“But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I
ever saw...”
“He is just what a young man ought to be... sensible, good-humoured,
lively, and I never saw such happy manners.”
It was about this time that Henry Darcy, Elizabeth Darcy’s second son, came down from Oxford.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had been blessed with three children: a son and heir, Fitzwilliam, known in the family as Fitz, now twenty-five; a second son, Henry de Bourgh Darcy, twenty-two; and a daughter, Elizabeth Juliet, at eighteen one of the recognized beauties in the County of Derbyshire (rivaled only by her cousin, Amabel Bingley). Fitzwilliam was a stalwart young man, in appearance resembling his father, concerned with the management of the estate, with horse breeding, and the excitement of the hunt. Ever since he had reached his majority he had been in love with his cousin, Amabel Bingley. The younger son, Henry, was quite different. He was studious, literary, thoughtful, of a slighter build than his brother but strong and active and a skillful wrestler. He was a notable horseman. Juliet, the only girl, loved dancing, parties, and admiration (not necessarily in that order).
Elizabeth’s marriage had prospered. Secure in Mr. Darcy’s love and support, her courage had risen with every attempt by County society to intimidate her. His pride in his “dearest, loveliest Elizabeth” had fortified her against such snobberies and attempted put-downs as came her way, and Mr. Darcy had his own ways of letting such impertinent people know that if they wished to be invited to Pemberley, their behavior towards its mistress must be impeccable. Her own intelligence and sense of humor had helped her to make a success of her life as chatelaine of Pemberley. She loved her husband, her children, and the estate, in that order, and blossomed with the years. She had kept her slender figure, to the envy of Jane, who was beautiful still but, after five children, much fuller in body.
Henry Darcy’s father presented him with a splendid thoroughbred gelding for his twenty-second birthday, celebrated at Oxford, and Henry chose to make his way home on horseback. Riding across country to reach Pemberley, he decided to break his journey and visit his mother’s old home and his Longbourn relations, whom he did not know. He had been only eight when he last stayed there with his grandfather, a crusty old man with an odd sense of humor. Fitz, the high stickler, already at Eton, had thought him eccentric, but young Henry had enjoyed the old man’s company, and spent hours with him in the library, Henry on his stomach on the rug, picking his way through a book of myths, maps, and monsters, and Mr. Bennet reading Addison, Swift, or John Donne. Henry was sorry when his grandfather died.
Since then the question of visiting Longbourn had never arisen. Henry knew the house had been inherited by a Mr. Collins, a distant relative, whose wife was a dear friend of his mother’s. Mrs. Collins had visited Pemberley on one occasion, without her husband. But this, he thought, was while the Collinses still lived near Cousin Anne at Rosings. Henry vaguely remembered a quiet pleasant woman, dressed in black (had she lost a child? he did not quite remember), not fashionable, with a manner that expected obedience from the young. But no one suggested paying a return visit to Cousin Collins.
It was late afternoon when Henry rode up the driveway at Longbourn. The day was fine, the sun shone low in the sky, a blackbird sang in the shrubbery. As he dismounted at the front door, and looked about for a groom, his eye was caught by the slight figure of a girl in a flounced muslin dress, seated on a swing beneath an oak tree. The dress was of white muslin with blue dots, the full skirt spreading gracefully round her. A book and a tabby cat rested on her knees, but her attention was on him.
A groom arrived and took the reins. Henry walked toward the girl, and bowed.
“Hallo,” she said, looking up at him and smiling. She saw before her a young man, handsome, eager. He was tall and dark, his face thin, his eyes very alive; his mouth, with something sweet in its curve, seemed ready to laugh. He reminded her of one of the miniatures on the wall in her father’s study. Yes, of course. It must be. “You have the look of my cousins, the Darcys. I am Eliza Collins.”
Her voice was clear and musical. Henry met her eyes and found himself unable to look away. He, the Oxford graduate, the self-possessed son of a notable country estate, stumbled in his response to this slip of a girl with laughing gray eyes. How astonishing, he thought, the very great pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow. Henry, in the past year at Oxford, had begun to write poetry; at this moment phrases, luminous phrases, began to stir in his mind.
“I am Henry Darcy,” he admitted. “But we have never met,” he said. “I should surely remember. How can—how do you know the way we look?”
“My father has copies of the miniatures at Rosings of all Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s relatives. They hang in his study.”
A green and yellow caterpillar descended on a silken thread from the oak leaves above. It settled on a muslin sleeve and began to crawl earnestly towards a fair and slender neck. Henry knew exactly how his sister, Juliet, would react to such a visitant. He bent forward.
“Forgive me,” he said. “An intruder.” He carefully picked the caterpillar from Eliza’s sleeve; he wished it were a dragon. She looked quickly down and his hand brushed her cheek. At once he was scarlet.
“Oh, just a caterpillar—an oak moth, I expect. Perhaps we should save it to frighten Catty.”
“C-C-Catty?” stammered Henry.
“My sister,” said Eliza gravely. “They terrify her.”
“They terrify mine, too.”
He pulled himself together, and offered her his arm as she pushed the reluctant cat from her knees, slid from the swing, and stood by his side. The cat wound itself round their legs in a figure of eight, mewed pitifully, and bounded suddenly away across the grass.
“Oh, what a beautiful horse,” said Eliza, as they walked down the drive, and he felt for a brief moment jealous that her attention should wander so easily from him.
“Do you ride? Should you like to try his paces? He is very gentle.”
“Oh yes, please! I should like it of all things. I have a mare, rather old, very quiet. A true lady’s horse, my father says. I have always wished to ride a horse... that was not.”
A small hand clutched his arm, and the gray eyes danced.
“That was not?” Henry was puzzled.
“Not suitable for a lady,” said Eliza.
“My saddle!” Henry was dismayed. “I fear that too is not suitable for a lady!”
“I expect we shall manage very well.”
The groom was still standing at the horse’s head. Henry bent his knee and offered his cupped hand to Eliza as a mounting block. For one giddy moment he felt the pressure of her small foot and the pleasing weight of her form as he tossed her into the saddle. The groom moved away, and Henry walked by Eliza’s side, somewhat gingerly holding her in his saddle (not, of course, a side-saddle), as she rode down the drive. He looked up at her and her eyes (those wide-set gray eyes), alight with pleasure, met his. He wished the moment might never end.
Only now, he thought, had he begun to understand the meaning of life.