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A young man, a young gentleman, who has come of age, particularly one who owns his fortune independently, should have nothing more pressing to ponder than whether to sip brandy or port after dinner. Unless, of course, this specimen of manly intent happens to be in want or need of a wife. This adventurous soul, shall have much to consider as he consumes his cordial of choice. He should, under average circumstances, be forced to consider linens and laces, dowries and dowagers, cards and coquettes, minuets and minutia, balls and bedlam… He shall be a man of very little peaceful thought and one with even less peaceful rest.
Yet if the man is wise, if he is well-connected, if he combines the two and seeks the advice of a knowledgeable matron, matters might move swiftly to his ready advantage. By rights, such a lady must be acquainted with a multitude of maidens; and if this paragon of charitable advice be deficient in her personal knowledge of comely creatures, she would certainly know where a ready supply of suitable spouses might be found. She might even be so good as to cede to him some considerable advice concerning his perspective courting of this perspective companion.
In the early autumn of 1811, within the county of Kent and the parish of Hundsford, such was the case between one fortunate young man of independent means and one generous matron of abundant advice…
“You, Mr. Collins, get along pretty well at the parsonage; but you would be better served if you took a wife. Every thing, you would see, would be infinitely better – more pleasing – a household cannot be run properly without such a woman.”
This was the impetus; the very beginning – and no sooner had the seed been planted than it had grown to a sprout and then quickly, again, to a strapping sapling. She was right, Lady Catherine was absolutely correct, and Mr. Collins found that he had immediate need for just such a situation as his benevolent benefactress had recommended. She knew, too, quite where such a woman was to be had.
No more than a night and a sunny morning had passed before the subject was revisited by its protagonist. She, with generous condescension, called upon the parsonage to further her object.
“This matter has prayed on my mind far more than was its right; but, then, Mr. Collins, you know how well I take the claims of those below me to be first, it is not quite so shocking when one is concerned as I for those matters within my infinite reach.”
Mr. Collins could only agree with such a statement and, suitably, show his appreciation for the interest she bestowed upon his humble personage. He bowed low and spoke for some minutes on the subject. When he had done his office, the lady ventured,
“You are quite correct in your gratitude, Mr. Collins; and you will not find it ill spent, for I have come to you today with a name – a very worthy name – and a proposal of introduction.”
This proclamation produced further words of obligation from her object, but Lady Catherine was by no means finished with her pronouncements.
“Miss Spencer – Dr. Spencer’s niece – has been in residence at Marsden’s rectory for the last ten years at least. You will find her, I am sure, to be a quiet, pleasing young lady – all that a clergyman’s wife should be. Moreover,” she said, pausing for a moment as she lifted her chin, “should you be so fortunate as to win your suit, you will be further rewarded by the five-thousand pounds she will bring to the match.”
Any gratitude this information might have solicited was forestalled by the lady; with an exaggerated bow, Mr. Collins brought his fingers to his lips.
Lady Catherine went on to innumerate the young lady’s virtues – the first being her portion, the second her birth (a gentleman’s daughter, a landed gentleman’s daughter) – and detail her circumstances. And while the death of her father was lamentable, the estate’s passing to an elder brother could not be descried; furthermore, Miss Spencer had been raised within the bosom of a good woman and under the patronage of an excellent vicar. Her manners were proper, her accomplishments many, her heritage bountiful; she was all the Mr. Collins could wish for.
“With the prospect of your happy future,” Lady Catherine went on to say, “she could have very few objections to the match; her guardians could have none. My patronage alone should secure you.” Rising regally from her perch, the lady’s glance swept the drawing room. “You have done pretty well with this household in the absence of a lady, Mr. Collins; yet I think Miss Spencer would object – and be correct in doing so – she would be accustomed to more. I shall advise you on improving your household; and I shall send you an additional housemaid from my own.”
At the close of her Ladyship’s soliloquy, Mr. Collins began his own. His gratitude for her consideration of both his personage and parsonage flowed long.
She was the daughter of the village’s potter; a dainty, red-headed, freckled girl of eighteen, with a buxom figure and a saucy gleam in her eye. And she had come to the parsonage – sent thither by Lady Catherine de Bourgh – to prepare Mr. Collins’s humble home for the arrival of a mistress.
Her name was Julia.
She was all that epitomized her name: youthful, exuberant, and playful. But her mind, her thoughts, were far from young; she was an old soul trapped in the body of spry nymph seeking mature pleasures. One had only to look in her eyes to know the truth.
