At about eleven o’clock, there was a bustle at the entrance to the ballroom as some latecomers entered, with a certain amount of fuss and attention-drawing conversation. A young woman was making loud-voiced remarks on the size of the room. Many of the guests turned to see who could be attracting attention in this vulgar way. Juliet, dancing now with Alexander Wentworth, an old friend, lively and charming like his father, was smiling and chatting with the radiance expected of the belle of the ball. As the dance came to an end, she too turned to see who was entering the ballroom so late. She saw a young woman, with shining blonde hair piled high and ornamented with plumes, dressed in a sky-blue dress in the height of fashion. The young woman moved with considerable self-assurance farther into the room, and her escort became visible. He was a tall young man in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Tenth Hussars; his scarlet coat, ornamented with lavish gold braid, hung from his shoulder. Juliet’s cheeks paled. She did not recognize the young woman, but the man was Gerard Churchill.
Mr. Darcy had long since retired to the card room. Mrs. Darcy moved towards her new guests, and Juliet went quietly to her side.
“Mr. Churchill?” said Elizabeth. “Won’t you introduce me to..?”
Gerard bowed gracefully. “With pleasure, Mrs. Darcy, and with my deep apologies for our late arrival. May I present my betrothed, Miss Ferrars? Mrs. Darcy, Miss Selina Ferrars.”
Ferrars. Elizabeth noted the pretty but somewhat sharp face, the arrogant tilt of the head with its massed blonde curls, the over-elaborate, over-bright blue satin dress, and the costly sapphire and diamond necklace adorning the slim throat. Quite unsuitable at her age, thought Elizabeth. Her socially trained brain was running through its index. She knew Mr. Edward Ferrars and his quiet wife, Elinor, very slightly. They had quite a large family, she understood, but only a clergyman’s income. Nell Ferrars was a guest that evening. Hadn’t there been some family scandal? The younger brother, Robert Ferrars, had been left the entire family fortune and had run off with his brother’s fiancée? This must be the daughter of that somewhat disreputable marriage, presumably extremely wealthy, hence the necklace.
“Delighted,” said Elizabeth formally. Oh dear, she thought, catching sight of her daughter’s face. Poor Juliet. Of course! What a tiresome young man Gerard is!
The music was starting again; it was the supper dance. Gerard led Selina Ferrars onto the floor. Juliet stood by her mother, her face now flushed with mortification. Gerard had smiled at her, his own special crinkly smile, the smile he reserved for her—and then walked past her to dance with Selina. She felt as if an icicle had entered her heart.
“Do you wish to dance, Miss Darcy? May I..?” said a quiet voice in her ear. She looked up, startled. The man by her side was not handsome and of only medium height, but his clothes were elegant and his address considerable.
“Mr. Elliot,” said Juliet, as he bowed. How could he expect her to dance? How could she even move? She met Walter Elliot’s experienced gaze and her eyes fell. Could he possibly know what had just happened to her? That her heart was broken and her life ended? Moving automatically, under the spell of those greenish eyes, she gave him her hand, and he pressed it slightly as he swung her into the dance. It was a polka-mazurka.
“I have stolen you away,” he said. “I arrived late and have not the good fortune to be on your program.”
The dance was promised to Charlie Musgrove, Fitz Darcy’s great friend. A moment before, Juliet had been fighting the desire to scream, or burst into tears and rush from the room. But she managed a laugh. It was true; Mr. Musgrove would be so provoked, and this was diverting. The icicle began to melt, and she was able to move freely and even talk. She began to feel a little daring, even a little fast.
“The polka comes to us from the Continent, from Germany, Miss Darcy, where legends have sprung up about the dance. To dance the polka, it is said, men and women must have hearts that beat high and strong. In fact, it is said that by the way you dance the polka, one can tell how you will love!” Mr. Elliot’s voice was low and insinuating. Whatever he said seemed to be somehow secret, for her ears only.
