is so concerned with position that much of her life is taken up in getting in or out of rooms in the correct social order!
“Tom Bertram—he is now Sir Thomas, of course—has two daughters, Claudia and Sophia, who are pretty enough, and I believe the Yates girls, their cousins, were part of your set in town, Juliet? Pamela and Angelica, if I have it right. With our neighbors, that should fill the ballroom! “And now, Jane, we will address the invitation to all members of the Collins family, and we will hope that some of them cannot come.”
“The Collinses? Who are the Collinses?” asked Juliet, idly. “Do I know them?” This ball was, after all, for her, she thought. Her mother and aunt exchanged glances.
“I’m sure you remember, dearest. Mr. Collins inherited Longbourn from your grandpapa. Henry renewed his acquaintance with the family recently on his way home from Oxford. He wishes to return their hospitality by inviting the young people here.”
“Are any of them out? Shall I have met them in Town?”
“They are quiet people, Juliet. I doubt very much if any of the girls have been formally introduced to Society. But they are your second cousins. I hope you will make them welcome.”
“They sound like poor relations,” said Juliet, tossing her head. She remembered now, Henry had made a fuss over a girl he had met returning from Oxford. Collins, that was the name. Juliet did not like talking about other girls, and had discouraged him from rhapsodizing. She dismissed the Collinses from her mind.
On his return to Pemberley from Longbourn, Henry Darcy, Oxford graduate, had tried to analyze his feelings, this sudden overwhelming attraction he felt to Eliza Collins, the odd girl who liked cats and caterpillars, looked at him with a prim mouth and laughing eyes, and encouraged him to talk. He had known her just three days. Her father was pompous and dull, her mother calm and pleasant, her sisters unremarkable. Jonathan, her brother, he liked. The three of them had walked and talked, Henry telling of Oxford, Jonathan of Cambridge, Henry of Keats and Byron and Shelley, and Jonathan of South America and the South Sea Islands, and stag beetles and stick insects, while Eliza danced along beside them and turned over logs and rocks, whereupon she and her brother pored over the skittering inhabitants. It was she who listened and, by some apt question and the deep interest she took in all they had to say, set them off again. She was nothing like Henry’s own sister, or his sister’s friends. She was not self-conscious or coy; she made no attempt to attract. Her voice was clear and musical. In the evenings she and Jonathan sometimes sang duets. But it was her face that caught his eye and held his thoughts. She was small and active, and treated him with a casual friendliness that had changed, he thought and hoped, to something very much warmer before he left. He remembered her shy, wondering gaze at him. Eliza. He let her name sing in his mind. Eliza. A poem showed up in his memory, one his tutor had introduced him to, saying he was becoming too serious in his approach to literature. “Try Sir John Suckling, young Darcy,” Mr. Lydgate had said. “A little robust humor will be just the thing.”
That very face, he thought. Eliza.
Chapter Five
“Who could have imagined that we should receive an
invitation...”
“...this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what
I have been hoping to receive and you may be very certain
that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.”
The invitation caused a mixture of elation and dismay in the Collins family.
Mr. Collins, who had adapted well to the prim and proper ways that had come into being with the succession to the throne of the young Queen Victoria (he was a great believer in modesty, virtue, and obedience—for women), saw himself as a figure of considerable rectitude and some importance. His many years as a clergyman at Hunsford had endowed him, he considered, with a decided odor of sanctity; his present position as Master of Longbourn, he felt, had added the glossy sheen of landed gentry to his person. And this collected glory was at last being recognized by Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s most aloof relative (he could think of no other reason for the invitation, his first to Pemberley). His triumph in consequence was complete; he was delighted to accept on behalf of them all.
“And I note, Mrs. Collins, the invitation is from Friday to Sunday. An honor indeed. Most obliging, most obliging. Such manners. Such condescension. Of course we shall all go.”
He held the invitation tightly in his hand as if he could not bear to put it down. A sweaty finger mark smudged one edge.
“Indeed, Mr. Collins. This may be a visit of great consequence,” said Charlotte. She did not look at Eliza. Under her calm exterior, she felt great excitement. This was the opening gambit. Pemberley had made the first move.
But Catty and Annie had already accepted an invitation to join the family of Annie’s affianced at Sanditon for the month of August. They were beside themselves with mortification.
When the Collinses’ acceptance was received by Elizabeth Darcy, it seemed that only Jonathan would accompany Eliza and her parents to the ball.
“So that is that,” said Elizabeth, giving the note to Juliet so that she could complete her lists. “Well, we shall see what we shall see.”
But Juliet’s mind was full of pink silk—or should it be white? Or yellow, primrose yellow! She knew how well she looked in yellow, a color trying to many young ladies; few would essay to wear it. Ruffles. Lace. Slippers to match the dress. It did not dawn on her that there was a purpose to the ball other than the celebration of her birthday. (In her way, Juliet was quite as self-absorbed as Mr. Collins.) And Gerard was coming, though Francis could not. All was right with the world.
Chapter Six
They live in a handsome style and are rich...
She had never seen a place for which nature had done more,
or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an
awkward taste.
The ball was to take place on Saturday, August 5th. Carriages began to arrive at midday on the 4th. Only a
