. Clarke. "I don't suppose you know what's become of your young aunts then, do you? I suppose the youngest, Miss Lydia, must still be a great favourite wherever she goes. She used to come in and go as she liked, though she never bought any books. I don't think she ever was a well-read girl. I suppose she must have changed now. I should call her Mrs. Wickham now. But I don't suppose there's much shame in admitting that I rather liked her company."

Arthur and Franny exchanged glances. They knew that Mr. Collins' cousin, Lydia, had indeed married a certain Mr. Wickham. But the Wickhams were never mentioned in the Collinses' home, and of the Wickham children, Franny only knew that there was a daughter of her age.

"I don't suppose she might be in Newcastle anymore after all these years," continued Mr. Clarke, evidently fond of talking. "Mrs. Lydia. If I remember correctly, she was a great favourite with the officers. She used to come in whenever there was one or more of them in here."

"As you've said, the milliner's shop is in such close proximity to Clarke's library," agreed Arthur idly. "Most young ladies look favourably towards such things as lace and ribbons."

"Yes, yes, I did say that, didn't I?" said Mr. Clarke with an absent-minded sort of laugh. "I don't suppose I could recall any of those officers' names. I never knew any of them, except maybe one or two. Of course, there was Wickham, whom I've mentioned, the man whom I spoke of, the one that Mrs. Lydia married. Wickham was incredibly well read for an officer, I used to think-something about him studying to be a clergy or something, and then I don't remember why he wasn't one. And then, there was a Colonel Forster (I remember him well-he with the flighty young wife, as my father used to say)...and a Mr. Chamberlayne-the one with the fine features, almost like a girl's. Who was that other officer that they were often with? Good lord...A great, tall fellow that was a favourite with all the ladies before Wickham came by. I used to feel sorry for him, being popular one day, and then displaced by his friend the next. The name began with a 'P' I think. What names begin with 'P'? 'Patrick'... 'Peter'... 'Paul'..."

"'Pug'?" suggested Arthur rather abruptly.

Franny dared not look at her cousin in the eye, for fear that she would laugh aloud.

Arthur continued. "You want names that begin with a 'P', Sir? How about 'Poodle', 'Porker', or 'Poultria'? There are also 'Plante', 'Plaisance', and 'Papillon.' The French love their letter P's. I dare say I could think of a few more. 'Pierre'..."

"Or 'Provence'?" suggested Mr. Clarke, catching Arthur's enthusiasm.

"Good, good," said Arthur with a straight face. "We have place names now then. What say you to 'Portugal' or 'Poland'? You shake your head, Sir? No? Closer to home, we have 'Plymouth', 'Portsmouth', 'Pembroke', 'Liverpool'-Oh, pardon me, that begins with an 'L'-But there must be more... How about 'Penzance' or 'Pendennis'?"

"Ah! Pendennis!" exclaimed Mr. Clarke excitedly. "That's it! Pendennis! Of course!"

"Was that his name?" asked Franny.

"Indeed, that was his name," said Mr. Clarke, nodding his head vigorously. "I recall it perfectly now. Lieutenant Denny, with the __th regiment. Did I not tell you that his name began with a 'D'?"

Franny forgot to be upset over Arthur's witticism. She did not laugh at Mr. Clarke for mixing up his alphabets. Her ears perked up immediately upon hearing the name 'Denny'.

"Pardon me, Sir, but did you say that his name was Denny?" she asked, trying not to feel faint.

"I have said so. A man like me don't forget a name easily," said Mr. Clarke with pride. "I remember him-A tall, well-built gentleman. I suppose he was a gentleman, for he spoke and acted like one."

"Do you know what became of him?" asked Franny.

"What became of him?" Mr. Clarke chuckled. "Well, Miss, I don't suppose I could tell you. He talked about two little nephews that he had to raise with his salary. I don't know how old they are now, I suppose they're full-grown, they are. I remember he said he was going to put them into the navy-He thought it was better than the army, you know. I remember it so clearly because Miss Lydia came in right at the moment that he spoke this and tried to drag him out of this very shop. She was quite sweet, though, blew a little kiss, and gave a handsome smile. It was the first smile she'd ever given me, and-I'll own up to it-I was distracted."

