Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Clergyman’s Wife
A Pride and Prejudice Novel
MOLLY GREELEY
First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2019
First published in the United States in 2019 by William Morrow,
a division of HarperCollins Publishers.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Autumn
M
r Collins walks like a man who has never become
comfortable with his height: his shoulders hunched,
his neck thrust forward. His legs cross great
stretches of ground with a single stride. I see him as I pass
the bedroom window, and for a moment I am arrested, my
lungs squeezing painfully under my ribs, the pads of my fingers
pressed against the cool glass. The next moment, I am moving
down the stairs, holding my hem above my ankles. When I
push open the front door and step out into the lane, I raise my
eyes and find Mr Collins only a few feet distant.
Mr Collins sees me and lifts his hat. His brow is damp with
the exertion of walking and his expression is one of mingled
ix
xi
xii
xiii
xiv
I
stand at the window in my parlour looking out over the
rear gardens. From here, I can see William’s beehives
and the flowerbeds just waking from their winter rest.
Gravel paths meander throughout the garden; to the right, they
curve toward the hedgerows, and onward toward the lane, and
to the left, they bend around the side of the house toward the
kitchen garden, and the pen where the pig lives, fattening, and
the dusty ground where the chickens peck and squawk.
Behind me on my writing desk, a fresh piece of paper sits
ready. The salutation at the top—Dear Elizabeth—has been
dry for some time. I never feel the quiet uniformity of my
The drawing room at Rosings Park is silent but for the sound
of the pendulum clock, which marks the passing of the seconds.
I sit, teacup cradled in my hands. Beside me, William clasps
I
am walking in the garden when I hear them—a rhythmic
thunking, a man’s voice raised in wordless frustration.
The sounds rip through the hush of daybreak, start-
ling Louisa, who had finally dozed off with her cheek on my
shoulder. She and I were both awake through much of the
night as she cried her distress over her poor, swollen gums
until I was ready to weep with exhausted frustration myself.
When at last the first tentative light of dawn showed around
the edges of the window curtains, I threw a shawl over my
shoulders and bundled Louisa into another, crept from the
room without disturbing William, and went out into the garden
hoping that the cool air would soothe her. As it did, admirably,
until just now.
10
shirts to make for the poorer labourers, and caps and gowns
for babies whose mothers are too poor or too busy to make
many themselves. These are the usual duties of a clergyman’s
wife, but today I feel particularly driven to accomplish them.
My mind churns over my conversation with Mr Travis as the
afternoon wears away and I make stitch after stitch.
‘It is best to treat tenants briskly,’ Lady Catherine said to
me when I first arrived in Hunsford. ‘You have had no exper-
ience with such things, Mr Collins tells me, so you must learn
quickly. Vices must be seen and condemned. Illnesses, births,
deaths—these require your attention, and of course if they come
to you for advice about their housekeeping or their children,
you must oblige them. But do not coddle my tenants with too
much charity or attention, for such things only encourage sloth.’
I have lived according to her ladyship’s edict for the past
three years. It has not, I am sorry to say, been a great hardship;
having rarely been thrown into intimate quarters with true
poverty or deprivation in my life in Hertfordshire, I found,
when embarking upon my new role, that I had no clear idea
how to approach the meanest among her ladyship’s tenants.
I cringe, sometimes, to hear William’s tone of condescension
when he speaks to his parishioners, but I fear that my own
discomfort and pity must be all too obvious. I have been able
to justify not giving the parishioners more attention than they
ask for by heeding the thought, ever present in my mind, that
my family’s happiness is tied to Lady Catherine’s pleasure.
11
And, too, there has always been the whispering fear that my
assistance may be entirely unwanted; that rather than being
helpful, I am merely foisting my presence upon others.
Mr Travis’s father is elderly; he comes to church but rarely.
And yet I have never called upon him. If I had, I might have
known that he once held the position of Rosings’s head gardener.
If anything, I think with sudden ferocity, my behaviour has
balanced Lady Catherine’s, for her ladyship inserts herself into
her tenants’ lives, giving advice that might just as well be called
orders, just as freely as she does into my own. The difference,
though, is that while I find her meddling inconvenient—the
last time she took an interest in the parsonage, I lost the use of
my parlour for nearly a week while new paper-hangings were
installed and she dictated the rearrangement of the furniture—it
does no actual harm. But a farmer . . . I hope that her ladyship’s
steward has offered Mr Travis wages in return for his help with
our garden, but even so, the hours Mr Travis spent this morning,
removing that stump so roses can be planted in its place; the
hours he must spend, still, once the flowers arrive—that is all
time away from his farm, his livelihood. A farm flourishes only
under the farmer’s constant labour and care.
I stab my needle into the cloth with too much force and
make another stitch. Our lives are all arranged according to
Lady Catherine’s whims.
12