The rain continued the whole evening without intermission...
“I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in
driving away love!”
Sunset was not due until after eight o’clock but, by early evening, clouds had gathered and the sky was overcast. A wind got up and tousled the leafy canopy of the great trees in the park. The rooks rose cawing from the rookery and were tossed like ragged black handkerchiefs over the wood. Rain splattered against the windowpanes and fizzled on the still-hot terrace paving stones.There was a distant grumble of thunder.
Juliet, who had completed the day in a state of high excitement, plunged at once into despair, lingering on the window seat and counting out loud the ever-increasing raindrops.
“It is only a summer storm,” soothed her mother. “Quick to come and quick to go. You will see, my darling. It will soon blow over.”
“Tonight the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dripping day:
The last red leaf is whirled away,
The rooks are blown about the skies.”
...quoted Henry.
“Oh, Henry, you are always so provoking.Why must you tease with your horrid poetry? You must know I am thinking of our guests tomorrow—those who come some distance—from London.”
“There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods.’”
...chanted Henry. He had not been happy with Juliet’s behavior that afternoon.
Eliza glanced at Juliet’s flushed and petulant face, and thought it wise to complete the stanza:
“But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods.”
Then she smiled at Henry. “Mr.Wordsworth enjoys his gloomy downpours, but he soon brings out the sun again.”
“How well read you young people are,” said Elizabeth. “Juliet, don’t let Henry depress you with gloomy poetry. Surely you remember some of the happy ones? I am sure dear Miss Underwood (Juliet’s governess for many years, Charlotte—a very worthy woman) must have instilled some into you. How about:
“My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.”
But Juliet was thinking of Gerard Churchill, rain darkening his fair hair and dripping off his highly polished boots, gallantly riding through the storm in his scarlet regimentals. Her face stayed as downcast as the weather. Luckily the dinner gong sounded at that moment, supplying a welcome distraction.
Dinner was served in the small dining room.
The following night, Jonathan whispered to Eliza, dinner would be served in the grand dining room. There would be fifty guests to dinner. Jonathan had been luckier than his sister. He had renewed his acquaintance with Henry and had made a tour of the house as well as the outbuildings, and accumulated a vast store of interesting information.
The Collinses were seated toward the center of the table. Charlotte pleasantly renewed her acquaintance with Mr. Bingley. Eliza was seated between Torquil Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy’s steward, Mr. Longacre, neither of whom paid her much attention: Torquil was teasing Juliet about a mutual London acquaintance, Mr. Longacre, a taciturn and weatherbeaten man, was interested in his dinner. Eliza employed her time in watching Mr. Darcy, at the head of the table, so handsome and so serious, and Mrs. Darcy, at the foot, so vivacious. She found them both fascinating. Jonathan, seated on the opposite side of the table, next to Catriona Fitzwilliam, was challenged by that lively young lady on the subject of natural history.
“Your sister frightened us all very considerably by introducing us to a spider, Mr. Collins. She mentions worms and snails and slugs with great aplomb. And she tells us that this is a subject in which you are guiding her footsteps. Pray tell me, is it the custom in your family to frighten young ladies?”
Jonathan laughed. Eliza had already mentioned the incident of the spider. He began to discuss, in a light-hearted way, the importance of spiders in the insect world, but also, keeping a solemn face, introduced the large and furry tarantula, the bird-eating spiders of the tropics, and the deadly Black Widow. There were gasps of horror and exclamations from the young ladies. Miss Bingley tried to change the subject (“So disagreeable to the female sex. Quite unsuitable,” she said. She was aware that Lucy’s eyes were fixed on Jonathan.), but other people began to pay attention and, before long, Lord Charles Baluster took Jonathan up. Lord Charles had friends at the Royal Society, it seemed, and he led Jonathan on to talk about his studies at Cambridge, and what he knew about the voyage of the Beagle, and that very odd young man, Mr. Darwin. Science, natural history, paleontology, mycology, ornithology—all were the talk of the day for rational men. The conversation became general. Jonathan, a social being, quiet but not shy, expanded under such encouragement and began to talk, at first amusingly, then more seriously, about the work being done on the understanding of the natural world. His manner before the older men was good, modest but confident. There was a great burgeoning of interest in all things considered part of nature. Collecting was a new enthusiasm. Rocks, fossils, insects, marine animals, birds’ eggs—shore and cliff, forest and hedgerow were pillaged in the interest of science. Much as Mr. Bennet had once collected books, a gentlemanly hobby, educated men now brought home the products of earth rather than the artifacts of man.
