by Meg Kerr
“What is the reason for your repugnance? The people here have easier manners than in town, and there are some pretty girls. Come, and enjoy yourself.”
“The country has only this advantage over town, that it can better supply a gathering of people who are neither handsome nor refined. I have no interest in meeting any of them.”
“How can you despise them before you have seen them? I promise you, you will do much better to join us than stay here.”
“I refuse to comply with your request.”
“I shall not press you further then.”
“I am glad of it, for you are boring me.” Strange to relate, then, that when the time came for the Delafords to enter their coach, Lord Marlowe deigned to appear, squeezing himself in beside the twins, although Edmund Delaford could see that his mind still was not cheerful. But he could readily believe that the prospect of emptying a bottle of port single-handedly in the dining room held even more limited charm for his friend than a rustic ball.
On their arrival at the Assembly Rooms, the three younger Delafords soon dispersed to find or by sought by partners and Mrs. Delaford found a chair next to Lady Lucas. Lord Marlowe insulted Fanny by not asking her to dance, refused Edmund Delaford’s and Mrs. Delaford’s offers to introduce him to any of the other young ladies present and walked about the room with a haughty countenance, looked at with appreciation for his fine person and title, and for his estate and income, various estimates of which were in circulation before the first set had formed. Shortly the orchestra struck up a favourite air, and at the signal the dancers came to the centre of the room. The ball began.
The evening proceeded pleasantly and every one appeared merry, with an exception. “Marlowe, you do not seem to be enjoying yourself,” said Delaford at the first break in the dancing.
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
“I had anticipated you would dance.”
“With whom?
“There is Miss Lucas. She dances very well and is very good-natured; allow me to introduce you to her.”
Marlowe looked at Maria Lucas. “For what offence do you punish me by suggesting I stand up with her?” He turned away and went to that part of the room where were congregated the ladies who were waiting for partners. He probably could not have appeared to greater advantage anywhere else in the room, as he sauntered about in front of them as if to taunt them with his resolve to guard himself from their advances.
Those present at the Meryton Assembly were of course by now well inured to the coming into the neighbourhood of eligible young men to marry portionless young women, and they would have made Lord Marlowe welcome in the accustomed manner. But his air of coldness and reserve inspired an awe in almost everyone present that in general checked them from approaching him. Sir William Lucas, however, whose sole occupation consisted in being civil to all the world, fancied that he ought to pay some attention to this visitor who did not appear to be much diverted by the evening’s activities.
“You do not dance tonight, Lord Marlowe?” said Sir William politely as he came up to him.
Lord Marlowe looked at Sir William at his side with some surprise and said, “Were you so good, sir, as to speak to me?”
“I asked if you were not dancing, sir,” said Sir William.
Lord Marlowe’s dislike of being addressed in this way was clear, but he was left with small choice of responding, although the iciness of his manner testified his unwillingness to do so. “I am not, as you see.”
“Do you not like to dance, sir?”
“May I enquire what issue your questions are intended to elucidate?”
“I merely wished to express my hope that you would partake of this pastime, for I have no doubt that you perform delightfully,” said Sir William with a bow. “It would be unkind to deny us the indulgence of watching you.”
“Do you have anything else to propose for the common entertainment?”
The grossly uncivil manner in which Lord Marlowe spoke could scarcely mean anything other an intentional affront; but Sir William was too courteous to take offence, and he would have endeavoured to continue the conversation had Lord Marlowe not abruptly walked off.
Frank Delaford had been observing the encounter between Sir William and Lord Marlowe, somewhat to the detriment of his performance as a dancer and the annoyance of his partner. It, like almost every thing, supplied invigoration to the glee of his mind, and when he was released from the set he came up to Sir William and thanked him heartily for his kindness to Lord Marlowe, “for he is so very bashful, that he is afraid to say a word to anyone. Why, I have seen him take his coffee with five spoons of sugar before he will say that he does not take sugar at all. And he is so afraid of my sister Fanny that he did not dare ask her for a dance this evening.”
“Bashful!” exclaimed Sir William.
“Beyond anything you can conjecture,” said Frank firmly. “The only way to put him at ease is to keep talking to him, and then you will find after a few minutes that he is as forthcoming as you can wish. He will very likely ask you to introduce him to a partner.”
Because there was a shortage of gentlemen, as is so frequently the case at balls, Sir William felt it doubly his duty to make another attempt to engage the interest of his lordship; and the latter was shortly astounded to find Sir William at his elbow again, having thought the dose of rudeness he had dispensed should have been sufficient to keep him away for the rest of the night if not the year.
“It is growing warm in the room,” observed Sir William. “I fear the draught if the windows are opened however.”
Marlowe’s rejoinder was the slightest of bows and an unmistakable glare.
“It is astonishing the number of people who are here this evening, for the weather has been far from encouraging of late. Snow on Easter Sunday!”1
“The only cause for astonishment connected with this assembly is my presence at it.”
In some difficulty but persevering, Sir William said almost at random, “Do you like the country, sir?”
“No; I detest it.”
