“I think,” said Lady Catherine de Bough, to the Bishop Collins, “That it is high time your daughter began to think about marriage

“It is getting quite the time,” said Lady Catherine de Bough, to the Bishop Collins, “For your daughter to turn her thoughts from childish things, and towards matters matrimonial. In short: she must be married, and soon.”

She allowed her eyes to scan the sumptuous fashionings of her parlour at Rosings Park. Her imperious gaze included Mrs. Collins, who was perched decorously on the edge of the brocaded chaise, for the merest fraction of a second—as though to say, ‘She is your daughter, yes—but we both know that this is not up to you.’ Mrs. Collins bit at her lips to repress a sigh but her gentle face graciously conceded the point. It had been this way since her own little Catherine had been born, nineteen years ago—Cathy might be the child of her heart, but her body and her prospects belonged solely to her husband, and her husband’s patroness.

For her part, Cathy Collins did not believe she belonged to anybody—but God—and even then, she was not so sure. Sometimes her soul was prone to wild fits of passion and longing and she could not believe that she was made of anything but star-dust. And to whom did star-dust belong? She never said any of this out loud—she didn’t dare—not with Papa being bishop of Rexworth; it would have most distressed him to hear her say such a thing. As it was, it distressed the bishop Collins to hear his daughter speak of anything, so Cathy did not often speak to him at all. In her father’s mind this quietude had achieved for her a reputation for extreme dutifulness and he was fond of exclaiming to others, “My Catherine is a perfect little lady!”

Which made Cathy wonder how on earth two people could live together under one roof for nigh upon twenty years and not have any inkling of the other’s character.

She felt she knew her father; she was sure he did. His manner was not subject to any subtlety or delicacy: if he felt a thing he said it, and he meant everything he said. He was a large, florid man, who had been fat in his salad days, and had only grown fatter over the years until he resembled nothing so much as a round little ball with a very red face perched up on top. When he was in his robes he looked so ridiculous that Cathy often wondered how the congregation could make it through the sermon without wanting to laugh. She always wanted to laugh when her father preached on any thing; she was torn between extreme mirth and equally extreme embarrassment. Why must he always be so top-lofty, so false with charm? And why did nobody seem to notice that he was?

Today, for instance, Mr. Collins was seated at the right hand of Lady de Bourgh and his face shone with carefully studied adoration. Lady de Bourgh liked to be adored, and so Mr. Collins made a point of adoring her. For her part, Cathy could not see one thing about her that was even to be liked.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh was eighty years old and, sadly, her faculties showed no signs of fading as she aged. She was as sharp at eighty as she had been at sixty; she was a tall, narrow woman, all sharp juts and angles. Her nose turned up and her mouth turned down. She wore clothing of the Georgian era, black and voile and heavy crepe, with a little lace cap, and tortured iron-grey curls that hung down over her ears. Her only nods to the current fashion were a beribboned pug that slept in her lap and a beauty mark done in lead pencil on her upper lip. Cathy remembered when the beauty mark had appeared, six years ago, and she had wondered why nobody told Lady Catherine that there was something smudged on her face. Perhaps one did not speak of such things to a Lady? It was many months before she realized that it had been put there on purpose.

Cathy did not like Lady Catherine, who had a supercilious air toward Mr. Collins, and who did not have any air at all toward Mrs. Collins. She did not even seem to notice Cathy most of the time, though Cathy was her namesake, and her only one. Her grandchildren were called Laetitia, Griselda, Phoebe and Walter. Cathy had thought, when she was a child, that Lady Catherine must love her, simply because of the fact of their shared names. But now she knew that Lady Catherine did not love anyone—saving herself.

She did not ever call Cathy by her name; even though she must know it. She seemed aggrieved, even, that they should share one, and always called her ‘your girl.’ She carried a long black walking stick set with gold and onyx, which she struck against the floor now, to produce a most emphatic rap.

“Your girl must begin thinking about marriage,” she said, and it was the most notice she had ever paid Cathy in the entirety of her life.

“Oh, indeed!” Mr. Collins was all effusiveness. Lady Catherine scowled and he adjusted his own expression accordingly.

“Indeed,” he murmured, gravely—almost sorrowfully. “It is just what I have been thinking for some time. Catherine should be married; it is just the thing for her to do.”

