Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

Charlotte Collins watched her son and daughter with a proud heart.

Eliza Collins woke early next morning. She was her mother’s daughter, whatever other inheritance she might have, and she had listened to Charlotte and carefully schooled her heart after Henry Darcy had left Longbourn. He was charming, their time together had been delightful, he was everything of which she had dreamed; but three days was not enough for a lasting attachment. So her mother said, and she was right. He must know—or would soon meet—so many beautiful, wealthy girls from the first ranks of Society. She would be foolish to count on constancy, though his last words to her had been “This will not end,” spoken under his breath as he made his bow.

Eliza was not foolish. She tied up her three-day romance with mental ribbons, and put the package away, allowing herself to unwrap just a glimpse now and then in the small hours of the night. But then the invitation had come—the first such invitation ever from Pemberley. And she had seen her mother’s eyes on her as she talked of acceptance, and what they could expect at that Mecca of her father’s dreams. Her mother was so wise, thought Eliza. But then there was Papa. Sorry though she was at his painful attack of gout, she could not help a moment’s thankfulness. The visit promised many obstacles to overcome; one at least was postponed.

She flung her arms wide in the comfort of her bed, which was piled with feather mattresses, so that, lying there in her simple white lawn nightdress with its rows of pin-tucks, she felt like the heroine of a fairy story. She wriggled her toes for sheer joy, then sat up and pulled off her nightcap. Impatient for the day to begin, she slid out of bed and ran barefoot to the window, looking eagerly out. All traces of the storm were gone. The sun was up, and the air was fresh and sweet. Doves cooed on the roof. A green expanse of lawn stretched below her, notable for the complete absence of interruption by daisy or dandelion. Indeed it might be expected that had such an upstart seedling shown its head, it would have wilted directly from feelings of inadequacy. Beneath her window, a cock pheasant paraded across this immaculate lawn, trailing his tail feathers, brave in the knowledge that he was safe from harm for a short while longer; a robin dug for worms. Cream and yellow roses covered the conservatory to her left; the wide borders were filled with lupine and delphinium, lavender, phlox, mignonette and night-scented stocks, and edged with lobelia, pansies and candytuft, which spilled over onto the grass while, round to the right, she could see two peacocks, seven feet high, clipped out of yew. Looking farther afield, she saw that the hill, crowned with trees, from which the coach had descended, was a beautiful sight. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight.

And the crowning glory—she was riding with Henry at eight o’clock.

The previous evening had been difficult at times. Miss Bingley’s dislike was obvious, though Eliza did not understand it. She had been allowed only one dance with Henry. She had longed to talk with him (perhaps about poetry?—it was so remarkable that they both read Wordsworth) but they had only been able to snatch a few moments’ conversation; they were constantly disturbed. Juliet Darcy, too, seemed prepared to resent both her and Jonathan—or at least ignore them. But dances such as this were few for Eliza. Despite those pin pricks, she enjoyed herself. For that matter, there were pin pricks at home. She did not often win her father’s approval, and her two sisters both considered it a duty to depress her. Eliza, fortified by the knowledge of her mother’s love and with Jonathan’s companionship and affection, had learned to deal with pin pricks.

She thought of Jonathan now. As they danced, he had whispered to her of his admiration for Lucy Baluster. He was much taken with her shy charm and big dark eyes. Just for a moment, Eliza had been a little hurt; this was the first time she had seen Jonathan in the throes of admiration for another girl—she had never before had to share his affection. But almost at once she was pleased, and proud that he should confide in her. And she liked Lucy. The time she had spent with her, after they left the conservatory, had been happy. They had not talked a great deal, but Lucy, delighted to display the wonders of Pemberley, where she had often stayed since childhood, to a new and undemanding friend who seemed ready to enjoy everything that came her way, had revealed more about herself than she thought. Lucy had not yet acquired the veneer of sophistication that her cousin Juliet displayed. Her idea of Pemberley’s glories included a tree where a wren nested each spring (“such a dear little nest”); the rap, rap, rap of a woodpecker; deer in the Park, new foals in a meadow beyond the stables; hound puppies tumbling about their placid mother at the kennels. After the stuffy confinement of the afternoon, with its interminable conversations about dress, parties, and beaux, the change had been a joy to Eliza.