Juliet blushed deeply. She looked up, her face questioning, her eyes a little shocked. Mr. Elliot smiled at her, his eyes quizzing her a little, and began at once to talk of fashionable London, amusing tales of people she had met, very slightly scandalous. Juliet began to laugh. Her cheeks were still flushed, but she had regained her poise; her back was straight and her head high. Juliet’s sophistication was only skin deep; her ventures into society had been well chaperoned. Her color came now from the slightly risqué quality of Mr. Elliot’s conversation and her consciousness of his admiring looks and the nearness of his form as he held her close to him and reversed in the polka. He danced superbly. He was a different generation from her brothers and her usual escorts. His manner seemed a challenge she must rise to. Her heart was still broken, but her breath came quickly and the lace on her yellow silk bodice fluttered.
Supper was announced. Juliet was glad to have such a notable partner as she moved with the dancers into the rooms set aside for this purpose. She noticed Catriona’s quick glance at him, and then at her. Catriona Fitzwilliam was two years her senior, and had numerous beaux in Town. Catriona sat down next to Amabel Bingley, and Juliet moved automatically in that direction, but her arm was firmly held and she somehow found herself seated in a quiet corner, cut off from her friends.
The supper was lavish and magnificently displayed. A whole peacock made the centerpiece, its tail in full display, and around it there were ducks in aspic and cold roast chickens on silver platters, a suckling pig with a crab-apple in its mouth, lobster patties, glazed veal pies, mushrooms stuffed with shrimp and cream, tureens of white soup, asparagus, pineapples and grapes from the conservatory, trifles, sorbets, and small iced cakes of every description. Champagne flowed; there was fruit cup for the ladies to drink.
There were two long tables, with small round tables set about them.When most people were seated, there came an unexpected interruption. Fitz Darcy stood up, his champagne glass raised.
“I want all my friends to join with me in celebrating a great occasion. Amabel has consented to be my wife!” Everyone rose to drink to the happy couple. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, whose consent had already been obtained, stood smiling in pleasure, and Mr. Bingley made a short, cheerful speech of congratulation. Amabel, radiant in her happiness, looked up at Fitz, and he looked down at her, and their affection was plain for all to see.
Walter Elliot filled a glass for Juliet, who looked shocked. She loved her brother and was fond of Amabel; everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they were betrothed, but she had planned that it should be her own engagement that was announced that night. Emotion and dancing had made her thirsty and she emptied her glass at once. Mr. Elliot refilled it. He rose and filled a plate for her with every delicacy. She nibbled a vol-au-vent and some asparagus, and her companion bent his head close to her ear and talked entertainingly. He was drinking champagne, while she was drinking fruit cup, but sometimes it seemed that her glass was filled from some headier fountain. It was delicious. Golden bubbles filled her mouth and mounted to her brain. Her breath came more quickly and her laugh was more frequent. When she looked up, his eyes were on her, and this again was intoxicating. She found herself talking of Fitz and Amabel, and then moved naturally to Gerard, and the shock of his engagement. Miss Ferrars’s overloud voice could sometimes be heard above the general hubbub of the room.
“He is a fool. Why think of him?” said her new admirer. “To forfeit you for a woman with the voice of a peacock and the taste of a magpie.They are attracted by shiny objects and gaudy colors, you know. Forget him. He is unworthy of you.”
“If she is a magpie, what am I?” asked Juliet, daringly.
He looked around the room, at the portraits and tapestries and Chinese porcelain, the brilliance of the chandeliers, each with a hundred candles—everything that made up Pemberley. To be part of this, to make Juliet Darcy his wife and have the entrée as of right to Pemberley, would suit him very well, he thought. He smiled down at her.
“You are an oriole, that golden songster, a diamond of the first water. You are like champagne... you intoxicate me.” His voice sank on his last words.
The excitement of the ball, the tension of her anticipation of Gerard, the shock of his betrayal, the heat, the light, the food, the drink—all were at work in Juliet. His voice sent a delicious frisson down her spine, into her fingertips, her earlobes. His fingers brushed the back of her hand.
“I should like to take you away from this noisy overheated crowd, to have you all to myself, for a moonlit drive through the woods and meadows, soothed by the midnight breeze. Will you come with me?”
Juliet trembled. Such a suggestion was far beyond a débutante’s expectations. How daring it would be!