For the first time, Mrs. Collins spoke up. “Excuse me,” she said, rather timidly. “But I am only wondering: why should Cathy be married?”

“You do not want to see your daughter well-provided for?” asked Lady Catherine, darkly.

“I do,” stammered Mrs. Collins. “I prize Cathy’s happiness above all things.” (Dear Mamma, Cathy thought, and very nearly reached for her hand). “Of course I should like for her to marry—when she meets the right man—a man she loves—and who loves her.”

“That is exactly why I did not address my remarks to you,” said Lady Catherine, coldly. “Love is the last thing that should be considered in this case. I do not mean to suggest that Cathy should marry for love—stuff and nonsense!” She waved a beringed hand and turned again to Mr. Collins. “Your daughter should be married—and married soon—to a man of position, who will help to elevate your career.”

Mr. Collins flushed a deep red at this last remark. It was true he was a bishop—but it was only of Rexworth—an unfashionable diocese in the north, and far from his beloved Rosings Park. There were those among the congregations who said it was the most desolate place on earth, and that nobody else had wanted to accept the position, except for Billy Collins, who was known to be a notorious climber and besides that, who was so stupid that he had not known to not accept. Bishop Collins might have been a climber—he was—but he was not so stupid that he did not realize right away how he had been hoodwinked. He wanted desperately to attain a better position, but he was so out of the way now that he had not thought to hope such a thing could occur. His desperation and ambition flamed in his face, and Lady Catherine saw, and smiled.

“The bishop of Dereford is on his last legs,”—the bishopric of Dereford including Rosings Park, in Kent—“And he cannot last through the New Year. If your girl were to make an advantageous match,” here Lady Catherine looked down her nose at Cathy, as though such a thing was only an outside possibility, “Then it should elevate you nicely. When Dereford goes, if such a thing seems feasible, I should speak to the Archbishop, and I should tell him that above all others, I would prefer you to have the seat. And then you should be back at dear Rosings Park, again.”

“And back in your clutches,” Cathy thought. She knew that Lady Catherine had no especial fondness for her father; but he was simple and malleable and he would jump to do her bidding. Tell her no, Papa, Cathy begged, most silently, of course. She turned her dark eyes on her father; his face was already lighting into a smile.

“It is a most agreeable idea, of course. Oh, Lady de Bourgh, you are most gracious, and most refined. The idea is more than good, it is positively inspired; I suppose we should arrange a meeting between Cathy and Walter as soon as we may.”

“Walter!” cried Lady Catherine, drawing back. “My very dear Mr. Collins, my grandson is most unfortunately not available to marry your daughter. He is at present engaged to Miss Phoenecia Atherton; Lord Bosworth Atherton’s son. And besides, even if he were not…”

“Even if he were not, Walter is a de Bourgh and we are only Collinses.” Mrs. Collins finished for her.

“What a vulgar way to put it,” said Lady Catherine, with much disdain.

“But it is what you mean.”

Mr. Collins had somewhat recovered from his great disappointment. For a moment, it had hung before him, shimmering like a dream, his daughter—a second Lady Catherine—his heir the heir of Rosings Park! But he recovered nicely. “Oh, Charlotte, do be quiet. It is not at all what her ladyship meant, I am sure. My dear Lady, I shall start thinking tonight—I shall draw up a list of suitors—and perhaps next week, send out inquiries…”

“It is far too soon for that,” commanded Lady Catherine. “I would not dream of foisting your girl upon an unsuspecting suitor in her current state. She must study—she must refine herself—no man of even suspect breeding would take her as she is.”

Cathy fumed under her cap of curls and thought a few uncharitable things about her hostess.

“Again, brilliance in the form of woman!” Mr. Collins cried. “It is arranged, then—we leave for Yorkshire tomorrow, but Cathy will stay on under your tutelage—we will send her things as soon as we return—what a marvelous opportunity for her young mind.”

“Again you misunderstand,” said Lady Catherine, all exasperation. “I did not mean to have your girl stay at Rosings—she will go with you—and I will tutor her through a series of letters. She may spend a few months learning and if her progress is good she will join me in town when the Season begins. We must only pray that Dereford hangs on until then.”

“To his health, then!” Mr. Collins raised his china cup.

“But not too good health,” corrected Lady Catherine.

“Here’s that he may die—but not too soon,” said Charlotte Collins, sarcastically.

And that is how Cathy Collins learned that she was to be married.