The Darcys Give a Ball

select few, of course, had been invited to stay from Friday to Sunday at Pemberley—that was for family—and the guest list for dinner on Saturday, immediately preceding the ball, was limited. Those living within comfortable traveling distance would arrive at 9:00 p.m.

The Collinses were among the first to arrive. Charlotte was always punctual. The door was flung wide and the butler and his minions were ushering them inside the main hall when Elizabeth swept down the grand staircase to greet them, with Juliet and Henry close behind. She was surprised to find Charlotte accompanied only by a young man of medium height and a small trim female figure, who must of course be Eliza. Mr. Collins was absent.

“Charlotte!” Elizabeth pressed her cheek against her friend’s. “I am so pleased to see you. I hope I see you well. And this is Eliza? And Jonathan?” Her voice ended on a note of inquiry, even as she took in Eliza’s small pointed face and large gray eyes, dancing in the shadow of her straw bonnet.

Oh dear, she thought. She is a charmer.

“Mr. Collins sends his deepest regrets. He is so sorry but a sudden attack of gout has quite incapacitated him. He dare not travel.”

Mr. Collins suffered periodically from gout, brought on by self-indulgence at the table. He was quite proud of it, considering it a sign of good breeding. But he had been bitterly disappointed that an attack should rob him of his first visit to Pemberley. He struggled out of bed on the morning of departure, but the pain in his foot was such that Charlotte firmly bade him return to his couch and remain there. He had also lately complained of a pain in his arm. She looked at his flushed face and noted his shortness of breath, symptoms that had been growing on him with his increase in girth and decrease in exercise. She dispatched a servant for Mr. Merryweather, the present Meryton apothecary, and made sure that Mrs. Spong, her housekeeper, fully understood her orders. Mr. Collins was to follow Mr. Merryweather’s instructions and was not to rise until Mr. Merryweather gave permission.

“My dear Mr. Collins,” said Charlotte. “I deeply regret the necessity of leaving you at such a time, but I fear we might well antagonize Mr. Darcy if none of us responds to his gracious invitation—the first such invitation.”

Mr. Collins groaned and assented.

“I leave you in the good hands of Mrs. Spong and Mr. Merryweather.

“I have only one consolation to offer you, Mr. Collins,” Charlotte went on. “The new number of Mr. Dickens’s periodical has arrived, containing the serial we find so interesting. I have not had time to peruse it. You must tell me all about it when I return.”

Mr. Collins approved of Charles Dickens’s novels; he had even been known to laugh at Mr. Pickwick’s comical adventures. Mr. Dickens perhaps made too much of the undeserving; Mr. Collins found no fault with workhouses and prisons as such but he was prepared to be compassionate at a distance: London was a good way off. The novel at present being serialized was The Old Curiosity Shop, and “What will happen to Little Nell?” was on everyone’s lips.

Mr. Collins eased himself back on his bank of goose-down pillows. The monogrammed linen cases, freshly changed at Charlotte’s direction that morning, were ironed to icy perfection by the laundry maid. He wiggled luxuriously; his gouty foot was protected by a wicker cage under the bedcovers. A pitcher of lemon-barley water stood within easy reach on the commode at his bedside, together with two fine linen handkerchiefs, and the latest number of the periodical Master Humphrey’s Clock was just visible poking out from under a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons. Everything was comfortable and orderly. Mr. Collins regarded his wife’s pleasant self-controlled face. He felt a sudden unexpected twinge of melancholy at the thought of her departure, not just because of all he would miss at Pemberley, but because he should be deprived of her calming presence. He himself had made numerous journeys alone over the years, leaving her at home, but not since the loss of her last baby son had she been the one to leave. How would he get on? It was of course, he told himself, a wife’s duty to minister to her husband’s well-being, but he had to admit that Charlotte was to be priced above rubies in her attention to his comfort. How lucky he had been in his marriage! (Such a mistake as he might have made! One must be grateful to Fate or, he hastily corrected himself, some Heavenly Intervention.) How Charlotte would stare, he thought, if she should know his thoughts, for he was not one to flatter; women were but feeble vessels, easily corrupted by indulgence. Praise should but rarely be bestowed. But—it came to him now—his children were dutiful and mannerly, his house impeccably run, and his dinners well-cooked and well-served—though without extravagance, always without extravagance. Good management, that was Charlotte’s forte. He had a sudden recollection of the home of his childhood, cold, meanly furnished, though his father was not poor, his blankets worn so thin he was forced to add his top coat—nay, his very jackets—to his bedclothes, the food scanty and poorly prepared by a slatternly underpaid cook-general, the only female presence. Most clearly of all, he remembered his father, unpredictable in his moods, dependable only in his infinite capacity for penny-pinching and petty unkindness. He had feared his father. Despite the warmth of the August morning, he shivered.

