Juliet Darcy was delighted at the suggestion of a ball for her nineteenth birthday. Her first London season had been a great success; she had received three proposals (though none, it must be admitted, from eligible men), and she was sure—she was almost certain—she had lost her heart: Gerard Churchill, delightful in his scarlet regimentals, his tasselled top boots, paraded through her dreams. To be sure, he had not declared himself. He had laughed and teased and flirted, paid her outrageous compliments, escorted her to Richmond Park, and danced her off her feet. But those tender glances as they went down the dance, that gentle pressure of her hand: such tokens could mean but one thing. All that was needed was the opportunity. Nothing she wanted had so far been denied her; Juliet could not imagine that anything ever would.
Life at Pemberley, after such excitement, was a little flat. There were talks with her mother, and walks with her friends, and pleasant rides with her brother and two young Bingleys. But it was difficult for Juliet to see her cousin Amabel the object of Fitzwilliam’s ardent attentions, while she was left to ride with Anthony Bingley, a mere boy (of much her own age), after the heady days in London when she was the prime object of attention, and her beaux competed in Rotten Row to ride at her side. Her eyes sparkled at the memory.
Juliet, the third-born, favored her mother in looks. Her eyes were her best feature; they were blue and well- opened, set off with long lashes and fine arched brows. Her nose was somewhat high and imperious; her mouth well-shaped but as quick to pout as smile; her complexion glowing. She had her mother’s quick charm and lively tongue, though not, perhaps, her intelligence and wit. When happy, she was delightfully pretty, but she was more than a little spoiled and a natural self-importance had been encouraged by the attention shown her by London Society. She was always conscious of being the daughter of Pemberley; wherever she was, she must be first. Miss Darcy was known to be rich; she was seen to be beautiful. Impecunious young men flocked round her.
The proposed ball was an answer to her dreams. She worked eagerly with her mother and Aunt Jane, making out lists of those to be invited.
“First of all, Amabel and Anthony,” she said, naming two of her Bingley cousins. (Jane Bingley’s eldest daughter, and firstborn, Eleanor Elizabeth, was married to Sir Robert Holyrood, and had recently celebrated the arrival of a small daughter. The Holyroods lived in a quiet Knightsbridge square.) “And of course we must invite dear Aunt Georgie and Cousin Lucy, though she is but seventeen.”
Georgiana Darcy had startled her world by capturing Lord Charles Baluster, third son of the Duke of Broadstairs, a leader in Tory political circles, who remained totally devoted to his quiet lady. Lady Charles carried her position with grace and composure, retiring to her music room when entertaining her husband’s political colleagues became too much for her. She retained her deep love and admiration for her brother’s wife, finding Elizabeth’s wit and irreverence the perfect antidote to the pomposity of politics. She too had three children: a daughter, Lucy, shy and retiring, but with looks that bordered on the beautiful when she was animated, and two much younger boys.
“And then there are the Fitzwilliams,” said Jane. Colonel Fitzwilliam had married the striking Lady Moira Douglass, eldest daughter of the Earl of Moray, of Moray Castle, in the Highlands, and a considerable heiress. Elizabeth could still remember the clamor of the massed bagpipes at the wedding. They had several children, two of whom, Catriona and Torquil, both with the flaming auburn hair of their Highland inheritance, were out in London society.
“While we are speaking of relatives, Jane, do you ever wonder about Lydia’s brood?” asked Elizabeth. In worrying over Juliet, Elizabeth’s thoughts had been invaded by Lydia’s unruly presence; it was not conducive to sleep. “Her eldest son, George, is the same age as Fitz, and there must be at least two others over eighteen. I must admit there are times when I wonder how they have grown up, living as they do in the wilds of Ireland.”
Major Wickham had been killed some five years earlier, while stationed in Dublin, in a drunken brawl following a game of cards. Lydia Wickham, née Bennet, accompanied by her six children, had shortly afterwards moved in with a local squireen, known as The O’Halloran, with whom it seemed she was already well acquainted. (There had indeed been some unpleasant rumors, much better disregarded, that Mr. O’Halloran had been one of the players at the ill-fated card game.) Lydia wrote at irregular intervals to one or another of her sisters. She seemed happy in her new life—she never actually described the circumstances of her marriage, nor gave the date of the wedding—and had produced one more baby, a boy named Dennis Ceiran. She never left Ireland.
