Color rose to Eliza’s cheeks, but her eyes looked at him with candor, and she spoke the truth.
“I am early, Sir, because I am going to ride with Henry,” she said. “I long to explore the Park.” Would he disapprove? Would he forbid them?
As she spoke the door opened, and Henry himself came into the room. He looked somewhat startled to see Eliza with his father.
“Good morning, Henry,” said Mr. Darcy. He turned and bowed to Eliza. “A pleasure, Miss Collins,” he said. “Henry is a fortunate young man. Enjoy your ride.”
The butler moved to open the door and Mr. Darcy left the room.
Chapter Nine
Opening Steps
She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest
contemplation...
“At present I will say nothing about it.”
Jane Austen
Juliet had promised to send her maid to help Eliza dress, but Eliza was not surprised when Agnes did not appear. She was somewhat dismayed, however, when, by seven o’clock, her mother also had failed to appear. Dinner was at eight. A quiet knock at her door as she struggled to fasten her bodice brought her eagerly forward, but the little maid who waited outside was nothing like Juliet’s purse-mouthed Agnes. Instead, this small damsel dropped a curtsey and handed Eliza a bouquet of violets, “With Mr. ’enry’s compliments, Miss. And Mr. Latchett said as if you thought as ’ow you might find me useful, I were to stay. I’m Becky, Miss.”
Eliza buried her nose in the cool petals, inhaling their sweetness. Then she smiled at Becky. “Oh, please, could you fasten my dress? The hooks are so small and I can’t quite manage myself.”
Eliza’s dress (quite the prettiest she had ever had) was white broiderie anglais, with a very full skirt and a low-cut neckline (which had not been displayed before Mr. Collins). Her small waist was bound with a wide sash of violet-blue satin. The violets toned beautifully with the sash, but Eliza did not know how to fasten them. And her hair? How was she to dress her hair?
She was delighted when after a quick knock, her mother’s voice at last came through the door. “Eliza, dear, it’s Mama.”
Charlotte came in quickly and set about her daughter’s finishing touches. Her soft curls were brushed satin-smooth, then curled round Charlotte’s quick fingers.They were piled back and high, leaving one or two to fall around her face, which, usually pale, was flushed with excitement. A matching violet-blue satin ribbon bound the curls into place and was fastened with a pearl pin.
“Now your necklet, Eliza—and where are your long gloves?” Becky came quickly forward with the gloves, her eyes big with shared enjoyment.
“And my violets, Mama? Can I wear them? Henry sent them—oh, mother!”
“We will pin them just inside your bodice. There, that’s quite perfect. See, my dear. You look a picture.”
Eliza saw reflected in the long cheval mirror a small starry-eyed figure in crisp white, with touches of violet, her head topped with light-brown curls that shone like copper. She took a deep breath. But then she was distracted by the figure of her mother, dressed in black silk, standing behind her.
“Mama? I thought you were going to wear your new blue? You look so nice in blue.”
Mr. Collins disapproved of color for married or older women. Charlotte’s dresses ranged from pale gray to black, with an occasional mauve or pale blue dimity for morning wear.With the ball in mind she had begged his indulgence and ordered a dark blue gown that gave warmth to her face and gray eyes. But she was wearing black.
“It seemed more suitable, dear. And your father would approve.Now, don’t worry about me. Listen, there’s the gong.”
They collected Jonathan, trim in his new evening dress, and then Charlotte led her family down the great staircase to the drawing room where the dinner guests were collecting. There was considerable turmoil in Charlotte Collins’s mind as she entered the beautiful room. Earlier, just as she was opening her door to go to Eliza, a footman had brought her word that a groom had arrived from Longbourn with a letter from her housekeeper. The news it contained was startling. There had been barely time to change her dress, after reading it. Now the letter was tucked safely inside her reticule, but it dominated her thoughts. She longed to go somewhere quietly by herself, to think. But the time was not appropriate. She had made up her mind. At present she would say nothing about it. She had her children to think of. She sought distraction in her surroundings.
