Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

“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...”

“Miss Bingley?” whispered Jonathan. Lucy gave him a quick glance, and laughed.

I wonder what Miss Bingley has said to her about me, thought Jonathan. A prohibition, so I imagine. The Honorable Lucy Baluster should not condescend to a mere Jonathan Collins. The band struck up again, and his ear was caught by the new dance just starting, a polka.

“Do you like the polka? If you are not engaged, may I have the honor of this dance?” asked Jonathan.

Lucy rose, shutting her fan, and took the arm he offered her. As they moved onto the floor, a strident voice behind them called “Lucy! Lucy, dear!” Jonathan moved quickly. “Don’t look back,” he warned, and Lucy laughed again. Soon they were twirling round the floor, at first a little stiffly. But it was hard to be stiff when dancing the polka. The exuberance of the music caught Lucy up in its excitement. She relaxed in Jonathan’s arms, her eyes wide with the joy of the dance. Jonathan looked at her and held his breath. He thought she was the loveliest girl he had ever seen.

As soon as his duty dances were over, Henry Darcy sought out Eliza. They had not danced a partnered dance together previously, and found, with exquisite surprise, that their steps matched exactly. Dancing with Eliza was like dancing with thistledown, thought Henry. Poetic phrases formed in his mind. A sonnet, he thought. I won’t “compare her to a summer’s day”—she is like a spring morning, a snowdrop, a dewdrop on a petal. He remembered a poem of Lord Byron’s, and began to recite, his mouth close to her ear:

“There be none of Beauty’s daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me.”

As the dance ended, they came to rest next to Catriona Fitzwilliam, who turned to smile at Henry before allowing her partner to lead her off the floor.

“Who is that?” asked Eliza. “The man partnering Miss Fitzwilliam?” He had glanced at her briefly and then away, his rather narrow but very keen eyes turning elsewhere almost at once, dismissing her, as if assured of her unimportance. He was a man perhaps in his thirties, older than most of the young Darcys’ friends, his hair glinted with reddish highlights, and those narrow eyes were greenish-gray. A foxy man, thought Eliza. Her mind turned readily to natural history. “That’s Walter William Elliot. His father’s Sir William Elliot, of Kellynch Hall. I wonder mother asked him; but Juliet saw something of him in town, I believe.” Henry found Eliza a seat near her mother. He began to name other young people passing near them.

Walter William Elliot parted reluctantly from his vivacious and striking partner, but Catriona was claimed at once by the next man on her program. He moved to a quiet corner of the room and looked around him, savoring the moment. This was his first invitation to Pemberley, and he was impressed—impressed with the size of the Park, the excellence of the landscaping, the size of the house, the richness of the furnishings. Kellynch Hall, in comparison, was a gentleman’s mansion; Pemberley was a nobleman’s seat. He had taken advantage of his late arrival to explore the ground floor, the rooms set aside for sitting out (always useful to know), the library where cards were the order of the day, and the conservatory. Like a soldier, he always tried to be aware of the lay of the land. He approved of everything he saw very much, and he wanted to be part of it.

Walter’s early years had been spent (with his stepsisters, the children of his mother’s earlier marriage), in rented houses in London in neighborhoods that became increasingly select, as his parents moved away from the somewhat rackety style of their early association. They married (he was happy to know) before his birth, thus ensuring his legitimacy. In fact, it was the former Penelope Clay’s pregnancy that had convinced William Elliot they should marry. He had found, somewhat to his surprise, that he enjoyed the idea of founding a dynasty, his line, separate and distinct from that of the then-Sir Walter. Penelope, ever adaptable, had toned down her wardrobe and begun to court acquaintances who could further their social ambitions. Money was no problem; William grew steadily richer from investments overseas. First, they became respectable, and then socially desirable; assured, sophisticated, and smooth-spoken, they began to be accepted into well-bred circles. William Elliot inherited Kellynch Hall when his son was ten. Walter had enjoyed becoming the young master at Kellynch; he looked forward to the time he would inherit the Hall. But social climbing was in his blood. He knew he was regarded with a wary eye by matchmaking mothers of rank. His mother’s reputation was not forgotten, only glossed over politely.

Pemberley was in a different league from Kellynch. He wanted very badly to be accepted by the Darcys. As the heir to Kellynch he had a certain standing, but his father, Sir William, now in his sixties, was a man of moderation, cautious, calculating. Not for him the extravagances and debts that had plagued the previous Sir Walter. Sir William’s health was excellent; his tastes controlled. He should likely see a hale old age.