And there was no doubt of Mrs. Bainbridge recognizing something of her air; had the young woman come from anywhere but Rosings Park and Lady Catherine, she would have spent the evening being preached to by the housekeeper on morals, proper conduct, deference – all of the evils that might cost her the position. Understanding, however, the inner workings of the great house, Mrs. Bainbridge did nothing more than give the girl a look of smooth reproach and led her to her little room in the parsonage’s cellar and bid her goodnight.
There, in the dim light cast by two solitary candles, Julia unpacked her meager belongings – setting a small leather-encased parcel, her most precious possession, atop the stand near her bed – and sighed as she took in the dank little room and thought seriously of her future at the parsonage.
It was not until the following morning that she caught sight of her new master – and he of her. Whistling as he a descended the stairs, he nearly stumbled over the last two before the landing; for the impediment to his journey, blithely exercising her feather duster across the window pane, was a vision he would not soon forget.
A red-headed beauty, the mass of curls beneath her cap a floating, frizzy cloud, her ample bosom, leashed within a roughhewn bodice, its laces straining against the luscious orbs that tottered precariously on the verge of spilling out, the hem of her homespun dirndl skirt tucked at the waist, the folds allowing a tantalizing glimpse of creamy leg, descending to a slender ankle, her tiny feet bare save for the earth caked upon her fetching little toes...
A fit of apoplexy – pleasurable apoplexy – would not have been uncalled for in this instance; and Mr. Collins felt one coming on at a most alarming rate. But when she spoke – when she acknowledged his gapping, fluttering presence – her voice was low and sultry, soothing, and the rush of blood about his body subsided to a dull roar. She smiled a moment later – a saucy grin – before passing the ticklish brown feathers of her duster across his nose in a manner that could nearly be called impish.
At that moment, Mr. Collins knew not whether to be most properly offended by her actions or most improperly aroused. The latter sensation won out for the time being, but he masked his pleasure quickly behind a stern façade and reminded her to attend to the banister with all due haste.
His breakfast was spent lost in thoughts of swaying hips, rivulets of perspiration gliding past delicate collarbones before disappearing amid a delightful bosom, and a smile that he found perfectly seductive. Marriage, at some imminent point, could not be objectionable; his home was better served in only its prospect.
“ Your coop is far too large, Mr. Collins; hardly constructed for conducive copulation amongst your chickens. Miss Spencer, I am certain, would agree. You ought to have consulted me before making the addition – indeed, I would not have known of it so soon had not my Anne told me of it earlier this morning. A penchant for secrecy is a most unbecoming character trait, Mr. Collins!”
If the total substance of her words was not enough to pull Mr. Collins from his musings, the sentiment and tone of the last eleven sent him careening back into his surroundings. His teacup teetered against its saucer, and he began a lengthy, if not elegant, remittance of apology and subservience that quickly set her Ladyship to rights. He was in error, he had not thought, he was grievously in the wrong. “It will not, I assure you, happen again; the structure will be reduced immediately. I do beg your pardon most sincerely, most humbly, most…”
“Yes, yes,” she acknowledged before returning the conversation to its original intent: Miss Spencer. “She is to come four days hence with Dr. and Mrs. Spencer. We shall have a nice evening and you, Mr. Collins, shall have your introduction. I will, of course, speak to her uncle regarding my purpose; I would not wish it otherwise.”
Mr. Collins owned that he must agree, that he was most gratified, that he was most anxious to meet this young lady, that he was most anxious to please her Ladyship… and, silently, that he was most anxious to scamper across the sweet lane that separated his humble abode from Lady Catherine’s grand house and set himself to supervising certain household improvements. It was not long after the lady had finished waxing elegantly upon the advantages of the Spencers and the future relations between the two parsonages and personages – and of course her benevolence in making the match – that Mr. Collins made his wishes known in form. “I am loathe to relieve you of my companionship, most grieved that I must away upon the moment; yet I must worry that Mrs. Bainbridge might not instruct John properly in the dimensions required for the shelves Your Ladyship has suggested for several of the closets. I would be most distraught should it all be accomplished incorrectly.”
Such diligence could not be argued against, and within a quarter of an hour Mr. Collins found himself whistling as he crossed the park paling.