But Miss Bingley, in throwing Henry and Lucy together so determinedly, had succeeded in keeping both Eliza and Jonathan at a distance. Jonathan had managed to dance with Lucy twice, however, though they had had little chance for conversation.

Eliza did not want to disturb her mother, and was not quite sure where Jonathan was sleeping. She dressed in her riding habit, her brown curls brushed and tied simply back with a blue ribbon. Then, her hat and her gloves in her hand, she left her room and went quietly down the grand staircase, sliding her hand pleasurably down the highly polished wood, hoping to find a side door into the grounds. All was quiet as she descended, though she knew enough to imagine the ordered chaos in the kitchen and butler’s pantry, as the staff prepared for the ball. But as she reached the hall, a door opened and a man came out, tall and upright, grave of face, not young but very handsome, his dark hair streaked with silver.

It was Mr. Darcy. Eliza turned quite cold. Her mother had talked of Mr. Darcy, of his high position in Society, his pride and aloofness. Mr. Collins, according to Mrs. Collins, had never found favor with Mr. Darcy. And on his marriage to Elizabeth Bennet and the consequent quarrel with Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Collins, as Lady Catherine’s protégé, had been dyed with her colors. It had been many a year before the Darcys visited Rosings. And, Charlotte would go on to say, while she herself had been invited to Pemberley after the death of her last baby son (“Oh, so many years ago, my love”), when her health had been a cause for anxiety, Mr. Collins had not. Eliza knew why her mother had made a point of telling her this history; it would be from Mr. Darcy that strong opposition might come to Eliza’s possible connection with Henry Darcy.

Eliza had been introduced to Mr. Darcy the previous evening at dinner, but she did not expect him to remember her. There had been a number of guests, all of far more importance than the Collinses. They had exchanged no words. But she had looked at him when she could—noting his likeness to Henry, not the close physical likeness of Fitz, the elder son, who matched his father in height and breadth and feature (though Henry too was tall); this was a likeness of expression, of a certain thoughtful glance, a tone of voice, a courteous inclination of the head. Mr. Darcy’s bearing showed him to be proud; but she did not find him repulsive. She thought she might like him—because of that very similarity to Henry.

Now she dropped a curtsey. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, in a small voice.

He bowed to her gravely. “An early riser, like myself,” he said. “May I conduct you to the breakfast parlor?”

Servants came on silent feet through a baize door at the back of the hall. Another door was opened. Eliza found herself in a pleasant room, the table laid and, from the sideboard, sufficient enticing smells to remind her that she had been too excited to eat much dinner the previous night.

She allowed herself to be seated, and chose to try the kedgeree, because she had never tasted it. It was very good, and she ate delicately, while her host was handed a large helping of deviled kidneys. She sat in silence, gradually relaxing, not uncomfortable, aware of everything about her: the grandfather clock, with its slow, mellow tick; the pleasing proportions of the room; the trim parlor maids in their morning pink-striped cotton, with lace on their crisp aprons and caps; the silver coffee service and the dish of fruit (such rosy peaches!) in the center of the table; a dog barking outside, a deep bell-like sound, not far away. But most of all she was aware of the quiet, aloof man sitting opposite her.

Mr. Darcy, who had been somewhat taken aback to find a strange young visitor invading his breakfast privacy, always most carefully preserved, became more and more pleased as he was allowed to eat in silence. Unobtrusively, he took stock of her. This young lady sitting so upright opposite him did not seem awkward or embarrassed; her quiet was a part of herself. He began to approve of her. Noticing the direction of her gaze, he signed to the butler to bring the silver fruit bowl closer, and invited her to partake. She reached for a peach but just then an ant appeared, plainly visible, scurrying over the rough velvet skin of the fruit. Lines appeared on the butler’s face, running from nose to mouth, as he compressed his lips, and he “tsk’d” under his breath, and removed the dish to the sideboard.