“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.
Chapter Eleven
Fox Among the Hens
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little
now and then.”
Their preference of each other was plain enough to make her
a little uneasy...
Jane Austen
At about eleven o’clock, there was a bustle at the entrance to the ballroom as some latecomers entered, with a certain amount of fuss and attention-drawing conversation. A young woman was making loud-voiced remarks on the size of the room. Many of the guests turned to see who could be attracting attention in this vulgar way. Juliet, dancing now with Alexander Wentworth, an old friend, lively and charming like his father, was smiling and chatting with
the radiance expected of the belle of the ball. As the dance came to an end, she too turned to see who was entering the ballroom so late. She saw a young woman, with shining blonde hair piled high and ornamented with plumes, dressed in a sky-blue dress in the height of fashion. The young woman moved with considerable self-assurance farther into the room, and her escort became visible. He was a tall young man in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Tenth Hussars; his scarlet coat, ornamented with lavish gold braid, hung from his shoulder. Juliet’s cheeks paled. She did not recognize the young woman, but the man was Gerard Churchill.
Mr. Darcy had long since retired to the card room. Mrs. Darcy moved towards her new guests, and Juliet went quietly to her side.
“Mr. Churchill?” said Elizabeth. “Won’t you introduce me to..?”
Gerard bowed gracefully. “With pleasure, Mrs. Darcy, and with my deep apologies for our late arrival. May I present my betrothed, Miss Ferrars? Mrs. Darcy, Miss Selina Ferrars.”
Ferrars. Elizabeth noted the pretty but somewhat sharp face, the arrogant tilt of the head with its massed blonde curls, the over-elaborate, over-bright blue satin dress, and the costly sapphire and diamond necklace adorning the slim throat. Quite unsuitable at her age, thought Elizabeth. Her socially trained brain was running through its index. She knew Mr. Edward Ferrars and his quiet wife, Elinor, very slightly. They had quite a large family, she understood, but only a clergyman’s income. Nell Ferrars was a guest that evening. Hadn’t there been some family scandal? The younger brother, Robert Ferrars, had been left the entire family fortune and had run off with his brother’s fiancée? This must be the daughter of that somewhat disreputable marriage, presumably extremely wealthy, hence the necklace.
“Delighted,” said Elizabeth formally. Oh dear, she thought, catching sight of her daughter’s face. Poor Juliet. Of course! What a tiresome young man Gerard is!
The music was starting again; it was the supper dance. Gerard led Selina Ferrars onto the floor. Juliet stood by her mother, her face now flushed with mortification. Gerard had smiled at her, his own special crinkly smile, the smile he reserved for her—and then walked past her to dance with Selina. She felt as if an icicle had entered her heart.
“Do you wish to dance, Miss Darcy? May I..?” said a quiet voice in her ear. She looked up, startled. The man by her side was not handsome and of only medium height, but his clothes were elegant and his address considerable.
“Mr. Elliot,” said Juliet, as he bowed. How could he expect her to dance? How could she even move? She met Walter Elliot’s experienced gaze and her eyes fell. Could he possibly know what had just happened to her? That her heart was broken and her life ended? Moving automatically, under the spell of those greenish eyes, she gave him her hand, and he pressed it slightly as he swung her into the dance. It was a polka-mazurka.
“I have stolen you away,” he said. “I arrived late and have not the good fortune to be on your program.”
The dance was promised to Charlie Musgrove, Fitz Darcy’s great friend. A moment before, Juliet had been fighting the desire to scream, or burst into tears and rush from the room. But she managed a laugh. It was true; Mr. Musgrove would be so provoked, and this was diverting. The icicle began to melt, and she was able to move freely and even talk. She began to feel a little daring, even a little fast.
“The polka comes to us from the Continent, from Germany, Miss Darcy, where legends have sprung up about the dance. To dance the polka, it is said, men and women must have hearts that beat high and strong. In fact, it is said that by the way you dance the polka, one can tell how you will love!” Mr. Elliot’s voice was low and insinuating. Whatever he said seemed to be somehow secret, for her ears only.
Juliet blushed deeply. She looked up, her face questioning, her eyes a little shocked. Mr. Elliot smiled at her, his eyes quizzing her a little, and began at once to talk of fashionable London, amusing tales of people she had met, very slightly scandalous. Juliet began to laugh. Her cheeks were still flushed, but she had regained her poise; her back was straight and her head high. Juliet’s sophistication was only skin deep; her ventures into society had been well chaperoned. Her color came now from the slightly risqué quality of Mr. Elliot’s conversation and her consciousness of his admiring looks and the nearness of his form as he held her close to him and reversed in the polka. He danced superbly. He was a different generation from her brothers and her usual escorts. His manner seemed a challenge she must rise to. Her heart was still broken, but her breath came quickly and the lace on her yellow silk bodice fluttered.
