behavior in taking it upon herself to seek out Mr. Collins and thrust herself before his eyes, her deliberate extraction (there was no other word) of a proposal from him. Where had the courage come from? At no other time in her young life had she so asserted herself. She had kept her composure in the face of Elizabeth’s huge surprise and dismay, but she had felt her friend’s disapproval strongly. Later, she had learned to deal with the intimacies of marriage, to command her feelings and make her own way, despite Lady Catherine’s attempts at interference and her husband’s toad-eating ways. Her child-bearing years had been difficult; she had badly missed Elizabeth; she had felt the need of a confidant, an understanding friend with whom to talk openly, as she struggled to carry out her household duties after her miscarriages. And then Eliza, so small, so frail at birth, and she herself not strong. But she was determined to rear the tiny child. And the two little boys, such little, little boys, who died—and Mr. Collins, talking with his mouth full, saying they had gone to God and were better out of this sinful world, and then asking for a second helping of roast pork—no, not all life was easy.There had been times of despair, of deep unhappiness. But Eliza had thriven, and Jonathan had grown to be her dear companion. And now here she was.
She sat back, tired but almost content as the long evening came to an end, and she watched the dancers. The consequences of her unconventional acquisition of a husband were there before her: Eliza dancing so happily in Henry Darcy’s arms, and Jonathan, proud and tender, looking down at Lucy Baluster—that was an unexpected happening. And there were Amabel Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy, Catriona Fitzwilliam with dashing Alexander Wentworth, Anthony Bingley with Nell Ferrars, lovely Dorothea Brandon with quiet Kit Knightley. Not all these pairings would come to anything, but it was a pleasure to see how these nice young people came together. Even Juliet, pretty, spoiled Juliet, seemed content in the trustworthy arms of Colin Knightley.
Sitting next to Charlotte, Elizabeth Darcy too watched her children dance round the ballroom, then found her view was blocked. Her husband stood before her.
“My dear,” said Mr. Darcy, extending his hand. “Will you waltz with me?”
Elizabeth held up her arms. They took to the floor, joining the throng, which fell back a little as they were recognized. The shimmering light from the candelabra was reflected on Elizabeth’s elegant cheekbones and the Darcy diamonds at her throat. Gravely and beautifully, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy waltzed round the floor.
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam Darcy to his wife of twenty-five years, and he drew her a little closer.
And Charlotte Collins, widow, watched with pleasure. Some things work out well, she thought. One must accept the consequences. She sighed, and closed her eyes. She was very tired. There was a great deal on her mind, but for the moment she could rest.
Elizabeth Newark is a Londoner by birth, but a Californian by choice. She was educated at The Tiffin Girls School, Kingston-on-Thames (Tiffen). On leaving England in 1954 to work for the British government—and after living in Sarawak, Tanzania, and in Kenya—she immigrated to America in 1964. Her two children, Penelope and Hugh, were born in Nairobi, and it was there that she began to write fiction. She now has seven brilliant American grandchildren.
Under the pen name Betty Dinneen, she wrote and published seven children’s books: adventure stories of children and wild animals, all set in East Africa. Under the name Elizabeth Newark, she has written essays on Jane Austen and Charles Dickens (for the fun of it) and, more recently, poems. She has also written two sequels,