“Are you cold, Mr. Collins? Dear me, let me pull up the counterpane,” said his wife. “It would never do for you to take a chill.” She tucked the counterpane round his chest, then moved to the doorway where Eliza stood waiting.

“Mrs. Collins,” he said, impulsively, and held out one hand. But her back was toward him.What was he thinking? She would think him odd indeed. He let his hand fall to the bed.

“Yes, Mr. Collins?” said Charlotte, turning to face him. “Is there something more you need?”

“Oh—I trust you will have a safe journey and a pleasant visit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins.” Charlotte looked at her husband with some surprise. His humor was odd, to say the least. It must be the gout, though usually that tended to make him irritable rather than amiable. “Now, say good- bye to your father, Eliza.”

“Good-bye, Papa,” said Eliza from the doorway. “I am so sorry you are sick.”

She could not, although she knew she should, say with honesty she was sorry he would not accompany them. Mr. Collins had a tendency to attract unwelcome notice; he had caused her to blush on many social occasions. She walked ahead of her mother towards the staircase, but Charlotte hesitated.

Stepping back to the bed, she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the sheet, and patted her husband’s hand.

“Remember, you are to stay safely in bed. Mrs. Spong will take care of you. Good-bye, Mr. Collins.”

The greetings continued in the hall at Pemberley. Were Charlotte’s eyes twinkling? Her bonnet shadowed her face; Elizabeth could not tell. She had herself well in hand, despite the sudden elation in her heart. She expressed polite sympathy.

Now she was shaking hands with Jonathan Collins. He was not handsome but his likeness to Charlotte and his sweet-tempered smile impressed her favorably. There was an agreeable sharpness and delicacy in the setting of his eyes, which were gray and well-opened. The footmen were carrying in the luggage. She gestured to her housekeeper.

“Mrs. Cleghorn will show you to your rooms. Come down as soon as you are comfortable. Jane is here, and her young people, and everyone is looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

The sound of horses’ hooves returned her attention to the open front door. A second carriage was sweeping towards them, a crest discernible on the door.

“Why, it is dear Georgiana. How delightful she has arrived in such good time.”

The carriage drew to a stop, the steps were let down and a slender lady, in early middle age, descended, followed by a young girl. Elizabeth stepped forward, a smile on her lips, which froze as yet another female form climbed out of the carriage.

“Miss Bingley!” Elizabeth caught a glance from Georgiana Baluster that held a touch of rueful desperation. “Welcome to Pemberley,” she said at once, inclining her head with formal courtesy.

Caroline Bingley’s affection for her “dear Georgiana” had continued over the years, punctuated by as many visits to the Balusters’s residence as she felt the traffic could bear. She professed extreme affection for Lucy, and did her best to create for herself the role of duenna. Lord Charles, as part of his devotion to his wife, liked her to be at his side as much as possible. “They have trustworthy tutors and governesses, my dear. So please, dearest Georgiana, do not distress yourself so much over the children.” Georgiana tried to divide herself as fairly as she could, but a space had been there, and Miss Bingley had inserted herself into it. At a family gathering, she had once heard Mrs. Darcy remark, quite idly, that Henry and quiet little Lucy dealt well together (Lucy was then nine and Henry fifteen). Since that time, Caroline Bingley had appointed herself matchmaker, and continued to do her best to throw Lucy and Henry together. Learning of the proposed Pemberley ball from a letter from Jane to her sisters-in- law, she had descended on Georgiana in just such time as would enable her to accompany the Baluster party to