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 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 Pemberley.
She now acknowledged Mrs. Darcy’s greeting by a gracious bow, turning immediately to Lucy.
“Lucy dear, the sun, the sun! Do go inside, in the shade—remember your complexion! Nothing so harmful to the skin! Freckles, you know, so vulgar and coarse! And you are looking a little peaked—a strenuous drive, although dear Lord Charles’s carriage is so well sprung—you know you are not strong!”
Henry and Juliet were occupied in greeting the Collinses, but as the newcomers swept into the hall, Miss Bingley seized Henry’s arm, neatly cutting him away from Eliza.
“Henry! How good to see you! And how tall you are grown! Your cousin Lucy is a little tired. Do you go and help her.”
Georgiana looked annoyed. “Lucy is perfectly well, Caroline. Please do not fuss.” Her husband, last out of the carriage, had now joined her, and they paused for their introduction to Charlotte.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Cleghorn, patiently waiting in the background, now came forward and led the visitors upstairs. A hasty aside from Mrs. Darcy informed her that the unexpected visitor should be allotted the blue room in the East Wing.
Juliet had fluttered quickly from Eliza Collins to Lucy Baluster. “Dear Lucy, it is an age since we met.” Her cheek made brief contact with her cousin’s. “Let us all meet in the yellow saloon,” she said, “just as quickly as we can.”
Jonathan Collins, looking back as he mounted the stairs at the newcomer he had scarcely had time to greet, saw a pensive, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were downcast, showing long lashes in half-moons on her cheeks, as she listened to her cousin’s chatter. He paused again as they reached the first landing. The great marble-floored hall beneath him glowed with light from the sunshine pouring through the open doors. A crimson Turkish carpet covered part of the black-and-white tiles and continued up the staircase. The banisters were picked out with gold paint, and lining the stairway were portraits of imposing people in robes and jewels. The girl mounting the stairs behind him was dressed entirely in white, which took on a shimmer of reflected light from sunshine and polished wood and marble and gold paint. Everything was new and exciting, the building grander than any he had previously entered. But it was the girl who held his eye, and at that moment she raised those long dark lashes and looked up at him. He smiled involuntarily, and for a moment her lips too curved upward and her eyes brightened. But just then Miss Bingley spoke, and the girl frowned and looked away. Jonathan took a deep breath.
Mrs. Cleghorn showed Charlotte and Eliza their bedrooms, and then left them together while she escorted Jonathan to his room. Charlotte looked about her with a reminiscent eye; it was many years since she had stayed at Pemberley. She sighed a little. It was a weakness, she knew, but she had always had a liking for consequence. And the splendors of Pemberley were nothing if not consequential. She removed her outer garments, smoothed her hair, and joined Eliza.
Eliza was wide-eyed. She took off her bonnet and laid it on a chair, twisting round as she took in her surroundings. There was a four-poster bed with lacy pillows piled high, and a white counterpane. Three little wooden steps enabled one to reach the bed. An armchair, padded with rose-colored velvet, stood by the window; it had polished, curly feet like paws. There was a dresser skirted with lace. Deep rose velvet drapery over white lace curtains festooned the windows, which stood open. The air was warm and the scent of honeysuckle poured into the room.
“Oh Mama,” said Eliza. “It’s like a fairy tale.”
She had been silent with wonder ever since the carriage entered the Pemberley grounds, and had watched with shining eyes and parted lips as the house itself came into sight and grew ever closer—and grander. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing to great advantage on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high and wooded hills. In front, a stream of some natural importance had been swelled into a lake, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. They had descended a hill, crossed a bridge, and finally arrived at the house itself. Every disposition of the ground was good, and Eliza now looked from her window on the whole scene, the lake, the trees—chestnuts, beeches, oaks, willows bending gracefully over their reflections in the water—and the winding of the valley, with delight. Ducks were swimming on the lake. She was enchanted.
“Yes, my dear; indeed, yes. There is nowhere quite like Pemberley. Now, let me tidy your hair. You need not unpack, Eliza. A maid will do that for you.”