A quiet dinner that evening could not be spent in any manner that did not suggest imminent satisfaction. The mutton was finely dressed, the bread was fresh and pleasing, the soup succulent – but the service made it all more the palatable. Her feet still bare of shoes and stockings, her delicate toes peeping beneath the hem of her skirt, Julia flitted from one end of the room to the next. And Mr. Collins enjoyed the lift and fall of her ample chest as she went hither to fetch a fresh napkin, then thither to procure a new fork, again to the buffet, at a word, to retrieve the water pitcher. He kept her in constant motion – the sway of her hips hypnotic, the swish of her skirt scintillating, the quickness of her breath baiting, and the undulation of backside breathtaking beyond description.
When the meal had concluded, when the feast of his senses upon the sensuality of Julia’s full-blossomed figure had left Mr. Collins’s loins crying for satiation, he called her forward and, smiling a simpering smile, slid a penny across the white linen covering the table. At his scooting the coin forward again, at his nod of encouragement, she lifted the thin slip of metal that had been warming in his palm for the last five minutes and placed it in the pocket of her pretty apron. He was pleased. He was very pleased. And his night was spent amidst dreams of tiny toes, painted sparingly with the colors of sand and clay, as they tickled across his thighs and nestled themselves most happily where he most desired them to reside.
At breakfast the next morning Mr. Collins was disappointed to find Mrs. Bainbridge serving his bacon and not the buxom beauty he had been bent on beholding. He sighed in disappointment and frustration and asked, “What has become of Julia this morning?”
If he warbled a bit when her sweet name slipped past his lips, Mrs. Bainbridge seemed not to notice and answered blithely, if not with clear disapproval, “Her father had come earlier this morning with a package of some sort. She should be along shortly.”
Pursing his lips, the vicar nodded and forcefully broke the shell on his three-minute egg. He had no more than scooped out the first impending bite when the object of his preoccupation slipped in to the room, sending his pulses racing and the soggy sustenance to slide from his spoon and settle squarely in his lap.
This, however, he barely noticed. Gaping, he could do nothing else but take in her comely appearance. The fall of her russet mane, trailing down her back haphazardly, brushing against the swell of her bosom in the bargain, set his mouth to watering. The ruddy rouge of her cheeks as Mrs. Bainbridge berated her for her tardiness set his lungs aflame. And the sight of her well-turned ankles, traced by rings of gray earth as she lifted the hem of her skirt – twisting and turning the fabric between her fingers in agitation – set his heart to racing so quickly that he half expected it to burst forth from his chest at any moment.
“My apologies,” Julia said contritely as she turned to her employer, curtseying, “I must and do beg your pardon, Mr. Collins.”
He smiled benevolently as she dipped low, and lower still, his eyes never traveling higher than her chin as she rose and straightened her back. “Do think nothing of it,” he said, tracing his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. “You are most readily excused; I am quite happy that you have arrived – all is forgiven.”
She smiled, Mrs. Bainbridge shot her a look of reproach, and, as the housekeeper left the room, Julia lifted the ceramic teapot and quietly filled her master’s cup.
“The sugar, Julia. Three lumps, if you please.”
Duly, she deposited the sweetener within the confines of his cup, curtsied once more, and moved to procure another napkin for the mess that still lay within Mr. Collins’s lap. When she returned to his side, he could not but wonder if she might see to the situation herself – but when she simply, with movements so dainty that they must be deliberate, dropped the linen into his lap with an impish smile that was partially hidden by flaming curls, he had to physically bite back the disappointment and curb, quickly, his raging, manly desires.
She moved, then, to the opposite end of the small dinning parlor, stationing herself near the foot of the table, clearly ready to receive her master’s next order. He, however, had none; nor could he concentrate on his meal with so pretty a picture placed within an easy distance of procurement.
The minutes passed, his meal grew cold, and still he watched her: sometimes slyly, sometimes with unabashed longing, and sometimes with a twinkle in his eye that was sure to betray the naughty notion of that current moment. He never wondered what she might be thinking; those thoughts, he was certain, could not be far from his – at the very least they must reside in the same general vicinity… The lift of her chin as she stretched slightly must be an invitation to taste that sweet skin. The exposure of an ankle as she swirled her skirt must be a summons to savor that succulent sampling. The flick of her wrist could be nothing but a blatant solicitation to tease those delicate veins with his teeth. She, clearly, desired him as much as he desired her. This would be happy union of the most carnal sort.
When the pull of his breeches allowed him to sit no longer in any manner of comfort, he called her forward, rising himself. Awkwardly, he fished about in his pocket, finding a penny and promptly dropping it upon the carpet. They both stooped, intent on picking it up; but Mr. Collins was quicker – and with Julia’s lips mere inches from his face, her hot, steamy breath brushing against his weak chin, he set his eyes upon hers as he slid the penny to the left and then, slowly, up the face of the wall.
