The Darcys Give a Ball

Chapter Nine Opening Steps

She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest

contemplation...

“At present I will say nothing about it.”

Jane Austen

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.

“It seemed more suitable, dear. And your father would approve.Now, don’t worry about me. Listen, there’s the gong.”

They collected Jonathan, trim in his new evening dress, and then Charlotte led her family down the great staircase to the drawing room where the dinner guests were collecting. There was considerable turmoil in Charlotte Collins’s mind as she entered the beautiful room. Earlier, just as she was opening her door to go to Eliza, a footman had brought her word that a groom had arrived from Longbourn with a letter from her housekeeper. The news it contained was startling. There had been barely time to change her dress, after reading it. Now the letter was tucked safely inside her reticule, but it dominated her thoughts. She longed to go somewhere quietly by herself, to think. But the time was not appropriate. She had made up her mind. At present she would say nothing about it. She had her children to think of. She sought distraction in her surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was the portrait of Elizabeth, by Thomas Lawrence, painted some ten years previously, occupying pride of place over the white marble mantelpiece. Charlotte knew that a more recent portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, accompanied by Mr. Darcy’s pointer, Diogenes, was to be found in the library. It had been painted by Edwin Landseer. Mr. Landseer was not from choice a portrait painter; and had been coaxed into action by the inclusion of the dog.

Charlotte was also aware that a portrait of Jane Bingley, painted recently by Sir Francis Grant, was part of an exhibition of portraits by Winterhalter (the young Queen’s favorite), Lawrence, and Grant presently on show in a gallery in Pall Mall, but Mr. Darcy had not wished Elizabeth’s portrait to be displayed. “He is a little possessive,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “where I am concerned.” Charlotte thought the portrait brought her friend vividly to life. Elizabeth’s head was high, and a smile hovered about her lips as if at any moment she would break into laughter. “Beautiful,” she said to herself. “You are right,” said a quiet voice at her shoulder. Charlotte had not realized she had spoken out loud. She turned quickly and found Mr. Darcy beside her, looking up at the picture with an expression of love and pride that touched her very much. “I am pleased to see you, Mrs. Collins,” he went on. “I had the pleasure of your daughter’s company at breakfast this morning. I congratulate you on her upbringing.”

He moved away, and Charlotte stared after him. Eliza had said nothing of a breakfast meeting; she had been too full of her ride.

Dinner was a grand affair and Henry’s duty kept him with the more important guests. Etiquette demanded that Lord and Lady Charles Baluster had first claim on the Darcys’ attention. Eliza saw Henry sitting with his cousin, the Honorable Lucy Baluster. Henry looked serious.

Oh, dear Henry, thought Eliza, giving way to a sudden warmth of affection. Their morning ride had been wonderful. Such beautiful horses. She had never ridden the equal of the spirited little mare Henry had brought for her. She recalled the smell of new-cut grass, still damp with dew, steaming under the early morning sun, the scent of honeysuckle warm in the hedgerows. They had ranged widely through the Pemberley Park, jumped logs, raced down the rides in the plantation, followed dragonflies that led them on like will-o-the-wisps, and at last stopped and dismounted under the complicated branches of a great oak tree, old as the Darcy heritage. Sitting side by side on a log, they had laughed and talked and laughed again. They played “do you remember,” recalling their first meeting, the cat and the caterpillar; they talked of poetry, which they both loved, and Henry confided his dreams of writing something worthy of publication one day. At last they rose to remount and, as Henry lifted Eliza back into the saddle, he smiled up at her and quoted:

“I met a Lady in the Meads,

Full beautiful, a faery’s child.

Her hair was long, her foot was light... ”

“Oh, Henry,” said Eliza, finishing the stanza: “And are my ‘eyes wild’? Not a suitable quotation.” And she laughed at him and rode away and returned to the house in a golden glow of emotion. Henry seemed to her just the same as he had been at Longbourn, quiet (beside his more boisterous brother), considerate and friendly, and with a look in his eyes when he turned to her that made her recite mentally, with some haste, all the cautions her mother had laid upon her.

The Collinses were seated towards the center of the long dining table, below the Balusters and Fitzwilliams, the Bingleys and Wentworths. Charlotte whispered to Jonathan the names of as many of the guests as she could identify, and he passed the information on to Eliza: that red-faced man with the noisy laugh was Sir Thomas Bertram; the beautiful dark-haired lady in sapphire blue was the wife of Colonel Brandon, who was the quiet man with iron-gray hair seated next to Mrs. Bingley; the man in naval uniform, with his face weathered a deep brown, was Admiral Wentworth.

The meal seemed interminable to Eliza, who was too excited to take much interest in the excellent food. She picked at a slice of chicken breast and a mushroom fritter. Only when dessert was on the table did she reach out her hand quite eagerly to take a peach. She turned it in her hand. Somehow it seemed to restore the feeling of happy acceptance she had felt at breakfast with Mr. Darcy. As she held it, she had an odd prickly feeling of being