The first thing she noticed was the portrait of Elizabeth, by Thomas Lawrence, painted some ten years previously, occupying pride of place over the white marble mantelpiece. Charlotte knew that a more recent portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, accompanied by Mr. Darcy’s pointer, Diogenes, was to be found in the library. It had been painted by Edwin Landseer. Mr. Landseer was not from choice a portrait painter; and had been coaxed into action by the inclusion of the dog.
Charlotte was also aware that a portrait of Jane Bingley, painted recently by Sir Francis Grant, was part of an exhibition of portraits by Winterhalter (the young Queen’s favorite), Lawrence, and Grant presently on show in a gallery in Pall Mall, but Mr. Darcy had not wished Elizabeth’s portrait to be displayed. “He is a little possessive,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “where I am concerned.” Charlotte thought the portrait brought her friend vividly to life. Elizabeth’s head was high, and a smile hovered about her lips as if at any moment she would break into laughter. “Beautiful,” she said to herself. “You are right,” said a quiet voice at her shoulder. Charlotte had not realized she had spoken out loud. She turned quickly and found Mr. Darcy beside her, looking up at the picture with an expression of love and pride that touched her very much. “I am pleased to see you, Mrs. Collins,” he went on. “I had the pleasure of your daughter’s company at breakfast this morning. I congratulate you on her upbringing.”
He moved away, and Charlotte stared after him. Eliza had said nothing of a breakfast meeting; she had been too full of her ride.
Dinner was a grand affair and Henry’s duty kept him with the more important guests. Etiquette demanded that Lord and Lady Charles Baluster had first claim on the Darcys’ attention. Eliza saw Henry sitting with his cousin, the Honorable Lucy Baluster. Henry looked serious.
Oh, dear Henry, thought Eliza, giving way to a sudden warmth of affection. Their morning ride had been wonderful. Such beautiful horses. She had never ridden the equal of the spirited little mare Henry had brought for her. She recalled the smell of new-cut grass, still damp with dew, steaming under the early morning sun, the scent of honeysuckle warm in the hedgerows. They had ranged widely through the Pemberley Park, jumped logs, raced down the rides in the plantation, followed dragonflies that led them on like will-o-the-wisps, and at last stopped and dismounted under the complicated branches of a great oak tree, old as the Darcy heritage. Sitting side by side on a log, they had laughed and talked and laughed again. They played “do you remember,” recalling their first meeting, the cat and the caterpillar; they talked of poetry, which they both loved, and Henry confided his dreams of writing something worthy of publication one day. At last they rose to remount and, as Henry lifted Eliza back into the saddle, he smiled up at her and quoted:
“I met a Lady in the Meads,
Full beautiful, a faery’s child.
Her hair was long, her foot was light... ”
“Oh, Henry,” said Eliza, finishing the stanza: “And are my ‘eyes wild’? Not a suitable quotation.” And she laughed at him and rode away and returned to the house in a golden glow of emotion. Henry seemed to her just the same as he had been at Longbourn, quiet (beside his more boisterous brother), considerate and friendly, and with a look in his eyes when he turned to her that made her recite mentally, with some haste, all the cautions her mother had laid upon her.
The Collinses were seated towards the center of the long dining table, below the Balusters and Fitzwilliams, the Bingleys and Wentworths. Charlotte whispered to Jonathan the names of as many of the guests as she could identify,
and he passed the information on to Eliza: that red-faced man with the noisy laugh was Sir Thomas Bertram; the beautiful dark-haired lady in sapphire blue was the wife of Colonel Brandon, who was the quiet man with iron-gray hair seated next to Mrs. Bingley; the man in naval uniform, with his face weathered a deep brown, was Admiral Wentworth.
The meal seemed interminable to Eliza, who was too excited to take much interest in the excellent food. She picked at a slice of chicken breast and a mushroom fritter. Only when dessert was on the table did she reach out her hand quite eagerly to take a peach. She turned it in her hand. Somehow it seemed to restore the feeling of happy acceptance she had felt at breakfast with Mr. Darcy. As she held it, she had an odd prickly feeling of being watched. She looked up, and found Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her from his seat at the end of the table. He looked down at the peach and up again, and smiled at her, and nodded. She smiled back. Then, contentedly, she ate it, together with some of the little macaroons of which she was fond.
