P&P The Untold Stories: LADY CATHERINE’S CHRISTMAS

Lady Catherine’s Christmas is disturbed by her worries about Mr. Darcy’s marriage intentions…

December 25, 1811

Christmas makes the strongest demands of any sacred day upon a clergyman, but one might particularly feel for Mr. Collins, whose maiden Christmas sermon he must preach before his formidable patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. All went off well, however, and he was gratified to be invited, after his efforts, to take his Christmas dinner at Rosings. To him this was the crown of his ambitions, and he took his seat at the foot of the table, and followed Lady Catherine’s minute directions for carving the roast of beef, with such alacrity and compliance that her ladyship actually smiled upon him.

“I must say, Mr. Collins, you make a better job of carving than our previous clergyman, Mr. Horner, ever did. I never could persuade him attend to my instructions properly. He would always carve the meat against the grain, and it ended, as it must, in strings. Strings, Mr. Collins!” Her Ladyship told him.

“Strings! Very sad, upon my word,” he answered, looking complacently at the platefuls he was filling rapidly with nice thick rosy slabs.

“Yes; and he never would listen to my directions about his sermons, either. Quite indecent, they were. Why, once he preached a sermon about how the sin of pride would keep one out of Heaven, and he looked most meaningly at me for its entire length. Insufferable man!”

“And I do believe,” put in Mrs. Jenkinson, Miss de Bourgh’s companion, “that he had designs in matrimony—above his station.” She nodded and winked vigorously, so the lace on her specially fashioned Christmas headdress swung, as she cast her eyes on Miss de Bourgh, who blushed and simpered.

“That is never to be spoken of, Miss Jenkinson,” said Lady Catherine severely. “Never. What the man’s presumptions might be is no concern of ours.”

“Shocking, shocking,” chimed in Mr. Collins, starting to attack his beef and parsnips with a good will. “A clergyman, of all people, ought to know the meaning of the hymn, ‘The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, God made them high and lowly, and ordered their estate.’”

“That might be the subject of your next sermon,” ventured Miss de Bourgh with the air of saying something very daring.

“Indeed it might,” nodded Lady Catherine, “those fine sentiments cannot be too widely promulgated.”

“I hope,” asserted Mr. Collins, “that I know my place. A clergyman such as myself, should be very certain to know it. A man of the cloth, educated at Oxford as I was, is of course a gentleman, equal in some ways to any in the land; yet in his calling, he must ever show a proper humility. That is exactly what I did when I cogitated upon the important matter of selecting a companion for my future life.”

“And you seem to have done it very well,” said Lady Catherine approvingly. “Mrs. Collins, that is to be, has no ideas or airs above her station, I collect, but is a modest country woman, who knows how to mend and make do.”

“Indeed, that she is; my Charlotte is a very model for prudence and economy. I will warrant, Lady Catherine, that you will find nothing at all in her to disapprove.”

“I am sure of that. I know, in fact, that you have chosen where you should, and as you should. It will be well to have a clergyman who is wisely married, and not subject to any preposterous ideas.”

“Oh, I hope I never have any ideas at all, Lady Catherine,” he assured her earnestly. “That would be most inappropriate—most unfit. To think of your daughter, who might marry anyone!”

Lady Catherine drank a glass of French wine reflectively, and swirled it in its crystal. “Yes—that is the question. Now that you are so soon to be married yourself, Mr. Collins, and as you are a man of the cloth, after all, I believe I may confide in you.”

“Confide—in me?” he almost stammered, and lay down his knife lest he drop it in his excitement. “It would be the greatest honor of my life, and be very sure that you may count upon me, in my sacred office, to keep anything you say, perfectly confidential.”

“I am sure you would,” she nodded, and fixing him with her penetrating dark eye, she proceeded.  “You are an uncommonly intelligent young man, Mr. Collins, with more than ordinary perception, and I suppose it has occurred to you to wonder about my daughter’s marriage, has not it?”

“It is not my place, madam,” he began, but she continued.

“What you may not be aware of is that my late sister, Lady Anne Darcy, and myself, destined her to be the bride of her son and my nephew, Mr. Darcy. You have met that gentleman, I believe?”

“Why yes, I have indeed. I told you he was at Netherfield, the home of some neighbors of my cousins at Longbourn. They—the Bingleys, I mean—perhaps had hopes that he would become attached to Mr. Bingley’s sister, but I never saw any sign of it.”

