“Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident
you belong to the first circles.”
“Every savage can dance.”
The ball commenced with the cotillion.
This opening dance was arranged by Elizabeth to be particularly for Juliet and Henry and the young guests. Those of the older generation who wished to dance would wait for the partnered dances that followed. Juliet was to take her place at the head of the first set but, when the time came, there was a hitch. All Juliet’s plans had included the image of Lieutenant Gerard Churchill leading her out; she had kept two fingers over the first two dances on the miniature program dangling from her wrist to save them for him. But Gerard was still not present. He had not been one of those invited to the dinner (his parents were not close acquaintances of the Darcys), but Juliet had been watching for him eagerly from the moment the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. Standing with her parents in the hall to welcome their guests, who were arriving in a steady stream, her face grew more and more discontented when Gerard did not appear, and she was close to pouting in her disappointment and chagrin, when her mama summoned her to open the ball. The ballroom was filling rapidly; the band of the Scots Guards, engaged through Colonel Fitzwilliam’s good offices, was playing a medley of tunes, and there was no reason to delay.
“My dear, who is your partner?” asked Elizabeth.
Juliet looked about her with a certain desperation. She, the belle of the Season, the one in whose honor this ball was given, had no partner! A tall young man with a rather solemn face came quickly forward. “Miss Darcy,” he bowed low over her glove. “I should be honored.” It was Colin Knightley, always punctilious in his manners. Juliet laid her hand on his sleeve. The band played a flourish. The dancers took their places in the sets, and the ball was in full swing.
Charlotte Collins led her son and daughter into the ballroom, her back straight and her head held erect as she had taught herself to stand when dealing with Lady Catherine—her chin not high (that would have invited a put-down), and not low (the humble aroused the bully in her ladyship). Outwardly poised and calm, her mind in a turmoil, she looked around her and, finding a seat not far from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and the Bingleys, settled her family. They were a little late arriving; the cotillion had begun. Eliza sat and watched the scene from her mother’s side. Jonathan stood beside them.
The scene was a delight to the eye. In the cotillion, there was a swirl of full skirts; the young girls were dressed in white or pastel shades which accented the black and white of their partners’ evening dress. Ringlets danced against flushed cheeks, and the light from the chandeliers, which had been washed and polished until the cut-glass pendants sparkled like brilliants, made the smooth heads of braids and chignons gleam like satin.
Eliza saw Henry at once. She could not see his partner’s face, but her auburn hair gleamed above her pale green gown. Catriona Fitzwilliam, Eliza recognized. How well he dances, thought Eliza, her feet beginning to tap under her long skirt. And there was Fitz, opposite Amabel. They seemed engrossed in each other—her lovely face raised to his, and his look intent on her. And there was Juliet, exquisitely dressed in yellow, with a tall young man. They were not speaking. Juliet looked cross.
Elizabeth Darcy rose and began to move round the circumference of the ballroom, speaking a few words to each of her friends. She paused at Charlotte’s side. She was wearing a rich ruby satin, with a deep décolletage, and a necklace of glittering diamonds. Her eyes shone with excitement—as if she too were a young girl, thought Eliza. Eliza regretted again that her mother had chosen to wear black, instead of her new blue dress.
“Charlotte, my dear. How well you look, Eliza. A charming gown.”
Charlotte congratulated Elizabeth on the brilliance of the scene.When her mother paused, Eliza felt she might speak. “Has something happened to upset Juliet, Cousin Elizabeth?” she asked.
“She has had a disappointment. A good friend of hers has not yet arrived. I think she hoped to open the ball with him—she felt herself promised for the first two dances.”
“With whom is she dancing now?” asked Charlotte.
“One of the Knightley twins: Colin. He is rather quiet and earnest. As is his brother, Kit. But they are both very pleasant young men. I am so sorry their Mama could not be with us tonight. It is some time since I have seen Mrs. Knightley.” Or her estimable husband, thought Elizabeth. Mr. Knightley was a favorite of hers.
But Juliet should not be making her discontent so plain. A lady does not display her feelings in public. She is getting a little spoiled from too much attention, Elizabeth thought to herself, making a mental note to speak to her later.
The cotillion came to a close. The dancers were clapping their hands and laughing excitedly. The band master announced a waltz. Elizabeth looked around. She introduced Eliza to a young man in uniform, deeply tanned. Small lines at the sides of his eyes showed white until he laughed, when they crinkled into a brown mask. His name was Alexander Wentworth and he was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, recently returned from the West Indies. He made her a gallant bow, and whirled her into the waltz.
Jonathan Collins, leaving his mother deep in conversation with Jane Bingley, wandered round the ballroom, finding much to admire and wonder at. This was by far the grandest house he had visited. He walked casually but in fact had but one purpose. He was seeking Lucy Baluster. A group of dowagers caught his attention. They were seated in a half-moon of gold-painted chairs, gossiping and eyeing the dancers through their lorgnettes. He drew back as he recognized Miss Bingley among them. Her dress of black satin was cut low across a rather thin bosom and filled in with net, and her turban, of black and purple stripes and topped with nodding plumes and knots of lace, reached toward the ceiling. He had already identified Lord and Lady Charles Baluster talking with Mr. Darcy near the entrance to the ballroom. Lucy had not been with them. He looked about him and found, behind and to one side of the dowagers, an alcove partly hidden by a tall arrangement of delphiniums in a jade-green Chinese vase, a stand of ferns and a marble statue of a Grecian goddess. Seated by herself in the alcove, pensively regarding her fan, was Lucy Baluster, becomingly dressed in white silk and lace. He came quietly to her side.
“Miss Baluster, I was hoping to find you. And hoping still more that you should not be engaged for the next dance.”
She looked up at him with eyes suddenly alive, and gave him a quick shy smile, then looked down again at the fan on her lap. He made one or two remarks about the scene before them, but she did not speak, only smiled and looked away. He wondered if he had offended her in some way. As if to occupy her hands, she spread the fan wide and waved it slowly; it was exquisitely painted with a scene of butterflies. In trying to win a response from such a shy creature, Jonathan had already been reminded of his work with flying insects—the need to stay still, then move quietly, so as not to alarm them. He regarded the decoration of her fan as a good omen. She was like a butterfly, he thought. One of the large, beautiful South American specimens.
“What a pretty fan,” said Jonathan now. “May I see it, Miss Baluster?”
Faced with the specific request, Lucy’s strict social training made her respond. She spread the fan wide, and automatically held it up to her face, so that her eyes shone over it. Jonathan blinked.
“Beautiful,” he said, and the warmth in his voice and the look in his eyes at once melted her shyness—and enhanced it. She blushed, but lowered the fan and looked fully at him.
“You know that I am a naturalist.Would it interest you to identify the butterflies on your fan?” he ventured. “They are taken from life, you know. May I tell you their names?”
“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:
“There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me.”
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.