"Yes, I am sure," interrupted Arthur. "And now, I believe we shall not distract you much longer, Sir."

"Oh, oh, one thing more, you young ones," Mr. Clarke called after them. "I remember one more thing. I read in the evening papers a long while ago about a Lieutenant Something-or-other in the Royal Navy. His name was Denny too. It might be his nephew, you know."

"And what was that news?" asked Franny in interest.

"Something about him being sent home after some injury. I don't suppose I know all the details."

Franny thanked Mr. Clarke for his kindness and submitted to Arthur's wish to leave the shop. She was delighted that she had gone to Clarke's library. The book in her hand was no longer as interesting and important to her as the piece of knowledge that she had just gained from the clerk at the shop. She had never known that Meryton had stationed officers before, and she had certainly never imagined that Lieutenant-Commander Denny's uncle was one of those officers.

"What were you so interested about in there?" Arthur asked her. "I was becoming quite concerned. You did not really trust all that Mr. Clarke said?"

"It was a part of our country's history, was it not?" replied Franny. "I believe that we might know the people that Mr. Clarke spoke of."

"Our country's history?" repeated Arthur, incredulity written in his tone of voice. He had half guessed Franny's feelings, and he now shook his head. "You find the thought of the Lieutenant-Commander diverting, especially as his uncle was a brave officer of the regiment. Come, you hardly know him, Franny. Do take care."

"Take care?" said Franny, facetiously echoing him. She was unable to stop her mouth from curling upwards. "But I am doing just that." Despite Arthur's discomfort upon hearing this answer, Franny managed to prod and tease him into his usual good humour, and when they returned to Longbourn, they were in high spirits again.

Mrs. Bennet, who was cutting the last daisies in front of the house, was captivated when she heard them as they smiled and greeted her as they walked past. Since Mr. Collins had told her about the Somersets, Mrs. Bennet had been eager to make their acquaintance. The Somersets had not been long settled at Lucas Lodge before Mrs. Bennet sought out Arthur Somerset as her own protégé. She lamented a bit that she had no more daughters to marry off to this most eligible bachelor, for it seemed to her that Arthur had all the fittings of a proper gentleman-youth, knowledge, activity, health, appearances, and money. As he could not be her son, to have him as her grandson could not, by any counts, be considered unpleasing. But more on that later.

Mrs. Bennet was not the only one to form such designs. After all, Longbourn and its neighbouring village, Meryton, were filled with dozens of such matchmaking women. Every one of them saw Arthur Somerset as an ideal addition to their family. Who would not want to have a daughter settled with a young man of independent fortune and proper schooling? Who would not want their own daughter to have a fashionable home in town, a manor in the country, plus a steady income, provided by the mills of one's husband? Perhaps the Somersets were not so long established-but did that signify, when one had such a handsome income? No one knew the exact sum of Arthur Somerset's allowance, but there was not a doubt in the women's minds that the amount was grand.

Naturally, if one had only consulted the young man, one would not have continued fancying such nonsense, but as a rule, matchmaking mamas heeded the wishes and inclinations of nobody. They picked their prey, they targeted, and fired. Indeed, Mrs. Somerset had once tried to warn her stepson, to introduce the subject delicately to Arthur, but to little avail. Arthur greatly respected Mrs. Somerset as though she were his own mother but he knew that Maria Somerset was not the most intelligent woman in England, however well-meaning and maternal she was. The best sort of answer that Mrs. Somerset could extract from her stepson was but a hearty laugh, and a reproach that played along this strain: "I understand your concern, madam, and I will try my best to honour you and my father, but at this time, I cannot settle with someone whom I cannot love and respect."

Mrs. Somerset had always looked upon Arthur as her own son, and would not wish him to choose unwisely. She did, however, lament the fact that he cared so little for the subject. Once, long, long ago, the Somersets had known Arthur's mind to be otherwise; but that hope had been cruelly wrenched from them because the young lady in question at the time chose to be false in her engagement. Now, Arthur would comply to anything but settling down. Mrs. Somerset sighed. She and Arthur's father had met with such bliss; why could not their son? When she consulted her older sister about this, Mrs. Collins only shook her head and smiled.