“Who was that lady, Mama? The tall thin one all in black, with the acidulated voice?”
“That is Miss Caroline Bingley, sister-in-law to Mrs. Bingley. She has not a happy nature, I’m afraid. At one time, I think she hoped to marry Mr. Darcy—but I must not gossip. It is all a long time ago.
“Now, if you are ready, my dear, we shall go down.”
The afternoon was not all pleasure for Eliza. She and Jonathan found themselves in a group of young people, comprising not only Henry and her newfound Darcy cousins, Juliet and Fitz, but also Amabel and Anthony Bingley and the quiet young girl who had arrived so closely on the Collinses’ heels, the Honourable Lucy Baluster.They refreshed themselves in the yellow saloon, a very pretty sitting room, decorated with yellow cushions and hangings, once known as “Miss Georgiana’s room,” and now Juliet’s special domain.While they enjoyed a luncheon of fruit and cold meats and little cakes, two more young people arrived, a striking and exuberant pair, Torquil and Catriona Fitzwilliam. The children of Colonel Fitzwilliam, they were both tall, handsome, and auburn-haired, confident and talkative and obviously good friends with the Darcys. Exclamations were heard as the Darcys flocked round the newcomers. A stream of family references and “do you remember” exchanges dominated the gathering. Jonathan and Eliza found themselves relegated to the edge of the group.
Charlotte Collins sat with Mrs. Darcy and her gentle sister, Mrs. Bingley, in the long saloon overlooking the lake, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. There also were gathered Lady Charles Baluster and, a little later, Miss Morag Douglass, a cousin of Lady Moira Fitzwilliam, who was acting as companion and chaperone to Catriona Fitzwilliam. Meanwhile, the older menfolk, comprising Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, and Lord Charles Baluster, had made their way to the stables.
Miss Caroline Bingley, to Eliza’s dismay, came and went between the two groups of women, relishing her importance as a guest at Pemberley, but unwilling to relinquish her self-designated post of guardian to Lucy Baluster.
It was Juliet Darcy who set the tone of the afternoon gathering. Her manner was imperious and she seemed to have trouble remembering Eliza’s name. Henry greeted Eliza with his old ardor, his eyes lingering on hers as the introductions were made. She smiled back shyly, but as he started to speak, he was interrupted by Juliet, who announced her intention, after they had refreshed themselves, of carrying the girls off to her own room.
“Catriona, I must show you my dress for tomorrow. And you must show me yours. Lucy, what color shall you wear? I hope we shall not all be the same.”
Henry tried to divert Eliza to the stables on the excuse of showing her his horse (“your old friend,” he said), but Juliet would have none of it. “Jonathan may go with you, Henry. And Fitz and Torquil,” she said with an imperious nod of her head. “We will go upstairs. And later I want to show Lucy and Eliza the conservatory.” And the young men had obeyed her, though Henry wished to stay with Eliza and Fitz with Amabel. Juliet, thought Eliza, was used to having her own way.
But Henry too had a mind of his own. Even as he accepted his dismissal, he turned to Eliza to say, with a slight bow, “We shall meet this evening, but pray save me tomorrow morning, Miss Eliza. We will ride tomorrow.” And then he was gone, leaving Eliza bright-eyed and wistful.
The hours spent discussing dress in Juliet’s flouncy bedroom passed slowly. Eliza had one dress made specially for the ball, but her dress for dinner that evening was not new, merely her best. She knew she could not compete with these privileged young women in the matter of apparel. She longed to explore the beauties of Pemberley, both indoors and out. The day was brilliant, and the room grew over warm. Eliza began to make friends with Amabel Bingley, who asked about Longbourn, her mother’s old home, and Meryton, and expressed an interest in Eliza’s life there. Lucy Baluster said little. Juliet and Catriona kept up an animated chatter on London friends and activities, in which Eliza and Lucy could not join. At last they adjourned to the conservatory.