She, in turn, watched with wonder and clear confusion at his actions, but he proceeded slowly until she reached out and replaced his finger with her own. He smiled, thanked her for her services, and departed for his chambers with nothing more than a quick look over his shoulder
It was that very night that Mr. Collins, reposed beneath a thin counterpane, first heard the whirl and hum waft up through his open window and breeze past the flowing curtains. With difficulty he pulled himself erect, slipping his nightcap firmly against his scalp before he, arrested half by curiosity, half by fear, sidled up to the window and glanced about the darkened yard. His garden and beehives sat below, bathed by the light of the moon, the chicken coop and the pig enclosure to the far left, barely within his line of sight – nothing seemed amiss, yet the whining whirl continued, and he stood watch until the sound dissipated some minutes later. Puzzled, he lumbered back to bed, determined to make a thorough investigation of his farmyard upon the morn, gently reminding himself to speak to John about the deconstruction of the new portion of the chicken coop. He had just slipped into a dream-filled, Julia-bosom-toe-ankle-filled, slumber when the humming and whirling began again, soon to be joined by his strident snores.
Julia had been slightly disappointed upon joining the Reverend Mr. Collins’s household; her primary sadness being the loss of a particular, favorite pastime, which had been readily available during her tenure at Rosings. Her father had seen to that, most generously, and with renewed occupation of her free hours, she was ready to spend those of her employment most happily. Her job was not strenuous, it was not loathsome or vile; it was, in fact, rather easy to be happy in her situation – even without, she decided, her father’s gift.
Mr. Collins seemed to be a pleasant man, and if not especially bright, Julia was certain that she thought him to be handsome. His style of hairdressing made him appear suave and worldly, his spindly legs and rotund middle were quite attractive to her, and that crooked little smile! Oh! - it was most endearing!
So it was that she started her third day of employment all but smitten – and nearly as ready to succumb as the man himself…
She served him a breakfast; and while more of her offerings seemed to meet his face or clothing than his lips, she could not find his table manners unfavorable. He was clearly distracted by her personage. With a lift of her brow and a little wiggle, she pulled at the ends of her linen shirt in a supposed effort to straighten her frock, easily exposing a small portion of the tight corset that loomed beneath and enough skin to cause the man to drop his fork. The clatter of the instrument hitting the china pulled him out of his stupor; with alacrity he rose, crossed the room, pulled two pence out of his pocket and slipped them, slowly, into hers.
She smiled, he paused, seemed to think for a moment, then gave her derriere a quick squeeze before he all but ran from the room. Yes, she was quite smitten.
It was not many hours later that Mr. Collins set out to find John and speak to him about the chicken coop. The servant was easily found, easily disengaged, and easily urged to attend the master to the fowls’ enclosure. They paced about outside for some time, speaking of the amendments before opening the new door and slipping inside. Having taken no more than two steps, John, attending to the support beams instead of the floor, caught his foot upon a bucket and fell; Mr. Collins, in turn, caught his foot upon John’s leg and joined the man in a prostrate inspection of the hay-covered planks. With a moan and a groan, John hefted himself up and then, with further, louder moans and groans he pulled his master to his feet; both men instinctively looked about to see what had befallen – or felled – them, literally.
The bucket was of an innocuous sort – wooden, more of a large pail – but inside of it, beneath a generous covering of cheesecloth, lay an impressive amount of gray earth, of clay! This was a wonder – clay in a chicken coop! Neither man could explain it readily – that is until they gave the room a further perusal and noticed the implement set in pride of place beneath the rear window. A potter’s wheel! In Mr. Collins’s chicken coop! Wonder of wonders!
The ring of ponies’ bells brought an end to any further inquires as Mr. Collins dashed out of the coop, brushing the hay from his coat as he instructed John to look into the matter. It was all but forgotten after the vicar’s brief encounter with Miss De Bourgh and her imparting the news of the dinner with the Spencers being moved to the following day.
At tea, Mr. Collins, having no more than taken his first sip, requested that Mrs. Bainbridge send in Julia, that he might have a word or two with the maid concerning the placement of the pillows upon his bed.
“I should be happy to speak to Julia about the matter myself, sir; this is her afternoon away from the house.”
