Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

“Fitz says Walter Elliot is a cit,” said Elizabeth, frowning at her daughter. “But he certainly has address. And the title is an old one. Did you ever meet Elizabeth Elliot, Jane? She married the Earl of Westchester after the death of his first wife, just a year or two ago. She is herself, of course, no longer in the first blush of youth and he—he must be well over seventy. It was one of the wonders of the year,” she went on.

“Of the two, the doubtful Lady Elliot—Sir William’s wife— and the Countess of Westchester, I must confess I prefer the former.Whatever her origins, she is a very pleasant lady, always eager to converse—while the Countess is so concerned with position that much of her life is taken up in getting in or out of rooms in the correct social order!

“Tom Bertram—he is now Sir Thomas, of course—has two daughters, Claudia and Sophia, who are pretty enough, and I believe the Yates girls, their cousins, were part of your set in town, Juliet? Pamela and Angelica, if I have it right. With our neighbors, that should fill the ballroom! “And now, Jane, we will address the invitation to all members of the Collins family, and we will hope that some of them cannot come.”

“The Collinses? Who are the Collinses?” asked Juliet, idly. “Do I know them?” This ball was, after all, for her, she thought. Her mother and aunt exchanged glances.

“I’m sure you remember, dearest. Mr. Collins inherited Longbourn from your grandpapa. Henry renewed his acquaintance with the family recently on his way home from Oxford. He wishes to return their hospitality by inviting the young people here.”

“Are any of them out? Shall I have met them in Town?”

“They are quiet people, Juliet. I doubt very much if any of the girls have been formally introduced to Society. But they are your second cousins. I hope you will make them welcome.”

“They sound like poor relations,” said Juliet, tossing her head. She remembered now, Henry had made a fuss over a girl he had met returning from Oxford. Collins, that was the name. Juliet did not like talking about other girls, and had discouraged him from rhapsodizing. She dismissed the Collinses from her mind.

On his return to Pemberley from Longbourn, Henry Darcy, Oxford graduate, had tried to analyze his feelings, this sudden overwhelming attraction he felt to Eliza Collins, the odd girl who liked cats and caterpillars, looked at him with a prim mouth and laughing eyes, and encouraged him to talk. He had known her just three days. Her father was pompous and dull, her mother calm and pleasant, her sisters unremarkable. Jonathan, her brother, he liked. The three of them had walked and talked, Henry telling of Oxford, Jonathan of Cambridge, Henry of Keats and Byron and Shelley, and Jonathan of South America and the South Sea Islands, and stag beetles and stick insects, while Eliza danced along beside them and turned over logs and rocks, whereupon she and her brother pored over the skittering inhabitants. It was she who listened and, by some apt question and the deep interest she took in all they had to say, set them off again. She was nothing like Henry’s own sister, or his sister’s friends. She was not self-conscious or coy; she made no attempt to attract. Her voice was clear and musical. In the evenings she and Jonathan sometimes sang duets. But it was her face that caught his eye and held his thoughts. She was small and active, and treated him with a casual friendliness that had changed, he thought and hoped, to something very much warmer before he left. He remembered her shy, wondering gaze at him. Eliza. He let her name sing in his mind. Eliza. A poem showed up in his memory, one his tutor had introduced him to, saying he was becoming too serious in his approach to literature. “Try Sir John Suckling, young Darcy,” Mr. Lydgate had said. “A little robust humor will be just the thing.”

Out upon it! I have loved

Three whole days together;

And am like to love three more,

If it prove fair weather.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

That very face, he thought. Eliza.

The invitation caused a mixture of elation and dismay in the Collins family.

Mr. Collins, who had adapted well to the prim and proper ways that had come into being with the succession to the throne of the young Queen Victoria (he was a great believer in modesty, virtue, and obedience—for women), saw himself as a figure of considerable rectitude and some importance. His many years as a clergyman at Hunsford had endowed him, he considered, with a decided odor of sanctity; his present position as Master of Longbourn, he felt, had added the glossy sheen of landed gentry to his person. And this collected glory was at last being recognized by Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s most aloof relative (he could think of no other reason for the invitation, his first to Pemberley). His triumph in consequence was complete; he was delighted to accept on behalf of them all.

“And I note, Mrs. Collins, the invitation is from Friday to Sunday. An honor indeed. Most obliging, most obliging. Such manners. Such condescension. Of course we shall all go.”

He held the invitation tightly in his hand as if he could not bear to put it down. A sweaty finger mark smudged one edge.

“Indeed, Mr. Collins. This may be a visit of great consequence,” said Charlotte. She did not look at Eliza. Under her calm exterior, she felt great excitement. This was the opening gambit. Pemberley had made the first move.

But Catty and Annie had already accepted an invitation to join the family of Annie’s affianced at Sanditon for the month of August. They were beside themselves with mortification.

When the Collinses’ acceptance was received by Elizabeth Darcy, it seemed that only Jonathan would accompany Eliza and her parents to the ball.

“So that is that,” said Elizabeth, giving the note to Juliet so that she could complete her lists. “Well, we shall see what we shall see.”