“One day we will doubtless find some—or all—of them on our doorsteps. If they have Lydia’s high spirits and Wickham’s good looks and address, they may be quite out of the ordinary way.”
“Indeed yes,” said Jane, with her gentle smile. “They may well be charming. One day we must write to Lydia and invite them all to visit.” She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not now, but on some occasion when we may give them our full attention.”
Elizabeth was not so charitable. “It might be best if that occasion waited until our own children are suitably connected,” she said. “That Wickham charm is not to be trusted.” She noticed that Juliet was showing interest and hastened to change the subject. “But to return to the eligible,” she said “I shall put down the Knightleys. I know Colin is an admirer of yours, Juliet. Both the twins are highly presentable.”
“They’re dull,” said Juliet, shrugging one shoulder disdainfully. “Kit talks about crop rotation and sheep dip. Colin is a little better—he does at least talk about his horse. And he dances quite well. But I believe they would both rather ride with their father round the home farm than enjoy the London Season!”
“Dearest Juliet,” said her mama. “You cannot expect a Knightley to be sprightly. They have other attributes which you may well come to appreciate in time. Certainly they are both very pleasant to look at.”
“And young Emma is still just that. Too young,” said Jane, “as are sister Mary’s children.” Mary Shrubsole’s eldest daughter, Beatrice, had died tragically of scarlet fever some five years before at the age of twelve. Her two younger children, Ernest and Myrtle, were still only eleven and thirteen. Kitty Philpott, after making her home for years with Mary, had, to everyone’s surprise, inherited the Philips’s house in Meryton. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, the merry widows, had died within a few months of each other and, when Mrs. Philips’s will was read, it was found that she had left her house and estate to Kitty, the widow of the next generation.
“But we must have the Churchills,” went on Juliet. Her dress that day was a deep coral pink, and it was only natural that the color should be reflected in her cheeks.
“Mrs. Churchill is sadly delicate, but a very sweet and gentle lady. Perhaps she will not come. But Francis and Ger- … Gerard,” she finished in a hurry. “I am sure they would be happy to be invited.”
She was looking out of the window and did not see her mother raise her eyebrows at her Aunt Jane.
“Now the Brandons, I believe we should ask the Brandons,” said Jane quickly. “I am so fond of Marianne—I wish we met more often—and Dorothea Brandon is growing into quite a beauty, so they say. And if we invite the Brandons, then I think we must ask Nell Ferrars. The family is well connected, although I believe her father—he is a clergyman—is not at all well off. Nell does not go much into society. (I have heard it may be necessary for her to take a post as a governess!) But she and her cousin are always together.
“And the young Tilneys, Priscilla and Frederick. And the Wentworths—Admiral Wentworth married Anne Elliot, you will recall. The young men are called Alexander and Paul. Alexander, the elder, is in the Navy like his father and doing very well, I believe. I must admit to a weakness for the Navy.
“And speaking of the Elliots, perhaps the Elliot heir? I believe he is seen everywhere; he has a most polished manner, though his mother is not at all the thing,” said Jane.
“He dances very well,” murmured Juliet, a smile playing about her mouth. Although Gerard Churchill was her ideal, she could not help being aware of other men, particularly those who seemed to admire her. Colin Knightley followed her constantly with his eyes (was one reminded slightly of a spaniel, or some larger breed? Retriever? Both the twins were tall). But Colin had no conversation, and no one could take the Musgrove boy seriously. Walter William Elliot was a different matter altogether. She had met him at a ball towards the end of the Season. He was somewhat older than her brother’s friends, and not precisely good-looking, with hair that unusual light red, but he had an air of sophistication that intrigued her.When she met his eyes (and he did seem to look at her quite often; nearly every time she glanced his way, his eyes would be on her), she felt as if she had missed a step—or a heartbeat. She shivered pleasurably, remembering.
“Fitz says Walter Elliot is a cit,” said Elizabeth, frowning at her daughter. “But he certainly has address. And the title is an old one. Did you ever meet Elizabeth Elliot, Jane? She married the Earl of Westchester after the death of his first wife, just a year or two ago. She is herself, of course, no longer in the first blush of youth and he—he must be well over seventy. It was one of the wonders of the year,” she went on.
“Of the two, the doubtful Lady Elliot—Sir William’s wife— and the Countess of Westchester, I must confess I prefer the former.Whatever her origins, she is a very pleasant lady, always eager to converse—while the Countess