“You prefer London, then? I once thought of taking a house in town myself.”
“I can scarcely bear to be immured there.”
“Where then would you live, sir?” said Sir William, much puzzled.
“I would live where people did not trouble their betters, could I find such a place,” in a tone which marked his contempt.
Sir William, adhering to Frank Delaford’s advice, foolishly persisted with this unrewarding colloquy. To his observations concerning dancing in general, Marlowe, at first maintaining an absolute taciturnity, eventually replied brusquely that he wondered how people could find amusement in such folly, was wholly unresponsive when Sir William broached two or three other topics, and was on the point of terminating his dealings with his interlocutor when Mrs. Bennet and Miss Penelope Harrington made their entrance.
The two had been detained at Longbourn by some details of costume which are not very remarkable when a young lady dons cast-off clothing – Kitty’s maiden wardrobe now being lent to Pen as occasion demanded. Yet Pen’s appearance was elegant and she was in extraordinarily good looks, although she had been so ground down by Mrs. Bennet’s incessant admonitions concerning Edmund Delaford that she had nearly lost any pleasure in the prospect of the evening.
Frank saw her and thought she looked all loveliness.
Lord Marlowe saw her and was petrified in amazement. “By God,” he said to Sir William, “I was told the people hereabout had easy manners, but I did not apprehend that they went so far as to permit the servants to mix with their masters at a ball. What some call easy manners I would name unbridled radicalism.”
“Radicalism!” clucked Sir William in alarm. He gazed about him. “What do you mean, sir? I see no servants.”
“That vision of comeliness who is standing
near Mrs. Delaford – the little minx! Her name is Dora.”
“Dora!” said Sir William in confusion, looking at Pen. “I see only Miss Harrington, of Bewley. She appears to have arrived in company with Mrs. Bennet.”
“Miss Harrington, of Bewley?”
“The co-heiress, together with her sister Mrs. Long, of the manor of Bewley. Their father died a little while since, leaving them with almost no income. They ought to sell of course, but the land has been in the family for a great many generations and they are reluctant to part with it.”
Lord Marlowe made a swift transition from being motionless from astonishment to being speechless with resentment. He had occasionally in the past found his projects of conquest subverted, but never before had a pert serving-maid ready for plucking turned before his eyes into an impregnable heiress. At first he directed a considerable anger against her, that she had hoodwinked, and his complexion grew pale as his irritation gradually overcame his surprise. But watching her from a distance a potent feeling gradually began to replace the anger – whether the sensation was located in his breast or somewhere else I cannot engage to say – and he found that a strong interest in her had not been extinguished by her sudden change of rank. He felt impelled to seek her still. On a sudden thought he enquired, “Do I understand you to say that Miss Harrington has no father? No brothers?”
“That is so.”
“Who then is there to protect the young lady?”
“An elderly gentleman who lives in town is her guardian; and of course there is her sister’s husband. He is a clergyman holding the living at G***. There is also a manservant about the place.”
Marlowe had seen the manservant and had no concerns about him or the elderly guardian. “Ah indeed, a clergyman. Bookish I’ve no doubt?” for he had known some accomplished pugilists at the University who had taken orders.
“He is not a hunting parson, if that is what you allude to. But she is quite safe in this neighbourhood, sir, quite safe.”
As a result of this information Lord Marlowe condescended to pardon Pen, in token of which he asked Sir William for an introduction. If he lost the game it should not be from lack of will to play it.
To Pen it was odious to see Lord Marlowe at all, and even more odious to have him approach her.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet and my dear Miss Harrington,” said Sir William with complacency, “you must allow me to present Lord Marlowe, who wishes to request the honour of Miss Harrington’s hand, which I am sure she will not refuse.”
It was a hard duty for Pen to curtsey to him, but how much worse to be called upon to dance with him! She saw on his face a certain half-look, and a smile that made her feel horribly embarrassed. She turned red, drew back instantly, and said in the most natural manner possible, “Oh no, I could not!”
As soon as she heard Lord Marlowe named by Sir William, Mrs. Bennet’s visage was decorated in smiles. Never had she been more entranced; she was all gratitude to make his acquaintance. Mr. Edmund Delaford was nothing to a Lord Marlowe, a nobody. She gave her charge a very meaningful look.
Lord Marlowe himself now with propriety requested Pen’s hand. He gave her no second smile, and his object seemed only to make himself agreeable. The alteration in his manners surprised but did not encourage her, for she could not get the better of her discomposure and embarrassment, which were only heightened by her certain knowledge that he took note of them. The case was extreme. She tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said, “But I do not wish to dance. Lord Marlowe will please excuse me.”
Lord Marlowe was evidently offended and annoyed. Misinterpreting Pen’s blushes but not the gentleman’s annoyance, Mrs. Bennet intervened: “Nonsense, Penelope, what do you mean in talking this way? I insist upon your dancing with Lord Marlowe.” She saw nothing to excite suspicion; with the trivial effort of accepting an introduction to her Marlowe had gained her complete trust and endorsement.
