“Is my life in danger?” James inquired. “Did this duke business suddenly become life threatening and thus, interesting?”
“I most certainly hope not,” the duchess said passionately. And when Bridget met Mr. Collins, she knew exactly why.
Upon meeting Mr. Collins that evening Bridget realized quite clearly that any wishes for James’s continued good health might have had as much to do with affection for him as with despair at the prospect of Mr. Collins inheriting Durham.
“It is such a great pleasure to meet my esteemed cousins who have journeyed from such a faraway land,” he declared.
“Are we cousins?” Amelia inquired.
“Actually, I consulted Debrett’s,” Bridget said, and the duchess beamed. “And we are more like second cousins.”
“Then I use the term affectionately,” Mr. Collins said grandly.
“I think it’s fortunate that you are all not so closely related,” Josephine said. “A match between you, Mr. Collins, and one of the sisters is quite possible.”
Josephine promptly received horrified glances from her nieces. Collins was short, portly, and hardly the stuff of any girl’s dreams.
“Perhaps if he were the last man on earth,” Amelia whispered.
“Not even then,” Claire murmured.
“Shh, you don’t want him to hear you,” James said quietly.
“Or do we?” Bridget murmured.
But Mr. Collins obviously appraised each of the sisters in turn. Bridget found it revolting having his eyes—pale, watery eyes—appraise her, and it put into perspective the way Darcy’s dark gaze made her feel, whether he was scowling at her from across a ballroom or staring at her breasts in her wet dress.
“A splendid prospect,” Mr. Collins said.
Claire paled and Amelia burst out laughing. Bridget cursed Darcy for interrupting her would-be proposal from Rupert.
“We would want to keep the dukedom in the family,” the duchess said in response to the girls’ looks.
“I’m still here,” James drawled from his spot at the end of the table.
James clenched his jaw. Josephine smiled like a queen.
“I see what you did there,” Bridget whispered.
“Mmm.” Josephine murmured, refusing to confirm, deny, or engage in a private conversation at the dinner table.
“I say, is this the good silver or the everyday silver?” Mr. Collins inquired, selecting a fork and holding it up to the light of the chandelier.
“Only the best for the duke and his heir,” Josephine replied. She gave the tight smile Bridget was coming to recognize as The One Where I Am Too Ladylike to Point Out How Ghastly Your Behavior Is.
“Lady Bridget, I understand you are on a regimen of self-improvement,” Mr. Collins said.
“Why and how have you come to understand that?” Bridget asked. Surely this could not be proper dinner table conversation.
“I spoke with Lady Amelia about all of your lessons.”
“Ah. Did Lady Amelia tell you her fondest wish is to live simply as a vicar’s wife?” Bridget inquired, in spite of her sister’s glare.
“She did not,” Mr. Collins said. “I think it’s so important for a lady to strive to better herself and to become accomplished in the ladylike arts.”
“And which ones do you think are most important?” Bridget asked. “Needlework? The pianoforte? Simpering?”
“Smiling demurely at idiotic comments?” Claire asked innocently.
“Well, a woman’s duty is to support a man in all things and be a respite at home for a gentleman made weary from his dealings with the greater world,” Mr. Collins replied.
“How fortunate for you,” Claire said. “And gentlemen everywhere.”
“Indeed. It’s only fitting, as men are the stronger and more intelligent sex.”
“Is that so?” Claire inquired coolly. Claire, who was certainly more intelligent than at least half the men they met.
Mr. Collins then carried on the conversation for the rest of the meal entirely by himself. He elucidated, at length, upon what he believed were the most important of the feminine arts: tending to one’s husband, bearing children, maintaining a good reputation, and singing sweetly whilst playing the harp after supper.
If that was all a woman could aspire to with marriage, then Bridget began to wonder . . . was it really worth suffering through a reducing diet for? Or biting her tongue or cultivating friendships with influential but despicable ladies? Spinsterhood began to sound appealing. She could have a cottage by the sea and eat cake for breakfast.
As he rambled on about the Perfect Lady, Bridget pushed food around on her plate, took small sips of wine, and wondered why she bothered. Why was she trying to shrink herself, anyway? She had no desire to impress Mr. Collins or men like him. She did not want to starve herself or restrain her speech, learn to play the harp or keep her spine straight all the time just so an arse like Mr. Collins might think favorably of her. It wasn’t just Mr. Collins. It was the whole haute ton. She’d been trying and trying to earn their favor but she never stopped to wonder why.