“Then I wish I knew him better than I do.” Kitty looked mischievous. “Did he perhaps remark on your singing?”

That provoked an outright laugh. “He did. But the thing about Charlie is that he never leaves one bereft. Having told me that I did not sing, I screeched, and advised me to leave song to nightingales, he spent a full day assuring me that I played pianoforte as splendidly as Herr Beethoven.”

“Who is that?” asked Kitty, wrinkling her brow.

“A German man. Charlie heard him in Vienna when Fitz was there trying to restrain Bonaparte. I will play you some of his simpler pieces. Charlie never fails to send me a parcel of new music for my birthday.”

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie! You love him very much.”

“To distraction,” Mary said. “You see, Kitty, he has been so kind to me over the years. His visits lit up my life.”

“When you speak in that tone, I confess I am a trifle envious. Dearest Mary, you have changed.”

“Not in all respects, sister. I still tend to say what I am thinking. Especially to Mr. Collins.” She huffed. “When I thought him looking for a beautiful wife I was able to excuse his choosing inappropriate females like Jane and Lizzie, but when he asked for Charlotte Lucas, the scales began to fall from mine eyes. As plain and unappetising as week-old pound cake is Charlotte. I began to see that he was not a worthy recipient of my affections.”

“I do not pretend to have your depth of intellect, Mary,” said Kitty in a musing voice, “but I have often wondered at God’s goodness to some of His less inspiring creations. By rights Mr. Collins ought to have barely scraped along, a penurious clergyman, yet he always prospers through no merit of his own.”

“Oh, it was not easy for him between Lizzie’s marriage to Fitz and Papa’s death, when he inherited Longbourn. Lady Catherine de Bourgh never forgave him-quite what for, I do not know.”