This was distressing. With a nod and a frown, Mr. Collins sent the housekeeper away and sulked as he sipped. The pennies in his pocket jingled as he shifted his plump posterior across the chair, a further reminder of his disappointment. Yet just as he began to delve into his desultory desires, a whirl and a hum – a familiar whirl and hum – imparted themselves upon his notice. He stood quickly, sloshing tea as he crossed the room.
Resolutely, he pulled open the window and looked about for any hint as to the direction the noise might be coming from. He was quickly satisfied that it was coming from the farmyard, chastised himself for being too distracted to remember to investigate earlier in the day, and – considering the sun was high and servants were about should anything untoward arise – Mr. Collins set out for the yard, still holding tight to his tea cup.
Several false starts and erroneous detours could not hold the manly, fearless Mr. Collins at bay for more than a quarter of an hour; ere long he did discover the source of the noise – or, more precisely, the situation from which the noise was emitted. The coop! The blasted new addition to the chicken coop! Puffing out his chest, holding the empty teacup aloft, he minced his way to the rear window, peered inside, and was immediately arrested by such a vision as he had ever seen in all his life.
Julia, beautiful, buxom Julia, the back of her skirt pulled forward, nestled between her legs, tucked into the front of her waistband, sat perched atop a stool near the center of the coop. Between her legs – between her rich, creamy, glowing, glorious thighs – sat the potter’s wheel, spinning and whirling and humming. And on that very spinning, whirling, humming wheel – the very spinning, whirling, humming created by the force of her own rich, creamy, glowing, glorious thighs – she worked a wet mound of clay between her fingers; shaping, prodding, coaxing it all by turn.
And by straining, by concentrating against every inclination that bade him to enter, Mr. Collins could hear her cajole the clay.
“Dear lady,” she said in a rich, throaty lilt, “reach for me now – there you are, there you are.”
His breath hitched as she pulled her delicate fingers away, swiping her forehead and guiding the pot with one small hand as she did so. When, a moment later, she reached in to the aperture, her arm disappearing to the elbow (embraced in a molten tunnel of swirling earth,) he moaned and dropped the cup. It shattered, quite naturally; Julia looked up, away from the pot, and met his eyes. An errant hand met the wall of madam vase, the paroxysm instant – and saturated clay erupted across her bosom and visage as the wheel spun wildly out of control. Mr. Collins abandoned his post and ran for the house.
He dined early in his book room that night, but never once looked to the window to see if Lady Catherine’s carriage happened by. His thoughts were still too engaged by what he had witnessed taking place in the chicken coop. The whirling and humming reverberated about his meager head – the sights, the sounds, the smells, all merged, creating a wondrous running show within in his mind. One that, despite his hasty exit earlier, he would give anything to see again. So, when not thirty minutes later, the whirling and humming (of a ‘well greased stone’) began again – in earnest – he was quick to slip out of the parsonage and make his way once more to the chicken coop.
The sun had nearly completed its descent; the moon was already lifted well into the sky – and the effect of light and dark upon the handsome enclosure was quite charming – the effect upon the candle-illuminated figure of Julia was even more so. He pulled in a quick breath and slipped through the open doorway, approaching her from the rear, listening as she hummed along with the whirl of the wheel, whispering again and again to her “lady” perched atop it.
He was no more than five paces away when he stopped – when he really noticed the wetness of the clay, the aroma of the clay – when he began to whisper, along with Julia, to the clay. It was provocative, sensual, and the sound of his own warbling really made him feel the moment even more.
She turned; the budding vase collapsed into itself on the spinning wheel.
Palms sweating, itching, he took another few steps, glorying at the sight of his beautiful Julia – her skirt pulled between her legs, the first two buttons of her linen shirt disengaged, her hair falling around her in a halo of russet curls… “Oh, my love, my darling,” he said, his voice sounding strange and high even to his own ears, “I hunger for your touch.”
She gasped.
Gulping, he looked about the chickens' roost. “Alone?” he asked. When she nodded, he smiled. “Lonely time,” he whispered, shaking his head, reaching out and pulling a strand of her clay-encrusted hair between his meaty fingers.
She stood.
His heart pounded heavily in his chest as Julia keened her head towards his touch. Wistfully, he glanced toward the door and beyond it, towards the parsonage. “And time goes by so slowly,” he said before re-gifting her with his attentions and taking a full,
glowing orb into his trembling palm, shuddering at the sensation as he continued, “And time can do so much.”
The feral growl that was emitted from her throat startled him for a moment, but only a moment – he reacted, taking an opposing side of her blouse in each fist, saying, “Are you…” and nodding towards her bosom, silently seeking permission.
