Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

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.

“That’s one poor ant will never regain the nest,” said Eliza, smiling. “I say poor, but I must admit I have my doubts about the capacity for feeling of an ant. I see him marching onward, ever onward, round and round the peach, like a toy soldier, quite unmoved by emotion.”

“And my feeling tells me that Latchett has put a stop to his march for ever.Tell me, are you interested in the customs of ants?” The tone was cool, but not unfriendly.

Blank-faced, the butler once more offered the fruit dish to Eliza. She chose a peach, and placed it on her plate before she spoke.

“Jonathan, my brother, teaches me. These are wonderful peaches, sir,” she continued. “So rosy, and so large!”

She had touched on a topic which held Mr. Darcy’s interest; a slight smile touched his lips.

“We are proud of our peach trees at Pemberley,” he said. “My father took great interest in his gardens.”

He described briefly the way the peach trees were espaliered against the warm rosy brick of the enclosing walls of the orchard, and went on to talk of his succession houses, where pineapples and grapes were grown.“They need protection from frosts and wind.”

He finished his coffee and put down his cup. “May I guess the name of my discerning companion?” he asked. “I think you must be Eliza Collins. I heard your brother discussing his work last night. He spoke well, and with enthusiasm. He wishes to travel, I understand, like the young man, Charles Darwin, he mentions so often?”

“I am Eliza Collins. And oh, yes, Jonathan wishes to see everything in the whole wide world. But most of all he loves the things that fly, and creep, and even crawl. He collects caterpillars, spiders... My sisters hate his collections, and Mama has made a rule that he must keep them in a special room. But sometimes they escape...” Eliza’s mouth quirked into a tiny smile.

“And you do not dislike them?”

“No. It is so interesting! To see a caterpillar become a cocoon and then a butterfly! And Jonathan explains so carefully. He takes me with him to the fields and woods, when he is collecting.”

It occurred to Mr. Darcy that it was a long time since he had known his own daughter express interest in anything other than adornment and entertainment of the more flamboyant kind. He worried, sometimes, for Juliet, who seemed to expect the world to accommodate itself to her. Her early prettiness, her winning ways, had made it easy to indulge her. He remembered explaining to his wife-to-be the faults of his own upbringing: taught what was right, but not taught to correct his temper; given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Had they made the same mistakes in raising their beautiful daughter?

Eliza finished peeling her peach, and sliced it carefully. The juice ran onto the plate, and she wiped her fingers on her napkin. The peach was delicious, her pleasure marred only by her anxiety not to dribble.

The butler poured a second cup of coffee for Mr. Darcy. He drank in silence, and Eliza kept her attention on the peach.

“I must go,” said her host, rising and laying down his napkin. “Thank you for your company, Miss Collins. But tell me, do you always rise so early?”

Color rose to Eliza’s cheeks, but her eyes looked at him with candor, and she spoke the truth.

“I am early, Sir, because I am going to ride with Henry,” she said. “I long to explore the Park.” Would he disapprove? Would he forbid them?

As she spoke the door opened, and Henry himself came into the room. He looked somewhat startled to see Eliza with his father.

“Good morning, Henry,” said Mr. Darcy. He turned and bowed to Eliza. “A pleasure, Miss Collins,” he said. “Henry is a fortunate young man. Enjoy your ride.”

The butler moved to open the door and Mr. Darcy left the room.

Juliet had promised to send her maid to help Eliza dress, but Eliza was not surprised when Agnes did not appear. She was somewhat dismayed, however, when, by seven o’clock, her mother also had failed to appear. Dinner was at eight. A quiet knock at her door as she struggled to fasten her bodice brought her eagerly forward, but the little maid who waited outside was nothing like Juliet’s purse-mouthed Agnes. Instead, this small damsel dropped a curtsey and handed Eliza a bouquet of violets, “With Mr. ’enry’s compliments, Miss. And Mr. Latchett said as if you thought as ’ow you might find me useful, I were to stay. I’m Becky, Miss.”

Eliza buried her nose in the cool petals, inhaling their sweetness. Then she smiled at Becky. “Oh, please, could you fasten my dress? The hooks are so small and I can’t quite manage myself.”

Eliza’s dress (quite the prettiest she had ever had) was white broiderie anglais, with a very full skirt and a low-cut neckline (which had not been displayed before Mr. Collins). Her small waist was bound with a wide sash of violet-blue satin. The violets toned beautifully with the sash, but Eliza did not know how to fasten them. And her hair? How was she to dress her hair?

She was delighted when after a quick knock, her mother’s voice at last came through the door. “Eliza, dear, it’s Mama.”

Charlotte came in quickly and set about her daughter’s finishing touches. Her soft curls were brushed satin-smooth, then curled round Charlotte’s quick fingers.They were piled back and high, leaving one or two to fall around her face, which, usually pale, was flushed with excitement. A matching violet-blue satin ribbon bound the curls into place and was fastened with a pearl pin.

“Now your necklet, Eliza—and where are your long gloves?” Becky came quickly forward with the gloves, her eyes big with shared enjoyment.

“And my violets, Mama? Can I wear them? Henry sent them—oh, mother!”

“We will pin them just inside your bodice. There, that’s quite perfect. See, my dear. You look a picture.”

Eliza saw reflected in the long cheval mirror a small starry-eyed figure in crisp white, with touches of violet, her head topped with light-brown curls that shone like copper. She took a deep breath. But then she was distracted by the figure of her mother, dressed in black silk, standing behind her.

“Mama? I thought you were going to wear your new blue? You look so nice in blue.”

Mr. Collins disapproved of color for married or older women. Charlotte’s dresses ranged from pale gray to black, with an occasional mauve or pale blue dimity for morning wear.With the ball in mind she had begged his indulgence and ordered a dark blue gown that gave warmth to her face and gray eyes. But she was wearing black.