When the men were left to their port, Elizabeth Darcy led the ladies to the Chinese drawing room on the first floor, which opened into the music room. Juliet was eager for an informal dance when the men should join the ladies, and her mother saw no reason to refuse. “Certainly, my dear,” she said. “If you can find a willing pianist.”
Miss Douglass was quick to volunteer. She was a lively, talkative lady in early middle age, equally fond of society and her young charges, and always ready to forward their happiness. When the men entered, Juliet swirled her way over to them, her white skirts flaring round her, and seized her cousin Torquil’s hand.
“Henry! Henry?” As Henry turned to Eliza, Miss Bingley bustled forward, inserting herself between them. “Your cousin Lucy—there she is, she’s waiting for you, Henry. Lucy? Here’s Henry to ask you to dance.”
Country dances were thought the most suitable, and Miss Douglass’s fingers flew across the keys.
Fitz paired at once with Amabel, Catriona held out her hand to Jonathan, and Eliza found herself with Anthony Bingley, with whom she had barely exchanged a word. She found him a pleasant conversationalist, gentle and friendly.
Miss Bingley seated herself by Charlotte, with much arrangement of skirts and settling of flounces.
“How do you do, Mrs. Collins. It is an age since we last met.Why, it must have been at Netherfield Park!” She gave Charlotte no chance to do more than smile and nod, but continued to speak.
“Look at Henry and dear Lucy,” she said complacently. “A charming couple, don’t you agree? They have been devoted since childhood. A betrothal would be delightful—the whole family would be pleased. So suitable, so eminently desirable, don’t you think, Mrs. Collins?”
Charlotte watched Lucy and Henry moving sedately down the dance. There seemed no special connection between them. She remembered Elizabeth telling her of Miss Bingley’s attempt to cut out Jane Bennet from her brother’s affections and marry him off to Georgiana Darcy, all those years ago. Miss Bingley, it seemed, did not change
“You don’t feel that there is perhaps too close a relationship, that there might be too much involvement in the family with cousins?”
“Too much, Mrs. Collins? How so?”
“Mrs. Darcy tells me that Fitzwilliam is wild to marry his cousin, Amabel. That seems a certainty. Then Henry and Lucy—if they have indeed ever thought of such a thing—again cousins?”
“But the Bingleys and the Balusters are not related!”
“That is hardly the point, Miss Bingley.”
“Then what is the point, Mrs. Collins?”
“The health of the Darcy family tree, Miss Bingley.”
“Your family seems to have a strong interest in scientific theory, if that is what it can be called, Mrs. Collins. I find it distasteful in the extreme, and hardly a suitable study for females. Not a subject for the dinner table,” said Miss Bingley, with an angry titter. “Unseemly, to say the least. The dear Queen must be our model in such things. But perhaps you have a more personal interest at stake? Do not imagine that the family will encourage your ambitions.”
And she rose and swept away, with an angry rustle of taffeta underskirts and jet bead trimming.
She found a seat close to Elizabeth Darcy and Georgiana Baluster and sat in irritated silence for a few moments, watching as a new dance began. She jerked at the jet beads trimming her sleeves, and played with her bracelets. Catriona Fitzwilliam had claimed Henry, she noticed with approval; Lucy now danced with Fitz Darcy. At least there should be no waltzes that evening, Miss Bingley decided, if she could have her way. No immodest close partnerings. Her hands were never still.
“Caroline,” said Georgiana at that moment. “I wish you might not be forever persuading Lucy into thinking herself delicate. She is no such thing. Those of us who have seen her romping with her brothers, playing at cavalry charges or Knights of the Round Table, know that at times she might well be taken for a hoyden! She is only just out and is still somewhat overawed by large gatherings, but that is just a little natural shyness. Her quietness has nothing to do with her health.
“She tells me she finds Eliza Collins a very pleasant companion. They were together some hours this afternoon—they discovered a litter of puppies in the kennels, and some tabby kittens in the stable yard. Lucy enjoyed herself very much. I am always pleased when Lucy finds a new friend.”
“Do you really think that a desirable friendship, dear Lady Charles? I was dismayed to see Miss Collins make such a dead set at Lucy—so obviously thinking it would be to her advantage to ingratiate herself. I have no doubt her mama encouraged her to do so. I believe Mrs. Collins was once a friend of yours, Mrs. Darcy? A respectable family, no doubt—though her father was in trade, as I remember? But Mr. Collins, who is he? A minor clergyman, living on the bounty of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, hanging on the Darcy family coattails.” Miss Bingley remembered belatedly that Mr. Collins was a distant connection of Mrs. Darcy. She coughed and touched her lips with her lace handkerchief.