But Juliet’s mind was full of pink silk—or should it be white? Or yellow, primrose yellow! She knew how well she looked in yellow, a color trying to many young ladies; few would essay to wear it. Ruffles. Lace. Slippers to match the dress. It did not dawn on her that there was a purpose to the ball other than the celebration of her birthday. (In her way, Juliet was quite as self-absorbed as Mr. Collins.) And Gerard was coming, though Francis could not. All was right with the world.

The ball was to take place on Saturday, August 5th. Carriages began to arrive at midday on the 4th. Only a select few, of course, had been invited to stay from Friday to Sunday at Pemberley—that was for family—and the guest list for dinner on Saturday, immediately preceding the ball, was limited. Those living within comfortable traveling distance would arrive at 9:00 p.m.

The Collinses were among the first to arrive. Charlotte was always punctual. The door was flung wide and the butler and his minions were ushering them inside the main hall when Elizabeth swept down the grand staircase to greet them, with Juliet and Henry close behind. She was surprised to find Charlotte accompanied only by a young man of medium height and a small trim female figure, who must of course be Eliza. Mr. Collins was absent.

“Charlotte!” Elizabeth pressed her cheek against her friend’s. “I am so pleased to see you. I hope I see you well. And this is Eliza? And Jonathan?” Her voice ended on a note of inquiry, even as she took in Eliza’s small pointed face and large gray eyes, dancing in the shadow of her straw bonnet.

Oh dear, she thought. She is a charmer.

“Mr. Collins sends his deepest regrets. He is so sorry but a sudden attack of gout has quite incapacitated him. He dare not travel.”

Mr. Collins suffered periodically from gout, brought on by self-indulgence at the table. He was quite proud of it, considering it a sign of good breeding. But he had been bitterly disappointed that an attack should rob him of his first visit to Pemberley. He struggled out of bed on the morning of departure, but the pain in his foot was such that Charlotte firmly bade him return to his couch and remain there. He had also lately complained of a pain in his arm. She looked at his flushed face and noted his shortness of breath, symptoms that had been growing on him with his increase in girth and decrease in exercise. She dispatched a servant for Mr. Merryweather, the present Meryton apothecary, and made sure that Mrs. Spong, her housekeeper, fully understood her orders. Mr. Collins was to follow Mr. Merryweather’s instructions and was not to rise until Mr. Merryweather gave permission.

“My dear Mr. Collins,” said Charlotte. “I deeply regret the necessity of leaving you at such a time, but I fear we might well antagonize Mr. Darcy if none of us responds to his gracious invitation—the first such invitation.”

Mr. Collins groaned and assented.

“I leave you in the good hands of Mrs. Spong and Mr. Merryweather.

“I have only one consolation to offer you, Mr. Collins,” Charlotte went on. “The new number of Mr. Dickens’s periodical has arrived, containing the serial we find so interesting. I have not had time to peruse it. You must tell me all about it when I return.”

Mr. Collins approved of Charles Dickens’s novels; he had even been known to laugh at Mr. Pickwick’s comical adventures. Mr. Dickens perhaps made too much of the undeserving; Mr. Collins found no fault with workhouses and prisons as such but he was prepared to be compassionate at a distance: London was a good way off. The novel at present being serialized was The Old Curiosity Shop, and “What will happen to Little Nell?” was on everyone’s lips.

Mr. Collins eased himself back on his bank of goose-down pillows. The monogrammed linen cases, freshly changed at Charlotte’s direction that morning, were ironed to icy perfection by the laundry maid. He wiggled luxuriously; his gouty foot was protected by a wicker cage under the bedcovers. A pitcher of lemon-barley water stood within easy reach on the commode at his bedside, together with two fine linen handkerchiefs, and the latest number of the periodical Master Humphrey’s Clock was just visible poking out from under a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons. Everything was comfortable and orderly. Mr. Collins regarded his wife’s pleasant self-controlled face. He felt a sudden unexpected twinge of melancholy at the thought of her departure, not just because of all he would miss at Pemberley, but because he should be deprived of her calming presence. He himself had made numerous journeys alone over the years, leaving her at home, but not since the loss of her last baby son had she been the one to leave. How would he get on? It was of course, he told himself, a wife’s duty to minister to her husband’s well-being, but he had to admit that Charlotte was to be priced above rubies in her attention to his comfort. How lucky he had been in his marriage! (Such a mistake as he might have made! One must be grateful to Fate or, he hastily corrected himself, some Heavenly Intervention.) How Charlotte would stare, he thought, if she should know his thoughts, for he was not one to flatter; women were but feeble vessels, easily corrupted by indulgence. Praise should but rarely be bestowed. But—it came to him now—his children were dutiful and mannerly, his house impeccably run, and his dinners well-cooked and well-served—though without extravagance, always without extravagance. Good management, that was Charlotte’s forte. He had a sudden recollection of the home of his childhood, cold, meanly furnished, though his father was not poor, his blankets worn so thin he was forced to add his top coat—nay, his very jackets—to his bedclothes, the food scanty and poorly prepared by a slatternly underpaid cook-general, the only female presence. Most clearly of all, he remembered his father, unpredictable in his moods, dependable only in his infinite capacity for penny-pinching and petty unkindness. He had feared his father. Despite the warmth of the August morning, he shivered.