Walter was closer to his mother; they were alike in many ways, though physically, except for his fox-colored hair, he resembled his father. But he knew her well and saw her clearly: her insecurities, her need for reassurance, for flattery. He knew she had a taste for show, which his father kept her from indulging too far. William Elliot held his wife on a close rein, remembering all too well his predecessor’s downfall. Lady Elliot greatly enjoyed being Her Ladyship. She loved Kellynch Hall, and did not tire of swanning through its elegant rooms. The death of Lady Russell, that staunch friend of the family of the late Sir Walter, had brought a younger, livelier family to the neighborhood. Their own fortune having been founded in trade, they had been only too delighted to dine at Kellynch, and hastened to return such hospitality. Other County families had followed their lead, time having dulled their memories of Lady Elliot’s doubtful background. She was content. Given her yearly trips to London or Bath in the season, and an elegant sufficiency of gowns, she did not rock the marriage boat.

Her older children, born of her marriage to Mr. Clay, were both married respectably. Walter seldom saw them. His mother was fonder of him, he knew, the child of her great success, than of them. They carried memories of her early unsuccessful marriage, of managing on too little money while dealing with a husband who had a taste for gambling and was too fond of wine. And, after his death, of the confinement of the years back in her father’s house, seeking a way of escape, making herself agreeable to Sir Walter and humoring Elizabeth Elliot. While Walter was still a boy, after they moved to Kellynch, Penelope loved to dress up for him. When William was away on one of his frequent business trips to London, she would choose a ball gown, adorn herself with such jewels as she had coaxed from his father over the years, and teach her son to dance along the picture gallery. Walter was pleased now with his own agility; he danced very well, and he spared a kind thought for his Mama. His grace on the ballroom floor was one of the reasons for his success. His father was made of tougher mettle, but his parents dealt well together, he thought, and he was fond of them both. But Walter William Elliot was ambitious and quite as calculating as Sir William, and he had no mind to marry beneath him. Pemberley pleased him exceedingly. His mind lingered on Juliet Darcy. A formal courtship would not be permitted, but there were other ways.

A quizzical smile on his rather thin lips, he prowled the ballroom.

At about eleven o’clock, there was a bustle at the entrance to the ballroom as some latecomers entered, with a certain amount of fuss and attention-drawing conversation. A young woman was making loud-voiced remarks on the size of the room. Many of the guests turned to see who could be attracting attention in this vulgar way. Juliet, dancing now with Alexander Wentworth, an old friend, lively and charming like his father, was smiling and chatting with the radiance expected of the belle of the ball. As the dance came to an end, she too turned to see who was entering the ballroom so late. She saw a young woman, with shining blonde hair piled high and ornamented with plumes, dressed in a sky-blue dress in the height of fashion. The young woman moved with considerable self-assurance farther into the room, and her escort became visible. He was a tall young man in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Tenth Hussars; his scarlet coat, ornamented with lavish gold braid, hung from his shoulder. Juliet’s cheeks paled. She did not recognize the young woman, but the man was Gerard Churchill.

Mr. Darcy had long since retired to the card room. Mrs. Darcy moved towards her new guests, and Juliet went quietly to her side.

“Mr. Churchill?” said Elizabeth. “Won’t you introduce me to..?”

Gerard bowed gracefully. “With pleasure, Mrs. Darcy, and with my deep apologies for our late arrival. May I present my betrothed, Miss Ferrars? Mrs. Darcy, Miss Selina Ferrars.”

Ferrars. Elizabeth noted the pretty but somewhat sharp face, the arrogant tilt of the head with its massed blonde curls, the over-elaborate, over-bright blue satin dress, and the costly sapphire and diamond necklace adorning the slim throat. Quite unsuitable at her age, thought Elizabeth. Her socially trained brain was running through its index. She knew Mr. Edward Ferrars and his quiet wife, Elinor, very slightly. They had quite a large family, she understood, but only a clergyman’s income. Nell Ferrars was a guest that evening. Hadn’t there been some family scandal? The younger brother, Robert Ferrars, had been left the entire family fortune and had run off with his brother’s fiancée? This must be the daughter of that somewhat disreputable marriage, presumably extremely wealthy, hence the necklace.