“Why, yes,” said Lucy, intrigued.
Jonathan leaned closer to her. “These are swallowtails, aren’t they beautiful? And these are peacocks.Over here you have a red admiral, and three clouded blues,” said Jonathan. “The small ones are tortoiseshells, and these are painted ladies. Is that not a charming name? They are very well drawn, quite true to life.”
“The design is taken from a panel by Angelica Kauffman,” said Lucy. She spoke more clearly. She looked at her fan with new interest. “How much you know! It is wonderful that you can tell me all their names! My mother gave me the fan specially for this dance. I have not been to many balls,” she confided shyly. “You see, I am not yet out—I haven’t been presented. Next year, mother says. Little informal dances like the one last night are different. And this dance is for Juliet and Henry, so mother approved. But the noise and the crowd! And all the new guests—I don’t know half of them. And people telling me all the time what to do—and what not to do...”
“Miss Bingley?” whispered Jonathan. Lucy gave him a quick glance, and laughed.
I wonder what Miss Bingley has said to her about me, thought Jonathan. A prohibition, so I imagine. The Honorable Lucy Baluster should not condescend to a mere Jonathan Collins. The band struck up again, and his ear was caught by the new dance just starting, a polka.
“Do you like the polka? If you are not engaged, may I have the honor of this dance?” asked Jonathan.
Lucy rose, shutting her fan, and took the arm he offered her. As they moved onto the floor, a strident voice behind them called “Lucy! Lucy, dear!” Jonathan moved quickly. “Don’t look back,” he warned, and Lucy laughed again. Soon they were twirling round the floor, at first a little stiffly. But it was hard to be stiff when dancing the polka. The exuberance of the music caught Lucy up in its excitement. She relaxed in Jonathan’s arms, her eyes wide with the joy of the dance. Jonathan looked at her and held his breath. He thought she was the loveliest girl he had ever seen.
As soon as his duty dances were over, Henry Darcy sought out Eliza. They had not danced a partnered dance together previously, and found, with exquisite surprise, that their steps matched exactly. Dancing with Eliza was like dancing with thistledown, thought Henry. Poetic phrases formed in his mind. A sonnet, he thought. I won’t “compare her to a summer’s day”—she is like a spring morning, a snowdrop, a dewdrop on a petal. He remembered a poem of Lord Byron’s, and began to recite, his mouth close to her ear:
“
As the dance ended, they came to rest next to Catriona Fitzwilliam, who turned to smile at Henry before allowing her partner to lead her off the floor.
“Who is that?” asked Eliza. “The man partnering Miss Fitzwilliam?” He had glanced at her briefly and then away, his rather narrow but very keen eyes turning elsewhere almost at once, dismissing her, as if assured of her unimportance. He was a man perhaps in his thirties, older than most of the young Darcys’ friends, his hair glinted with reddish highlights, and those narrow eyes were greenish-gray. A foxy man, thought Eliza. Her mind turned readily to natural history. “That’s Walter William Elliot. His father’s Sir William Elliot, of Kellynch Hall. I wonder mother asked him; but Juliet saw something of him in town, I believe.” Henry found Eliza a seat near her mother. He began to name other young people passing near them.
Walter William Elliot parted reluctantly from his vivacious and striking partner, but Catriona was claimed at once by the next man on her program. He moved to a quiet corner of the room and looked around him, savoring the moment. This was his first invitation to Pemberley, and he was impressed—impressed with the size of the Park, the excellence of the landscaping, the size of the house, the richness of the furnishings. Kellynch Hall, in comparison, was a gentleman’s mansion; Pemberley was a nobleman’s seat. He had taken advantage of his late arrival to explore the ground floor, the rooms set aside for sitting out (always useful to know), the library where cards were the order of the day, and the conservatory. Like a soldier, he always tried to be aware of the lay of the land. He approved of everything he saw very much, and he wanted to be part of it.
Walter’s early years had been spent (with his stepsisters, the children of his mother’s earlier marriage), in rented houses in London in neighborhoods that became increasingly select, as his parents moved away from the somewhat rackety style of their early association. They married (he was happy to know) before his birth, thus ensuring his legitimacy. In fact, it was the former Penelope Clay’s pregnancy that had convinced William Elliot they should marry. He had found, somewhat to his surprise, that he enjoyed the idea of founding a dynasty, his line, separate and distinct from that of the then-Sir Walter. Penelope, ever adaptable, had toned down her wardrobe and begun to court acquaintances who could further their social ambitions. Money was no problem; William grew steadily richer from investments overseas. First, they became respectable, and then socially desirable; assured, sophisticated, and smooth-spoken, they began to be accepted into well-bred circles. William Elliot inherited Kellynch Hall when his son was ten. Walter had enjoyed becoming the young master at Kellynch; he looked forward to the time he would inherit the Hall. But social climbing was in his blood. He knew he was regarded with a wary eye by matchmaking mothers of rank. His mother’s reputation was not forgotten, only glossed over politely.
Pemberley was in a different league from Kellynch. He wanted very badly to be accepted by the Darcys. As the heir to Kellynch he had a certain standing, but his father, Sir William, now in his sixties, was a man of moderation, cautious, calculating. Not for him the extravagances and debts that had plagued the previous Sir Walter. Sir William’s health was excellent; his tastes controlled. He should likely see a hale old age.
Walter was closer to his mother; they were alike in many ways, though physically, except for his fox-colored hair, he resembled his father. But he knew her well and saw her clearly: her insecurities, her need for reassurance, for flattery. He knew she had a taste for show, which his father kept her from indulging too far. William Elliot held his wife on a close rein, remembering all too well his predecessor’s downfall. Lady Elliot greatly enjoyed being Her Ladyship. She loved Kellynch Hall, and did not tire of swanning through its elegant rooms. The death of Lady Russell, that staunch friend of the family of the late Sir Walter, had brought a younger, livelier family to the neighborhood. Their own fortune having been founded in trade, they had been only too delighted to dine at Kellynch, and hastened to return such hospitality. Other County families had followed their lead, time having dulled their memories of Lady Elliot’s doubtful background. She was content. Given her yearly trips to London or Bath in the season, and an elegant sufficiency of gowns, she did not rock the marriage boat.
Her older children, born of her marriage to Mr. Clay, were both married respectably. Walter seldom saw them. His mother was fonder of him, he knew, the child of her great success, than of them. They carried memories of her early unsuccessful marriage, of managing on too little money while dealing with a husband who had a taste for gambling and was too fond of wine. And, after his death, of the confinement of the years back in her father’s house, seeking a way of escape, making herself agreeable to Sir Walter and humoring Elizabeth Elliot. While Walter was still a boy, after they moved to Kellynch, Penelope loved to dress up for him. When William was away on one of his frequent business trips to London, she would choose a ball gown, adorn herself with such jewels as she had coaxed from his father over the years, and teach her son to dance along the picture gallery. Walter was pleased now with his own agility; he danced very well, and he spared a kind thought for his Mama. His grace on the ballroom floor was one of the reasons for his success. His father was made of tougher mettle, but his parents dealt well together, he thought, and he was fond of them both. But Walter William Elliot was ambitious and quite as calculating as Sir William, and he had no mind to marry beneath him. Pemberley pleased him exceedingly. His mind lingered on Juliet Darcy. A formal courtship would not be permitted, but there were other ways.
A quizzical smile on his rather thin lips, he prowled the ballroom.
Chapter Eleven
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little
now and then.”
Their preference of each other was plain enough to make her
a little uneasy...