Nine o’clock arrived at last.
Chapter Ten
Cotillion
“Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident
you belong to the first circles.”
“Every savage can dance.”
Jane Austen
The ball commenced with the cotillion.
This opening dance was arranged by Elizabeth to be particularly for Juliet and Henry and the young guests. Those of the older generation who wished to dance would wait for the partnered dances that followed. Juliet was to take her place at the head of the first set but, when the time came, there was a hitch. All Juliet’s plans had included the image of Lieutenant Gerard Churchill leading her out; she had kept two fingers over the first two dances on the miniature program dangling from her wrist to save them for him. But Gerard was still not present. He had not been one of those invited to the dinner (his parents were not close acquaintances of the Darcys), but Juliet had been watching for him eagerly from the moment the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. Standing with her parents in the hall to welcome their guests, who were arriving in a steady stream, her face grew more and more discontented when Gerard did not appear, and she was close to pouting in her disappointment and chagrin, when her mama summoned her to open the ball. The ballroom was filling rapidly; the band of the Scots Guards, engaged through Colonel Fitzwilliam’s good offices, was playing a medley of tunes, and there was no reason to delay.
“My dear, who is your partner?” asked Elizabeth.
Juliet looked about her with a certain desperation. She, the belle of the Season, the one in whose honor this ball was given, had no partner! A tall young man with a rather solemn face came quickly forward. “Miss Darcy,” he bowed low over her glove. “I should be honored.” It was Colin Knightley, always punctilious in his manners. Juliet laid her hand on his sleeve. The band played a flourish. The dancers took their places in the sets, and the ball was in full swing.
Charlotte Collins led her son and daughter into the ballroom, her back straight and her head held erect as she had taught herself to stand when dealing with Lady Catherine—her chin not high (that would have invited a put-down), and not low (the humble aroused the bully in her ladyship). Outwardly poised and calm, her mind in a turmoil, she looked around her and, finding a seat not far from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and the Bingleys, settled her family. They were a little late arriving; the cotillion had begun. Eliza sat and watched the scene from her mother’s side. Jonathan stood beside them.
The scene was a delight to the eye. In the cotillion, there was a swirl of full skirts; the young girls were dressed in white or pastel shades which accented the black and white of their partners’ evening dress. Ringlets danced against flushed cheeks, and the light from the chandeliers, which had been washed and polished until the cut-glass pendants sparkled like brilliants, made the smooth heads of braids and chignons gleam like satin.
Eliza saw Henry at once. She could not see his partner’s face, but her auburn hair gleamed above her pale green gown. Catriona Fitzwilliam, Eliza recognized. How well he dances, thought Eliza, her feet beginning to tap under her long skirt. And there was Fitz, opposite Amabel. They seemed engrossed in each other—her lovely face raised to his, and his look intent on her. And there was Juliet, exquisitely dressed in yellow, with a tall young man. They were not speaking. Juliet looked cross.
Elizabeth Darcy rose and began to move round the circumference of the ballroom, speaking a few words to each of her friends. She paused at Charlotte’s side. She was wearing a rich ruby satin, with a deep décolletage, and a necklace of glittering diamonds. Her eyes shone with excitement—as if she too were a young girl, thought Eliza. Eliza regretted again that her mother had chosen to wear black, instead of her new blue dress.
“Charlotte, my dear. How well you look, Eliza. A charming gown.”
Charlotte congratulated Elizabeth on the brilliance of the scene.When her mother paused, Eliza felt she might speak. “Has something happened to upset Juliet, Cousin Elizabeth?” she asked.
“She has had a disappointment. A good friend of hers has not yet arrived. I think she hoped to open the ball with him—she felt herself promised for the first two dances.”
“With whom is she dancing now?” asked Charlotte.