"I would not be so anxious if I were you, Maria," said Mrs. Collins. "Arthur is not a child. He will sort out his own business for himself. If anything, your care and worry will only push him to do that which none of us wish for him to do, and as you know, heedless, youthful extremities cannot be put up with easily."

"Well, if Augustus and I could see him happily settled, that would be the end of our cares-until Ashleigh or Annette's time comes." Mrs. Somerset sighed. "I never thought that I should be quite so serious over the matrimony of my children. Do you recall how disagreeable we thought it was that Mother should compete with Mrs. Bennet, on whom should marry off more children than whom? How they would boast with one another on the subject!"

Mrs. Collins nodded, with a grim look on her face. "I cringed. But if it is of any comfort to either of us, we may still have our children about us for another year. We may not have to part too soon, if I could have my way..." A sudden recollection made her shake her head. "I could not believe that Mr. Collins would speak of the matter with my own Franny. The very day after she turned seventeen, he was determined to bring up the subject-for Lady Catherine had, most perniciously, raised the matter to his attention-but providence stalled him, for had Franny not caught sick at that very moment, I fear what sort of designs Mr. Collins may have by now placed upon her shoulders. I feared that her father would have chosen one of the young men from the parish, and indeed, I could not stand the prospect of one of those Hunsford boys becoming my son in law. It seems that since Franny's illness, though, Mr. Collins has seen his mistake. He has wisely refrained from the subject since."

"You speak of Franny as though she were indeed a child of six or seven," laughed Mrs. Somerset. "But should the time come, and I am sure it shall not be long, what objections can you say to her suitor? If his intentions are honourable, and his state well, I do not see why you should not give your consent."

"It is not a matter of consent, Maria - That is her father's office, sadly. Yet, if he who wishes for Franny's hand cannot be respected, I do not see why I am not to object."

Mrs. Somerset shook her head at her sister. "Franny will be sensible. She may not have your practicalities, but I know that she has sense enough to choose a gentleman whom she can hold in great regard."

"Oh, I do not wish for her to have 'my practicalities'. I do not wish for her to be 'practical' in love, if I can help it, for I fear that she may choose to override the romantic sensibilities that I know she has, which I never had. I should, however, like for her to choose someone whom she can admire, devote herself to, and love-someone who can be her mentor. He must also worship her. And yet, given all this, if he cannot be held in high esteem by others, I would that my daughter had my 'practicalities' after all, not I.... But you shake your head at me, Maria. I know what you must be thinking-'What an absurd fancy it is that Charlotte has!' You see, my daughter is all that I treasure in this world: I will not give her up if I know that she cannot be happy."

"You are entirely too protective of her. You must allow me to say it, even if it is in contradiction to your ideas. I think Franny is in much need of larger society, more acquaintances. I know you think of me still as you little sister, but if you honour me enough to give my name to your only child, then you must at least hear me through. Franny ought to have the chance to enjoy what a good sphere of society can offer her. You see how much she has flourished these last few months?"

"You have not seen her for a long time, so of course you will say that," replied Mrs. Collins calmly. "But you do not know my child as I do. Do you oppose my choice to lead her by the hand and guide her along her path? You know Mother never did that, and I at times regret it. Her neglect, in some ways, taught me to harden myself. But I do not wish the same to befall Franny... I do not want her to form a shell around herself because her mother neglects her. She must not become another Charlotte Lucas. Better that she remains with me, than for me to see her very sorry."

"I see why you are so protective of her. It is not because you do not trust her. It is because you are selfish, and you wish to keep her at home. There, I have been 'saucy' I suppose, but it is time that you heard it, Charlotte. For my part, I know of no other young ladies who have pleased me as much, or given me so much joy as your Franny has. I must confess, when she was twelve, I had sometimes wondered what would become of her, but look at what Arthur's society has done for her. If I could have my way-"

Mrs. Collins cleared her throat. "I wish you would not begin on that. Franny herself told me-nay, promised me-that no such thing would come about. Do not suggest something that you know could never occur."

"But I do not see why you can object-"

Immediately, Mrs. Collins shot Mrs. Somerset a look so plain in its meaning that Mrs. Somerset was at a loss of words. Mrs. Collins was coldly firm on the subject, and unless Maria Somerset wished to ruin the good relations between themselves, she would be wise not to press the issue further.

Continued in Next Section