“Naturally not. His hand and heart are both intentioned to be the property of my daughter.”

“Oh!” Mr. Collins clasped his hands together with an ecstatic smack. “That will be a marriage such as has never been seen before between Kent and Derbyshire. What an alliance of family and fortune, to say nothing of the abundant personal qualities of gentleman and lady!”

“They will be a most handsome couple,” added Mrs. Jenkinson, tipping her head affectedly.

“When is the wedding to be?” asked Mr. Collins. “You know I am engaged to bring my Charlotte into Kent only a scant few days after these Christmas festivities. I hope we will be in our little nest at Hunsford before the middle of January. As I will be traveling to bring her to her new home, I probably ought not to offer to be available for the ceremony before the fifteenth, or perhaps the twentieth, of that month. But I need hardly tell you how honored, how gratified, I would be, to perform these distinguished nuptials. Unless,” a thought distracted him, “you mean her to be married in Derbyshire?”

“No, no, Mr. Collins, you mistake me.” Lady Catherine’s dark brows beetled together and she looked thunderous, so that Mr. Collins quailed.

“Have I said anything—” he said with compunction, trembling a little.

“Certainly not. It is only that I have not made myself clear. There is no engagement as yet.”

“No engagement? But I thought the match was planned, between you and Mrs. Anne Darcy.”

“So it was, and Anne is docile and obedient in this matter, just as she ought to be. The difficulty is the gentleman himself. He is more than of age, and yet he has never come forward to fulfill the pledge made by his mother.”

“That is bad—very bad,” commented Mr. Collins. “What do you suppose is the reason for this hesitation?”

“I am afraid,” said Lady Catherine grimly, “that he has a spark of self-will, my nephew. It is difficult for us to conceive, but he may consider that a promise made by his mother, and not by himself, is not a necessary one to keep.”

“Oh, surely that could never be!” Mr. Collins drew back in horror. “That would hardly be possible. Mr. Darcy is a byword for proper thinking and behavior, he is a very fine gentleman, from all I have ever heard, and seen with my own eyes. I have had quite a bit of conversation with him, too. You know I consider myself a judge of gentlemanly behavior, as is only proper and becoming to my position.”

“Have you conversed with him, indeed? Then you may have seen something of his pride and self-will.”

“He was all graciousness and condescension to me, I assure you, Lady Catherine. My cousin Elizabeth—” He pronounced her name with a little embarrassment that his patroness did not miss, “she wanted to check me from speaking to him; but I told her I must know better than a young lady like herself, and I was right.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” said Lady Catherine suspiciously. “Is she one of your cousin’s daughters?”

“Yes, she is. The second,” he said shortly.

“Is she a pretty girl?”

“Some might say so. I prefer, I confess, the looks of my own dear Charlotte.”

“As is very proper. But this Miss Elizabeth—she is acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

“She is indeed. They danced together at Netherfield, and it was the talk of the neighborhood.”

Lady Catherine was silent for a moment. “So!” she exclaimed, in a tone of extreme anger. “This is where the mischief lies!” She pondered a little longer. “Wait—that letter you wrote to me, announcing your engagement to one of your cousin’s daughters. This girl is the one?”

Mr. Collins was beet red in his confusion. “Yes—no—it was all a mistake. I never had any serious thought but for anyone but my Charlotte,” he stammered.

“So, this girl is a minx and a vixen, and she is causing trouble.” Lady Catherine nodded emphatically to herself. “I knew there was something amiss somewhere. It is well. I thought things were awry when we were not invited to Pemberley this Christmas.”

She drummed her thick fingers on the lace-covered mahogany table. Everyone was silent as she considered. “I know what I must do,” she said at last.

“Wh —what?” asked Mr. Collins, awed.

“I will go to Pemberley this minute. Yes, and take Anne, and you may accompany us, Mrs. Jenkinson. Summon the maids to pack, and tell Harris to inform the coachman to make ready for a long trip with the best horses. If we leave immediately after breakfast tomorrow, we will be only one night on the road, and be at Pemberley by this time the following night.”

“What will you do there, madam, if I may ask? Am I to remain here?” asked Mr. Collins nervously.

“Certainly you are to remain here,” she said impatiently. “You are not going into Hertfordshire yet, and we will return well before it is time for your own wedding-journey. No, I am going to see Mr. Darcy,” she stood and rapped her mahogany stick sharply on the shining floor, “and make him see what is his duty.”

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