Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

“Too much, Mrs. Collins? How so?”

“Mrs. Darcy tells me that Fitzwilliam is wild to marry his cousin, Amabel. That seems a certainty. Then Henry and Lucy—if they have indeed ever thought of such a thing—again cousins?”

“But the Bingleys and the Balusters are not related!”

“That is hardly the point, Miss Bingley.”

“Then what is the point, Mrs. Collins?”

“The health of the Darcy family tree, Miss Bingley.”

“Your family seems to have a strong interest in scientific theory, if that is what it can be called, Mrs. Collins. I find it distasteful in the extreme, and hardly a suitable study for females. Not a subject for the dinner table,” said Miss Bingley, with an angry titter. “Unseemly, to say the least. The dear Queen must be our model in such things. But perhaps you have a more personal interest at stake? Do not imagine that the family will encourage your ambitions.”

And she rose and swept away, with an angry rustle of taffeta underskirts and jet bead trimming.

She found a seat close to Elizabeth Darcy and Georgiana Baluster and sat in irritated silence for a few moments, watching as a new dance began. She jerked at the jet beads trimming her sleeves, and played with her bracelets. Catriona Fitzwilliam had claimed Henry, she noticed with approval; Lucy now danced with Fitz Darcy. At least there should be no waltzes that evening, Miss Bingley decided, if she could have her way. No immodest close partnerings. Her hands were never still.

“Caroline,” said Georgiana at that moment. “I wish you might not be forever persuading Lucy into thinking herself delicate. She is no such thing. Those of us who have seen her romping with her brothers, playing at cavalry charges or Knights of the Round Table, know that at times she might well be taken for a hoyden! She is only just out and is still somewhat overawed by large gatherings, but that is just a little natural shyness. Her quietness has nothing to do with her health.

“She tells me she finds Eliza Collins a very pleasant companion. They were together some hours this afternoon—they discovered a litter of puppies in the kennels, and some tabby kittens in the stable yard. Lucy enjoyed herself very much. I am always pleased when Lucy finds a new friend.”

“Do you really think that a desirable friendship, dear Lady Charles? I was dismayed to see Miss Collins make such a dead set at Lucy—so obviously thinking it would be to her advantage to ingratiate herself. I have no doubt her mama encouraged her to do so. I believe Mrs. Collins was once a friend of yours, Mrs. Darcy? A respectable family, no doubt—though her father was in trade, as I remember? But Mr. Collins, who is he? A minor clergyman, living on the bounty of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, hanging on the Darcy family coattails.” Miss Bingley remembered belatedly that Mr. Collins was a distant connection of Mrs. Darcy. She coughed and touched her lips with her lace handkerchief.

“But Miss Collins hardly shines in the company of our young people,” Miss Bingley went on. “Dear Juliet. And Amabel. Quite beautiful! And Catriona so remarkably handsome. And of course dearest Lucy. I must confess I find Eliza Collins sadly plain. Her face is too thin, her complexion has no brilliancy, and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way, and as for her eyes, they have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all.” Miss Bingley paused at the end of this speech, visited suddenly by a strong sense of déjà vu. Where had she heard those words before? Had she perhaps said them herself on another occasion? She dismissed the idea from her thoughts. Ridiculous.

“Indeed?” said Elizabeth coldly. She noticed Henry’s sober face. Catriona Fitzwilliam, sparkle as she may, did not seem to be amusing him. Eliza was partnered by her brother. She watched them dancing down the center of the set, Eliza smiling, her feet light, her simple blue dress floating round her. Jonathan too looked happy; he seemed to be teasing his sister. He whispered something in her ear and she laughed up at him. The eyes Miss Bingley had just finished criticizing danced with mischief. Eliza’s little pointed face was alive with enjoyment. ‘How can anyone call her plain?’ Elizabeth thought. The pair were obviously well accustomed to dancing together; they showed no disinclination. Juliet would consider it unfashionable to dance with her brother, thought Elizabeth. She might well be petulant. She watched Eliza and Jonathan with pleasure. The young Collinses were a pleasant pair. The situation was not one to which they were accustomed, but their manners were simple and natural. Despite her initial prejudice, she was coming to like both Jonathan and Eliza.

The final figure was performed and the set broke up, the dancers seeking refreshment. Lemonade was served, and the tea tray was brought in. Someone opened a window, and there was an outcry by Miss Bingley:

“Most unwise! So easy to catch cold. Lucy not strong. Overheating followed by a chill breeze—just a step to the sickbed! Consumption, always possible in a young girl, followed by decline. Dear Mrs. Darcy, this must not be, the young are so heedless.”

She was disregarded. Through the open window came a wave of warm, moist, scented air. The rain had ceased, and those peering out could see that the clouds were parting. The full moon took occasional glances at the earth through the gaps in the clouds.

Juliet’s mood improved with a sight of the moon. She stood at the window, playing with the ribbons on her sleeves. “Shall we have some music? Lucy, won’t you play for us?”

Lucy glanced in some dismay at her mother, a notable pianist who was also her teacher. But her mother was nodding reassurance. “A simple tune, my dear? One of the old songs?”

Miss Douglass had long abandoned the piano stool for the tea tray. Lucy sat down and removed her gloves. She played a minor scale or two, then began an old tune that was one of her favorites, “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.” Jonathan Collins exchanged a glance with Eliza. They stood up and walked to the piano. As the melody repeated, they began to sing. Jonathan was a tenor, Eliza a soprano; Ben Jonson’s immortal words rang out clear and true.

“Drink to me only with thine eyes

And I will pledge with mine.

Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.”

Across the room, Henry Darcy, listening, raised his lemonade glass to Eliza. The young people crowded round the piano. Lucy, always shy of singing alone, was encouraged to add her own sweet voice in a descant. Then the others joined in. At the end of the verse Jonathan held up his hand. “Now you must take the melody,” he said, smiling at Lucy, and she began the second verse, with the others taking the second part.

Everyone applauded. An encore was enthusiastically requested, and Jonathan and Lucy sang a duet. “Early One Morning” was followed by “The Lass with the Delicate Air.” Eliza sang “On Richmond Hill There Stands a Maiden,” and everyone joined in the chorus of “Oh no, John, no John, no John, no!” Laughter swallowed the tune. Then Miss Bingley interfered, fearing lest Lucy strain her voice, and Lucy was regretfully rising from the piano stool when Jonathan started one last song, à capella: “I Did but See Her Passing By.” He looked straight at Lucy, who sat down abruptly, in a state of pleasing confusion. She did not play, and Jonathan Collins sang directly to her:

“There is a lady, sweet and kind.

Did never face so please my mind.

I did but see her passing by—

And yet I love her till I die.”

“Charming,” said Elizabeth to Charlotte. “How well he sings. I am impressed with his many abilities.”

Miss Bingley snorted. She had the headache. The dancing had been too boisterous, the music too loud. The young Collinses were making a vulgar display of themselves. She longed to be lying on her bed with her nightly dose of laudanum, her great comfort, which brought her sleep and the wild romantic dreams which helped to compensate her for her sadly barren life.

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.