Here, at least, the glass doors were open to the terrace. Inside, the conservatory was hot and humid; trickles of moisture ran down the windows farthest from the doors. It was a jungly place, thought Eliza. Vines reached to the rafters while below grew exotic flowering plants and shrubs, gardenias and camellias, frangipani and rare orchids. A heavy, heady scent filled the air. Eliza wandered away from the group, moving from plant to plant, smelling the flowers and admiring the brilliance of color and the delicacy of individual blooms. Juliet was offering gardenias as accessories for the formal ensembles for the ball.
Eliza found Lucy by her side as she explored the farther reaches of the glassed enclosure.
“Are you interested in flowers?” she asked, attempting to strike up a conversation.
“Our conservatory at Langston Court is one of Mama’s great pleasures,” said Lucy. “It is not as large as this. Mama teaches me a great deal. And McTavish, our gardener, is my friend. He says I stay still and don’t fratter, as my brothers do.”
“I know more about insects than plants,” confessed Eliza. “But the two go together. Some flowers are more attractive to butterflies than others. My brother Jonathan is a naturalist.”
“It was he, I think, I met in the hall? There was no time to speak...” Lucy remembered a pair of gray eyes and a friendly, admiring glance as she mounted the stairs.
“Yes, he is my dear friend. He is so kind to me,” said Eliza. “I missed him very much when he was away at Cambridge. And soon he is taking a post in London with the Royal Society. It is exactly the thing for him, Mama says; she is very pleased. But home will be empty without him.”
“How nice for you to have a close friend among your family. I have no sisters, and my brothers are much younger, ten and eight. Sometimes we play, but they are so boisterous. They rush around and fight and make a great deal of noise.”
They had circled the conservatory and drawn near to the rest of the party. Miss Bingley was once again one of the group, and Lucy drew back a little, behind Eliza. But to no avail.
“There you are, Lucy. So hard to find! I was wondering where you could be. But I am always glad to take the trouble. Don’t you think it would be better if you rested on your bed? Such a tiring journey!”
“I am very well, thank you, Miss Bingley, not tired at all,” said Lucy, looking despairingly at Eliza.
Eliza had just been noticing a perfect spider web filling a windowpane next to the open door leading out to the terrace. Miss Bingley was quite close to that window. Eliza glanced at her tight-lipped face, thin corded neck, and over-ornamented dress.
“Only see,” she said now, pointing out the web to whomever was interested. “One seldom finds a web so perfect. It’s as intricate as a lace handkerchief.”
Her sleeve brushed the web, and the spider rushed out of hiding. It was fat-bodied, gingerish in color, quite large, and very leggy. Miss Bingley stepped hurriedly back behind the other girls, her hand at her heart. Juliet gave a small scream.
“Oh, how dreadful. Do come away. I must tell Cameron to kill it.”
“Oh, no, please don’t!” cried Eliza. “Spiders do so much good in a conservatory. They help keep down whitefly and mosquitoes and other egg-laying pests, Jonathan says. I think insects are fascinating. Do look, Lucy.” She managed to ease Lucy in front of her, closer to the door, pleased to see the other girl seemed quite unafraid.
“Are you interested in natural history?” asked Amabel Bingley, polite but uncomprehending.
“Jonathan teaches me. He is friendly with a young man named Darwin, Charles Darwin. They met at Cambridge. Mr. Darwin sailed as naturalist on the H.M.S. Beagle. They made a scientific survey.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but anyone knowing her well would have caught the mischievous twinkle in her eye. Eliza had long ago learned that it was helpful to know just how people reacted to insects.
“Oh,” said Juliet.
“How interesting,” said Amabel.
Their eyes met. There seemed nothing else to say in response to such an odd preference. Amabel began to talk about her sister’s house in London, where there was a small orangery. Miss Bingley was still at the rear of the group, and Eliza took Lucy’s hand and led her out of the door onto the terrace. A cool breeze caressed her flushed face and fluttered her curls, and she sighed with relief.
“Do you know the way to the stables?” she asked her new friend, hurrying her away from the door.