It was that thought that fed her eagerness to attend the Pemberley ball.
As guests moved to and fro, she could see Darcy more clearly. Time had not altered his bearing or his countenance. As if entranced, she stepped in his direction. Then, abruptly, she turned away, wholly thwarted.
For standing next to Mr. Darcy was Mrs. Darcy, her arm clasping his. Juliette did not fault her for that. Had he belonged to her, she would be just as chary. Although marauding ladies were circling him even then, his wife seemed oblivious to her competition.
Whilst taking delicate sips of her wine, Juliette took a moment to scrutinise Elizabeth Darcy. Albeit begrudgingly, she admitted that Elizabeth had gained in countenance. That afternoon in London, her face had been drawn and worry troubled her expression. Tonight, her cheeks were flushed. (Either that or she was not above applying a bit of rouge.) A bit smugly, Juliette opined that Elizabeth was not near the beauty as her sister, Jane. Fancy that. Mr. Darcy not only married beneath him, it was to a second, less desirable daughter.
Slyly, she looked at Elizabeth again.
Through further study, Juliette decided that she approved of Elizabeth’s gown. Although it was pale, it complimented her, almost as much as the exquisite necklace. It was a significant enough piece to arrest everyone’s attention. Juliette did not envy it, for she had been bestowed exceptional pieces of jewellery over the years. She wore them only to impress other women. When gentlemen were about, she disliked adorning herself with anything that might compete with her own countenance.
As the Darcys stood side by side, oblivious to any menace, Juliette carried on planning a seduction with an air of purposefulness. She told herself that her quarry was merely that—a means to an end. It did not cross her mind that, by harbouring an abiding and all-consuming yen for this man, she breached every tenet she had ever held dear. There was but one thing Juliette thought of nothing else from that moment thenceforth.
She must have Darcy again or she just might die of want.
Chapter 17
Old Friends, New Chapters
Within an hour of opening the doors, the ball would have been deemed a success by anyone’s standard.
Mrs. Darcy’s eyes were lively and her cheeks rosy with pleasure. Even her husband (so often out of humour) responded favourably when asked of his children’s progress. It did not go without notice that Mr. Darcy looked upon Mrs. Darcy with easy affection. Their happiness was a joy to their friends and a bane to the few who were not.
———
Although Jane suspected, Elizabeth had told no one of the coming child. That secret was behind her only true regret of the evening—her husband had not taken her on the dance floor as much as she would have liked. When Bingley bid her to take a turn, Darcy did the unthinkable—he shook his head (granted, almost imperceptibly). Bingley was not one to take offence, he was a bit surprised. A word from Jane and he smiled agreeably and withdrew. Everyone was pleased save Elizabeth.
Although her husband stood as if wholly consumed by watching the others dance, Elizabeth was not deceived. She knew he was standing guard lest another gentleman ask her to dance.
Upon her tiptoes (the only way she could whisper in his ear), she said, “If you come between me and another turn, I shall pout.”
He pretended to ignore her, but leaned over and said, “I am most happy for you dance. If you please, pray, not with Bingley.”
“Why, pray, do you deny me Mr. Bingley as a partner? Save for you, dear husband, there is not a more admirable man in the room.”
He said, “He is far too lively. He all but lifts Jane off her feet. It is my opinion that if you must dance, let it be a less frolicsome number....”
“Or a less frolicsome partner—say, one in his dotage?” she retorted.
“He can be of any age so long as he does not bound about. Mr. McNeely or Master Squires both appear to be in want of a partner,” he replied.
She replied, “Mr. McNeely lost a leg last year. Master Squires is all of fourteen and much in want of dancing with Miss Amelia McGreevy, who is but twelve. To make the poor boy stand up with a woman twice his age would be a torture for him. It might ruin his love life for all his days....”
“I surrender,” Darcy whispered, “Dance with whoever pleases you, but do not look to me to rub your... feet at the night’s end.”
At his capitulation, they shared a gaze. From the discrete caresses his hand gifted hers throughout the evening, Elizabeth suspected that he had other misgivings—most likely over their assignation in her dressing room just prior to the ball. Granted, he had left her breathless. She recovered with remarkable haste. He had yet to understand that she was not depleted by his attentions—quite the reverse. Time would come soon enough when caution would rule them, but not yet.
With a saucy glint in her eye, she took his arm reassuringly.
“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” she said. Then in a low voice, she teased, “I am a strapping wench, happy for you to make free with my person at any opportunity.”
Her protestations notwithstanding, to be looked after by her husband pleased her in a way she could not explain. Perhaps it was because he had been away during her last confinement. Regardless, he felt the need to cosset her and she enjoyed his guardianship—so long as he did not mean to keep her from dancing.
When the music stopped, the Bingleys returned to their spot next to the Darcys. After a moment, Darcy made a surprising announcement.
Bowing to his company, he said, “I am to do my duty.”
He then disappeared. As the music began, Elizabeth saw that her reticent husband’s partner was a stout widow of reduced circumstances. Seeming a bit flustered, the lady beamed once he led her onto the floor.