She wiggled with clear anticipation.
“Still,” he commanded; and in one deft movement split her blouse and pulled it from her body. She cried out in pleasure, her wet hands joining his as he worked on removing her corset. She arched and pitched as he slipped the garment away, and he thought he might lose it all right then and there at the site of her bountiful bosom so exposed before him. He whimpered, she reached to her right, running her fingers through the damp earth before taking his hands between her own and guiding them to her breasts.
“Mine!” he nearly shouted. And as his
slavering lips descended upon her buxom chest, he freed her skirt, lifting it, securing the ends beneath her arms. Clumsily, quickly, he slipped his fingers between her quivering thighs, crooning, “I need your love!”
This, it seemed, was not enough to satisfy his earthen goddess – with her dainty fingers she pulled against the buttons of his breeches, gathering a handful of wet clay with one hand as she released his virulent manhood with the other – with movements that could only lend themselves to practice, she slipped the clay over his engorged phallus, whimpering as she said, “I, I need your love,” emphasizing her last word with a hearty tug.
“God!” he cried, nearly spilling his pleasure into her slick palm.
“Speed your love to me!” Julia insisted as he pulled a rosy nipple between his teeth. “Lonely,” she cried, whimpering until he slipped his fingers deep within her
mossy grotto.
Mr. Collins gasped at her wetness, his mind whirled at the imminent events, and all he could mutter, blushing, was, “Rivers flow.”
Bucking wildly against his fingers, Julia frantically whispered, “To the seed! To the seed!” as she nodded toward the floor.
It took a moment for Mr. Collins’s testosterone befuddled brain to catch her allusion; but when he glanced to the flooring and noticed, amongst the hay and clay, a fine smattering of chicken feed, he felt fairly confident in her immediate desire. He withdrew his hand, and Julia’s shaky legs, without his support, were no longer able to keep her upright.
His entire, manly body pulsing, he watched her fall, watched her turn to her back, watched her lift her arms to him – the beginning of a line slipped past his lips before he knew that he had spoken. “To the open arms of–”
“The seed!” Julia cried, urging him to join her. “Lonely?” she gasped.
His response was immediate; he fell to his knees – ready and willing to bring himself pleasure, and
fully intending to satisfy his eager companion in the process. Gingerly, he reached between her thighs, parting her legs as he ascertained her readiness; “Rivers,” he moaned.
“Sigh!” she cried out, straining against his fingers.
“Wait for me! Wait for me!” Mr. Collins cried, pulling back and hoping to prevent Julia’s climax.
Anxiously, he struggled out of his trousers, all the while observing Julia with more than keen interest as she writhed against the hay and the power of her arousal. “I’ll be –” he started to cry, when he was interrupted by the most unexpected sound from outside.
“– coming home?”
It was Lady Catherine! And from the sound of her voice – the projection and volume – she stood mere yards from the chicken coop!
Reaching for his breeches, intending to cut her ladyship off before she might decide to inspect the inner-workings of his fowl breeding encasement, Collins whispered urgently, “Wait for me!”
Julia would countenance no such withdrawal from her person or of his attentions. “My love, my darling!” she called out, making no effort to keep her voice low. “I hunger, I hunger!” And she reached out, scooping up another handful of moist, gray clay before she took him into her fist and began to stroke rapidly.
The poor man no more stood a chance of withholding his pleasure than flying to the moon and back; and just as Lady Catherine burst through the door of the coop, lantern in hand, Mr. Collins exploded onto the floor, his seed mingling with clay, hay, and chicken feed. It was quite the saddest sight any of them had ever seen.
It was a full fortnight before Mr. Collins had the inclination or invitation to visit Rosings Park and Lady Catherine; and when he entered her drawing room, shamefaced and slumping, it was to learn that she had withdrawn her support in regards to Miss Spencer. Such a lady was too good for a man of Mr. Collins’s mettle. Yet as disappointed as she was to learn so personally, graphically of his character, she was not without the capacity for forgiveness. And that day she was so good as to advise him to take himself away, to visit his poor relatives, and, among them, choose a wife…
As for Julia, she was, sadly, never heard from as being in England again. Rumor has it, though, that the great Lady Catherine, with all her influence, managed to have dear Julia sent away on the first boat leaving the
noble shores of the Thames. And despite the stories, the tales passed on from generation to generation, but never printed in any sort of text until now, she was not placed on a slow boat to China but a ship filled with convicts.
Finis.
Hope you had a good laugh, J – have you quite learned your lesson yet?
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