watched. She looked up, and found Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her from his seat at the end of the table. He looked down at the peach and up again, and smiled at her, and nodded. She smiled back. Then, contentedly, she ate it, together with some of the little macaroons of which she was fond.
Nine o’clock arrived at last.
Chapter Ten
“Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident
you belong to the first circles.”
“Every savage can dance.”
The ball commenced with the cotillion.
This opening dance was arranged by Elizabeth to be particularly for Juliet and Henry and the young guests. Those of the older generation who wished to dance would wait for the partnered dances that followed. Juliet was to take her place at the head of the first set but, when the time came, there was a hitch. All Juliet’s plans had included the image of Lieutenant Gerard Churchill leading her out; she had kept two fingers over the first two dances on the miniature program dangling from her wrist to save them for him. But Gerard was still not present. He had not been one of those invited to the dinner (his parents were not close acquaintances of the Darcys), but Juliet had been watching for him eagerly from the moment the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. Standing with her parents in the hall to welcome their guests, who were arriving in a steady stream, her face grew more and more discontented when Gerard did not appear, and she was close to pouting in her disappointment and chagrin, when her mama summoned her to open the ball. The ballroom was filling rapidly; the band of the Scots Guards, engaged through Colonel Fitzwilliam’s good offices, was playing a medley of tunes, and there was no reason to delay.
“My dear, who is your partner?” asked Elizabeth.
Juliet looked about her with a certain desperation. She, the belle of the Season, the one in whose honor this ball was given, had no partner! A tall young man with a rather solemn face came quickly forward. “Miss Darcy,” he bowed low over her glove. “I should be honored.” It was Colin Knightley, always punctilious in his manners. Juliet laid her hand on his sleeve. The band played a flourish. The dancers took their places in the sets, and the ball was in full swing.
Charlotte Collins led her son and daughter into the ballroom, her back straight and her head held erect as she had taught herself to stand when dealing with Lady Catherine—her chin not high (that would have invited a put- down), and not low (the humble aroused the bully in her ladyship). Outwardly poised and calm, her mind in a turmoil, she looked around her and, finding a seat not far from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and the Bingleys, settled her family. They were a little late arriving; the cotillion had begun. Eliza sat and watched the scene from her mother’s side. Jonathan stood beside them.
The scene was a delight to the eye. In the cotillion, there was a swirl of full skirts; the young girls were dressed in white or pastel shades which accented the black and white of their partners’ evening dress. Ringlets danced against flushed cheeks, and the light from the chandeliers, which had been washed and polished until the cut-glass pendants sparkled like brilliants, made the smooth heads of braids and chignons gleam like satin.
Eliza saw Henry at once. She could not see his partner’s face, but her auburn hair gleamed above her pale green gown. Catriona Fitzwilliam, Eliza recognized. How well he dances, thought Eliza, her feet beginning to tap under her long skirt. And there was Fitz, opposite Amabel. They seemed engrossed in each other—her lovely face raised to his, and his look intent on her. And there was Juliet, exquisitely dressed in yellow, with a tall young man. They were not speaking. Juliet looked cross.
Elizabeth Darcy rose and began to move round the circumference of the ballroom, speaking a few words to each of her friends. She paused at Charlotte’s side. She was wearing a rich ruby satin, with a deep décolletage, and a necklace of glittering diamonds. Her eyes shone with excitement—as if she too were a young girl, thought Eliza. Eliza regretted again that her mother had chosen to wear black, instead of her new blue dress.
“Charlotte, my dear. How well you look, Eliza. A charming gown.”
Charlotte congratulated Elizabeth on the brilliance of the scene.When her mother paused, Eliza felt she might speak. “Has something happened to upset Juliet, Cousin Elizabeth?” she asked.
“She has had a disappointment. A good friend of hers has not yet arrived. I think she hoped to open the ball with him—she felt herself promised for the first two dances.”
“With whom is she dancing now?” asked Charlotte.
“One of the Knightley twins: Colin. He is rather quiet and earnest. As is his brother, Kit. But they are both very pleasant young men. I am so sorry their Mama could not be with us tonight. It is some time since I have seen Mrs. Knightley.” Or her estimable husband, thought Elizabeth. Mr. Knightley was a favorite of hers.
But Juliet should not be making her discontent so plain. A lady does not display her feelings in public. She is getting a little spoiled from too much attention, Elizabeth thought to herself, making a mental note to speak to her later.
The cotillion came to a close. The dancers were clapping their hands and laughing excitedly. The band master announced a waltz. Elizabeth looked around. She introduced Eliza to a young man in uniform, deeply tanned. Small lines at the sides of his eyes showed white until he laughed, when they crinkled into a brown mask. His name was Alexander Wentworth and he was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, recently returned from the West Indies. He made her a gallant bow, and whirled her into the waltz.
Jonathan Collins, leaving his mother deep in conversation with Jane Bingley, wandered round the ballroom, finding much to admire and wonder at. This was by far the grandest house he had visited. He walked casually but in fact had but one purpose. He was seeking Lucy Baluster. A group of dowagers caught his attention. They were seated in a half-moon of gold-painted chairs, gossiping and eyeing the dancers through their lorgnettes. He drew back as he recognized Miss Bingley among them. Her dress of black satin was cut low across a rather thin bosom and filled in with net, and her turban, of black and purple stripes and topped with nodding plumes and knots of lace, reached toward the ceiling. He had already identified Lord and Lady Charles Baluster talking with Mr. Darcy near the entrance to the ballroom. Lucy had not been with them. He looked about him and found, behind and to one side of the dowagers, an alcove partly hidden by a tall arrangement of delphiniums in a jade-green Chinese vase, a stand of ferns and a marble statue of a Grecian goddess. Seated by herself in the alcove, pensively regarding her fan, was Lucy Baluster, becomingly dressed in white silk and lace. He came quietly to her side.
“Miss Baluster, I was hoping to find you. And hoping still more that you should not be engaged for the next dance.”
She looked up at him with eyes suddenly alive, and gave him a quick shy smile, then looked down again at the fan on her lap. He made one or two remarks about the scene before them, but she did not speak, only smiled and looked away. He wondered if he had offended her in some way. As if to occupy her hands, she spread the fan wide and waved it slowly; it was exquisitely painted with a scene of butterflies. In trying to win a response from such a shy creature, Jonathan had already been reminded of his work with flying insects—the need to stay still, then move quietly, so as not to alarm them. He regarded the decoration of her fan as a good omen. She was like a butterfly, he thought. One of the large, beautiful South American specimens.
“What a pretty fan,” said Jonathan now. “May I see it, Miss Baluster?”
Faced with the specific request, Lucy’s strict social training made her respond. She spread the fan wide, and automatically held it up to her face, so that her eyes shone over it. Jonathan blinked.
“Beautiful,” he said, and the warmth in his voice and the look in his eyes at once melted her shyness—and enhanced it. She blushed, but lowered the fan and looked fully at him.
“You know that I am a naturalist.Would it interest you to identify the butterflies on your fan?” he ventured. “They are taken from life, you know. May I tell you their names?”