“One of the Knightley twins: Colin. He is rather quiet and earnest. As is his brother, Kit. But they are both very pleasant young men. I am so sorry their Mama could not be with us tonight. It is some time since I have seen Mrs. Knightley.” Or her estimable husband, thought Elizabeth. Mr. Knightley was a favorite of hers.
But Juliet should not be making her discontent so plain. A lady does not display her feelings in public. She is getting a little spoiled from too much attention, Elizabeth thought to herself, making a mental note to speak to her later.
The cotillion came to a close. The dancers were clapping their hands and laughing excitedly. The band master announced a waltz. Elizabeth looked around. She introduced Eliza to a young man in uniform, deeply tanned. Small lines at the sides of his eyes showed white until he laughed, when they crinkled into a brown mask. His name was Alexander Wentworth and he was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, recently returned from the West Indies. He made her a gallant bow, and whirled her into the waltz.
Jonathan Collins, leaving his mother deep in conversation with Jane Bingley, wandered round the ballroom, finding much to admire and wonder at. This was by far the grandest house he had visited. He walked casually but in fact had but one purpose. He was seeking Lucy Baluster. A group of dowagers caught his attention. They were seated in a half-moon of gold-painted chairs, gossiping and eyeing the dancers through their lorgnettes. He drew back as he recognized Miss Bingley among them. Her dress of black satin was cut low across a rather thin bosom and filled in with net, and her turban, of black and purple stripes and topped with nodding plumes and knots of lace, reached toward the ceiling. He had already identified Lord and Lady Charles Baluster talking with Mr. Darcy near the entrance to the ballroom. Lucy had not been with them. He looked about him and found, behind and to one side of the dowagers, an alcove partly hidden by a tall arrangement of delphiniums in a jade-green Chinese vase, a stand of ferns and a marble statue of a Grecian goddess. Seated by herself in the alcove, pensively regarding her fan, was Lucy Baluster, becomingly dressed in white silk and lace. He came quietly to her side.
“Miss Baluster, I was hoping to find you. And hoping still more that you should not be engaged for the next dance.”
She looked up at him with eyes suddenly alive, and gave him a quick shy smile, then looked down again at the fan on her lap. He made one or two remarks about the scene before them, but she did not speak, only smiled and looked away. He wondered if he had offended her in some way. As if to occupy her hands, she spread the fan wide and waved it slowly; it was exquisitely painted with a scene of butterflies. In trying to win a response from such a shy creature, Jonathan had already been reminded of his work with flying insects—the need to stay still,
then move quietly, so as not to alarm them. He regarded the decoration of her fan as a good omen. She was like a butterfly, he thought. One of the large, beautiful South American specimens.
“What a pretty fan,” said Jonathan now. “May I see it, Miss Baluster?”
Faced with the specific request, Lucy’s strict social training made her respond. She spread the fan wide, and automatically held it up to her face, so that her eyes shone over it. Jonathan blinked.
“Beautiful,” he said, and the warmth in his voice and the look in his eyes at once melted her shyness—and enhanced it. She blushed, but lowered the fan and looked fully at him.
“You know that I am a naturalist.Would it interest you to identify the butterflies on your fan?” he ventured. “They are taken from life, you know. May I tell you their names?”
“Why, yes,” said Lucy, intrigued.
Jonathan leaned closer to her. “These are swallowtails, aren’t they beautiful? And these are peacocks.Over here you have a red admiral, and three clouded blues,” said Jonathan. “The small ones are tortoiseshells, and these are painted ladies. Is that not a charming name? They are very well drawn, quite true to life.”
“The design is taken from a panel by Angelica Kauffman,” said Lucy. She spoke more clearly. She looked at her fan with new interest. “How much you know! It is wonderful that you can tell me all their names! My mother gave me the fan specially for this dance. I have not been to many balls,” she confided shyly. “You see, I am not yet out—I haven’t been presented. Next year, mother says. Little informal dances like the one last night are different. And this dance is for Juliet and Henry, so mother approved. But the noise and the crowd! And all the new guests—I don’t know half of them. And people telling me all the time what to do—and what not to do...”
The Darcys Give a Ball Page 7