“But Miss Collins hardly shines in the company of our young people,” Miss Bingley went on. “Dear Juliet. And Amabel. Quite beautiful! And Catriona so remarkably handsome. And of course dearest Lucy. I must confess I find Eliza Collins sadly plain. Her face is too thin, her complexion has no brilliancy, and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way, and as for her eyes, they have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all.” Miss Bingley paused at the end of this speech, visited suddenly by a strong sense of déjà vu. Where had she heard those words before? Had she perhaps said them herself on another occasion? She dismissed the idea from her thoughts. Ridiculous.
“Indeed?” said Elizabeth coldly. She noticed Henry’s sober face. Catriona Fitzwilliam, sparkle as she may, did not seem to be amusing him. Eliza was partnered by her brother. She watched them dancing down the center of the set, Eliza smiling, her feet light, her simple blue dress floating round her. Jonathan too looked happy; he seemed to be teasing his sister. He whispered something in her ear and she laughed up at him. The eyes Miss Bingley had just finished criticizing danced with mischief. Eliza’s little pointed face was alive with enjoyment. ‘How can anyone call her plain?’ Elizabeth thought. The pair were obviously well accustomed to dancing together; they showed no disinclination. Juliet would consider it unfashionable to dance with her brother, thought Elizabeth. She might well be petulant. She watched Eliza and Jonathan with pleasure. The young Collinses were a pleasant pair. The situation was not one to which they were accustomed, but their manners were simple and natural. Despite her initial prejudice, she was coming to like both Jonathan and Eliza.
The final figure was performed and the set broke up, the dancers seeking refreshment. Lemonade was served, and the tea tray was brought in. Someone opened a window, and there was an outcry by Miss Bingley:
“Most unwise! So easy to catch cold. Lucy not strong. Overheating followed by a chill breeze—just a step to the sickbed! Consumption, always possible in a young girl, followed by decline. Dear Mrs. Darcy, this must not be, the young are so heedless.”
She was disregarded. Through the open window came a wave of warm, moist, scented air. The rain had ceased, and those peering out could see that the clouds were parting. The full moon took occasional glances at the earth through the gaps in the clouds.
Juliet’s mood improved with a sight of the moon. She stood at the window, playing with the ribbons on her sleeves. “Shall we have some music? Lucy, won’t you play for us?”
Lucy glanced in some dismay at her mother, a notable pianist who was also her teacher. But her mother was nodding reassurance. “A simple tune, my dear? One of the old songs?”
Miss Douglass had long abandoned the piano stool for the tea tray. Lucy sat down and removed her gloves. She played a minor scale or two, then began an old tune that was one of her favorites, “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.” Jonathan Collins exchanged a glance with Eliza. They stood up and walked to the piano. As the melody repeated, they began to sing. Jonathan was a tenor, Eliza a soprano; Ben Jonson’s immortal words rang out clear and true.
“Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.”
Across the room, Henry Darcy, listening, raised his lemonade glass to Eliza. The young people crowded round the piano. Lucy, always shy of singing alone, was encouraged to add her own sweet voice in a descant. Then the others joined in. At the end of the verse Jonathan held up his hand. “Now you must take the melody,” he said, smiling at Lucy, and she began the second verse, with the others taking the second part.
Everyone applauded. An encore was enthusiastically requested, and Jonathan and Lucy sang a duet. “Early One Morning” was followed by “The Lass with the Delicate Air.” Eliza sang “On Richmond Hill There Stands a Maiden,” and everyone joined in the chorus of “Oh no, John, no John, no John, no!” Laughter swallowed the tune. Then Miss Bingley interfered, fearing lest Lucy strain her voice, and Lucy was regretfully rising from the piano stool when Jonathan started one last song, à capella: “I Did but See Her Passing By.” He looked straight at Lucy, who sat down abruptly, in a state of pleasing confusion. She did not play, and Jonathan Collins sang directly to her:
“There is a lady, sweet and kind.
Did never face so please my mind.
I did but see her passing by—
And yet I love her till I die.”
“Charming,” said Elizabeth to Charlotte. “How well he sings. I am impressed with his many abilities.”
Miss Bingley snorted. She had the headache. The dancing had been too boisterous, the music too loud. The young Collinses were making a vulgar display of themselves. She longed to be lying on her bed with her nightly dose of laudanum, her great comfort, which brought her sleep and the wild romantic dreams which helped to compensate her for her sadly barren life.
Charlotte Collins watched her son and daughter with a proud heart.