Pen felt all the hardship of facing a calamity she could not avert. “Dear madam, I beg you, I do not wish to dance tonight. I fear I – I may have turned my ankle.”
Lord Marlowe said, without smiling, that he recommended arquebusade for such a complaint. Mrs. Bennet deferentially approved his prescription, but quickly added, “I am certain there is nothing wrong with your ankle Penelope, other than a little cramp perhaps, and there is nothing like exercise to relieve cramp.” She did not allow Pen to hazard another word of resistance and it was quickly settled between her and Lord Marlowe that Pen should be his partner for the next two. Pen had nothing to do with her dismay but attempt to conceal it. It was clearly impossible to argue her opinion against them.
After Lord Marlowe and Sir William had moved away, Mrs. Bennet turned to Pen. “Good gracious, what put it into your head to refuse that lord at first? It was very impertinent of you, for he owed no such civility to you, the compliment was intended for me. He would never have asked you at all if you had not been with me when Sir William requested an introduction. It is exceedingly hypocritical of you, to be thinking of yourself before any body else.”
In a moment a happier sight caught Pen, for Frank Delaford was looking her way. They were too distant for speech but the countenance of each said a great deal. She longed to be engaged to dance with him instead of Lord Marlowe, and he was displeased that Marlowe had been introduced to her. Before he could detach himself from his companions however he saw Pen being conducted to the top of the room and the set begin to form couple by couple.
Every circumstance seemed to be combining to increase her misery, for Pen was now horrified to find she was propelled into the place of first lady, where surely every one would think her trying to appear above herself. Lord Marlowe would not locate himself down the set at a country assembly. If there was honour in dancing with him, there was no enjoyment. She nevertheless began to regain a little equanimity with the safety of numbers and the responsibilities of her role. Her partner’s dancing was extremely good and she herself was light and graceful. Any hope that he would not speak to her was, however, denied. As soon as he had an opportunity of talking without being overheard he said, “You must pardon the freedom I took in seeking you out. The arts with which you captivated me have proven so formidable that I can scarcely command myself.”
“What arts do you mean?” said Pen in mystification.
“The blushing cheek, the rosy arms, the thin gown that clung to your form and gave a glimpse of roundness,” said Lord Marlowe rhapsodically. “The red lips that you would not let me savour.”
Pen turned crimson with mortification. “I did not expect anyone to call that day.”
“Delights are all the sweeter when they are unlooked-for.”
Pen’s experience of balls had not led her to believe that gentlemen’s remarks about lips and sweet delights were customary. There was also a pointedness, and an unpardonable assurance in his manner which greatly distressed her. She would very much have liked to walk out of the set, but she was prevented by the fear (so dominating in the young) of being looked at. Nevertheless she determined that she would not react if he spoke again. Lord Marlowe quickly deduced from her mien that he had trespassed too far and was acting against his own advantage. He therefore said, “My manners are at fault, I confess, but you can not blame me. I am not myself tonight. But I believe you now know why.”
If Pen obtained any satisfaction from the dance, his company made no part of it. She could hardly endure his smiles and the tone of his voice, bringing to her thoughts as they did his conduct at their first meeting, and she now saw other qualities that were objectionable in him. As they worked their way back up from the bottom of the set he spoke from time to time of his attraction to her but she made no answer, looking forward only to the time when she would part from him.
The two dances seemed very long and when they were over her inclination for more was at an end. And yet here was Frank Delaford, who had be
en waiting and wishing, approaching her without loss of time. “If you want to dance again, Miss Harrington, I haven’t been able to find another partner and have no aversion to standing up with you.”
Such a flattering solicitation of her hand could not be disregarded, but she found Frank’s taking of her for granted more palatable than Lord Marlowe’s insinuating flattery, and when the dancing recommenced they joined the set which was forming.
Frank was in excellent spirits, for he was one of those who find the heat and animation of a public room stimulating rather than enervating, and he made every effort to impart them to her. Pen had not been so completely discouraged by Lord Marlowe that Frank did not constitute a sufficient restorative and soon she was quite content, with the genuine pleasure of having a partner she liked; though his style of dancing would better be called enthusiastic than elegant.
She became abstracted when she saw that Lord Marlowe was watching her, and Frank following her eyes felt some uneasiness. He was rather smitten with Pen and felt a very definite enmity towards the viscount.
“Miss Harrington,” he said when they had gone down the dance, “it is my duty to advise you that you must look at your present partner in a ballroom. Otherwise people will say that you are pining for your previous one. They may even go so far as to say that you are in love with him.”
“Oh!” said Pen in consternation. “They would not dare. Would they?”
“What is any one to think if you take so little notice of the handsome young man you are dancing with now?”
Pen anxiously threw a glance around her but was unable to discover that any one was showing an interest in them at all. Reassured, she said, “I hope you do not think that I am in love with Lord Marlowe.”
“If you are not, I must applaud your impeccable taste. What have you got on? It is very pretty. You look very nicely tonight.”
“It is not mine. Mrs. Bennet gave it to me; it was one of her daughter’s.”
“Ah, Mrs. Bennet! She is a great philanthropist.”