Full of pride, Elizabeth watched him as he betook the woman about the floor. Darcy’s dancing was not particular, but he moved with enough grace to be a pleasure to watch. As she did, Elizabeth was reminded how few men had the leg for breeches. With an inward sigh, she made herself quit such selfish entertainment. She had duties to perform as well.
In answer to Pemberley’s gilded invitations, friends travelled thither with all due anticipation. Many of these friends the Darcys had not the pleasure of seeing for several seasons. In some instances it was an intentional declension; in others it was with genuine regret. At one time, Charlotte Collins’s was one of Elizabeth’s dearest friends. Their friendship was tried by the many miles between them and not any particular dislike of her late husband. (This unadulterated fallacy Elizabeth chose to believe long after Mr. Collins’s untimely demise.)
Charlotte was neither fair of face nor romantically disposed. Therefore, she married the first man who asked her.
Mr. William Collins had the good fortune of being recommended to Lady Catherine De Bourgh when the living of Hunsford became vacant. The veneration he felt for her as his patroness, mingled with a very good opinion of himself as a clergyman, made him an unhappy mixture of obsequiousness and conceit. He was also Elizabeth’s cousin. For Elizabeth, there was no greater testament to Darcy’s love than that he married her after his introduction to all her relations.
There was some good in Mr. Collins’s match to Charlotte. He did supply her all that she truly treasured—a comfortable home, a warm hearth, and one semi-adorable offspring, Chauncey Charlemagne Collins. Although Mr. Collins death was premature, the circumstances of it lent it far too much ridicule to mourn him properly. Therefore, remembrances were unusually brief. Charlotte took to widowhood with grace and good cheer. Indeed, she appeared almost relieved.
When Elizabeth spied Charlotte across the room at the ball, she was delighted. It was as if they were once again at Netherfield almost ten winters passed. That night Charlotte admitted that she was not a romantic. It was then that Jane knew that she truly loved Charles Bingley. It was also the evening that Elizabeth became fully witting of how much she despised the arrogant, punctilious, and singularly seductive Mr. Darcy.
That evening had been the ris
e, the root, the spring, the threshold, and the dawn. That had been the beginning of it all.
Jane and Bingley took to the floor again before Elizabeth could tell her that Charlotte had come. She did not hesitate to rush to greet Charlotte by herself. Charlotte’s pale face alit with delight when she caught sight of her friend. They laughed and kissed each other’s cheeks as if schoolgirls. It was only after admiring each others gowns and coiffures that Elizabeth observed Charlotte’s companion. The new vicar of Hunsford, Mr. William Henry Pratt stood in nodding approval of their joy.
After Mr. Collins’s death, he had been Charlotte’s single consternation. When Elizabeth last called upon Charlotte, she had been critical of his sermons, the tithes, his relentless veneration of Lady Catherine, and the abysmal condition of his coat.
Clearly, Charlotte’s opinion of him had improved.
“Mr. William Henry Pratt, at your service,” he clicked his heels like a member of the Green Guard. “I am a faithful servant of God, dedicated educator of Hunsford Parish, and grateful vicar under the condescension of the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
They had met previously, but he had introduced himself as if they had not. Elizabeth did not know if he enjoyed the repetition of his presentation or fancied that she did. When he spoke, only his lower teeth showed
“It is good to see you again,” Elizabeth said.
His offer to fetch them some punch was quite agreeable to her for she was much in want of speaking candidly with Charlotte. Yet, it was a test not to stare at him as he went. There was a prissiness about him that was unnerving. He was tall, but knock-kneed. His height did not preclude the beginnings of a paunch. It had grown since last she saw him. The buttons on his waistcoat strained to keep his stomach in check. Perhaps he favoured Charlotte’s cooking. When he walked, he looked as if he was attempting to withhold an expulsion of gas.
The moment she looked at the besotted expression on Charlotte’s countenance, she was ashamed of her criticisms.
Without ado, Charlotte announced, “We are promised.”
For the first time in Elizabeth’s recollection, Charlotte was bathed in the glow of happiness. When last she saw her friend, her five-year-old son, Chauncey was still attached to her breast as if it were a cow’s teat. Seeing Charlotte happy at last gave Elizabeth a shiver of contentment. She remained pleased despite Mr. Pratt’s return. For once he began to talk, he did not pause—not even for a bit of air. It seemed there was no limit to his pomposity. His voice, when taken at length, was a monotone. Sunday sermons must be a severe test on his parishioners not to sleep. Indeed, she had to make herself listen attentively. When she did, she was horrified.
The man had taken up, and was preoccupied by, beekeeping.
Mr. Collins had met his demise by means of an enraged swarm of bees. They had chased him into a pond where he had the misfortune to drown. Elizabeth had no idea if Mr. Pratt knew that or not. She decided he must have been insensible of it, for who could drone on as he had otherwise. Elizabeth dared to glance at Charlotte. Her face was still a mask of contentment. Mr. Pratt’s voice, however, became quite animated when he began to speak of his avocation.
“I have found what I fancy to be an exceptionally handsome honeybee colony. It was quite in shambles, left to ruin, no doubt, by the previous tenant. Beekeeping is a most ancient occupation. It is said to have originated in Egypt. Thousands of years ago, Cleopatra traded honey and beeswax along the Dark Continent.”
Here he took a deep breath before continuing, “Although I fancy that beekeepers do earn a tidy living through the honey and mead it produces, our most important contribution is through fertilization. If it were not for honeybees flitting about across this flower and that cabbage, our children would starve. Chauncey is particularly fond of honey and bread. And in what other county is there such an abundance of clover and flowers than our own?”
Here he lowered his voice so as not to affright any ladies in earshot, “I must confess that beekeeping is quite a dangerous undertaking. Those proud men who fought Napoleon’s legions have little on us who must keep the vicious honeybee at bay. I myself have been stung ten, nay twenty times in one day. But one must put one’s fears aside when it to the betterment of society. Mankind avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals to his own advantage. We shear sheep, gather eggs, and use oxen as a beast of burden. Thus sprang the art of keeping bees—and I flatter myself, apiculture is indeed an art.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth answered.
Turning to Charlotte, she said with enough energy that Mr. Pratt could not but help hear her as well, “I pray this discourse does not injure dear Charlotte?”
Charlotte replied, “Indeed, I am not offended. It is good to have the hives put to use. I could listen to Mr. Pratt’s intelligence on the subject for hours on end.”
That, of course, was to Charlotte’s advantage, but most especially to Mr. Pratt. As he began his digression into the history of apiaries, husbandry of the honey bee, hives, and pollination, his conversation wandered into (and then camped out in) mythology.
“Aristæus, the son of Apollo and the nymph Cyrene were the first apiarists,” he explained. Then, unaccountably, his eyelids fluttered and he began to chant, “‘O mother, the pride of my life is taken from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you, my mother, have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune.’”
Charlotte sighed.
Others surrounding them were less impressed. Indeed, Mr. Pratt’s sudden falsetto caused a number of people to quit their own conversations and see what wounded beast had found its way to the ballroom. Although Elizabeth was acutely aware of this notice, Mr. Pratt was not.
“Forsooth, his bees were damned due to Aristaeus attempt to seduce Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus. She fled from him and suffered a fatal snake bite—which is neither here nor there. It was his mother’s nymphs who punished his sin by causing all of his bees to die; but he vowed to appease the nymphs by sacrificing his cattle, from whose carcasses emerged new swarms of bees.”
“And let that be a lesson to us all,” pronounced Charlotte.
Ignoring her remark, Mr. Pratt finished his story in his own time.
“Aristaeus was learned in the arts of healing and prophecy. Wandering over many lands, he shared his knowledge of curing the sick. He was widely honoured and was often depicted in our art as a youthful shepherd carrying a lamb.”
“Yes,” agreed Charlotte. “Mr. Collins and I always agreed that bees, especially honeybees, have an innate sense of purposefulness. Beware, Mr. Pratt, lest lofty self-regard obscures your path.”
At that, Elizabeth almost choked on her own saliva. However, Mr. Pratt seemed to take no notice of Mrs. Darcy’s near strangulation. He spoke only to Charlotte.
“I am a man of books and peaceful habits....”
“As was my late husband,” said Charlotte.
“Whose loss we look to God and his infinite wisdom,” Mr. Pratt retorted.
“He too had a good stomach and good temper and was not perplexed over much by fatigue of the brain,” replied Charlotte.
Mr. Pratt snipped, “I did not attend the funeral but sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.”
Charlotte turned to Elizabeth, remarking, “Mr. Pratt likes to say that he is a self-made man—and he worships his creator.”
Mr. Pratt said, “Nature did it’s best to make Mrs. Collins’s a wit, but nature was sadly thwarted.”
Thereupon, the repartee ceased.
Charlotte turned to Elizabeth, explaining, “As you see, Lizzy, I have once again given up all projects that cupid has any share.”
A laugh erupted from the back of Mr. Pratt’s throat ere he could quash it.
Not fully pleased to be the intermediary over whom they conducted their carefully designed abuse, Elizabeth found herself there regardless. She begged her leave. The nexus of Charlotte’s forehead, Mr. Pratt’s chin and their clasped hands was a p
osture that Elizabeth felt altogether forgiven to quit. They smiled contentedly as she made her away. And as she did, she attempted to recall the many twists and turns that bechanced the conversation as she was much in want of recalling their exact words when she told her husband of it.
Mr. Pratt was not the man either of them had supposed. He was pompous and servile. It took a very special humility, however, for a man to be happy to laugh at himself.
Chapter 18
The Belle of the Ball
Mr. Pratt had been a frugal bachelor, but now needed feeding regularly. Hence, Elizabeth beckoned them to several tables groaning with food. He held a plate as Charlotte heaped it full. Satisfied, Elizabeth returned to the dance. She did not stand there long, ere several neighbours had joined her. In time, Mr. Darcy found his wife and nodded his greetings all round. Then, he took his usual stance (one foot foremost, hands clasped behind his back). With both of the Darcys together, the topic of conversation was the success of the evening. All believed it as an unparalleled triumph. Mr. Darcy again accepted the compliments with only a slight nod. Hence, once again it fell to Elizabeth to speak on their behalf.
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