Supper was announced. Juliet was glad to have such a notable partner as she moved with the dancers into the rooms set aside for this purpose. She noticed Catriona’s quick glance at him, and then at her. Catriona Fitzwilliam was two years her senior, and had numerous beaux in Town. Catriona sat down next to Amabel Bingley, and Juliet moved automatically in that direction, but her arm was firmly held and she somehow found herself seated in a quiet corner, cut off from her friends.
The supper was lavish and magnificently displayed. A whole peacock made the centerpiece, its tail in full display, and around it there were ducks in aspic and cold roast chickens on silver platters, a suckling pig with a crab-apple in its mouth, lobster patties, glazed veal pies, mushrooms stuffed with shrimp and cream, tureens of white soup, asparagus, pineapples and grapes from the conservatory, trifles, sorbets, and small iced cakes of every description. Champagne flowed; there was fruit cup for the ladies to drink.
There were two long tables, with small round tables set about them.When most people were seated, there came an unexpected interruption. Fitz Darcy stood up, his champagne glass raised.
“I want all my friends to join with me in celebrating a great occasion. Amabel has consented to be my wife!” Everyone rose to drink to the happy couple. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, whose consent had already been obtained, stood smiling in pleasure, and Mr. Bingley made a short, cheerful speech of congratulation. Amabel, radiant in her happiness, looked up at Fitz, and he looked down at her, and their affection was plain for all to see.
Walter Elliot filled a glass for Juliet, who looked shocked. She loved her brother and was fond of Amabel; everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they were betrothed, but she had planned that it should be her own engagement that was announced that night. Emotion and dancing had made her thirsty and she emptied her glass at once. Mr. Elliot refilled it. He rose and filled a plate for her with every delicacy. She nibbled a vol-au-vent and some asparagus, and her companion bent his head close to her ear and talked entertainingly. He was drinking champagne, while she was drinking fruit cup, but sometimes it seemed that her glass was filled from some headier fountain. It was delicious. Golden bubbles filled her mouth and mounted to her brain. Her breath came more quickly and her laugh was more frequent. When she looked up, his eyes were on her, and this again was intoxicating. She found herself talking of Fitz and Amabel, and then moved naturally to Gerard, and the shock of his engagement. Miss Ferrars’s overloud voice could sometimes be heard above the general hubbub of the room.
“He is a fool. Why think of him?” said her new admirer. “To forfeit you for a woman with the voice of a peacock and the taste of a magpie.They are attracted by shiny objects and gaudy colors, you know. Forget him. He is unworthy of you.”
“If she is a magpie, what am I?” asked Juliet, daringly.
He looked around the room, at the portraits and tapestries and Chinese porcelain, the brilliance of the chandeliers, each with a hundred candles—everything that made up Pemberley. To be part of this, to make Juliet Darcy his wife and have the entrée as of right to Pemberley, would suit him very well, he thought. He smiled down at her.
“You are an oriole, that golden songster, a diamond of the first water. You are like champagne... you intoxicate me.” His voice sank on his last words.
The excitement of the ball, the tension of her anticipation of Gerard, the shock of his betrayal, the heat, the light, the fo
od, the drink—all were at work in Juliet. His voice sent a delicious frisson down her spine, into her fingertips, her earlobes. His fingers brushed the back of her hand.
“I should like to take you away from this noisy overheated crowd, to have you all to myself, for a moonlit drive through the woods and meadows, soothed by the midnight breeze. Will you come with me?”
Juliet trembled. Such a suggestion was far beyond a débutante’s expectations. How daring it would be! But at that moment she caught sight of her mother’s crimson dress, as she passed among her guests. “Oh—I must not,” she said. “I wish that I could. But I must not.”
“Miss Juliet,” a voice broke into their reverie. “Miss Juliet, I protest!” Charlie Musgrove, somewhat tousled about the head and flushed about the cheeks, stood before her, staring at Walter Elliot indignantly. “The supper dance... your company... was promised to me!”
“You were tardy, sir,” said Walter Elliot suavely. “Miss Darcy waits on no man’s pleasure. Your punishment was to lose your dance.”
“Juliet?” Charlie held his ground. “The music is starting again. This next dance is also mine.”
Walter Elliot raised Juliet to her feet, then turned her hand in his, and brushed his lips over her palm before he relinquished her hand.
“Later, my diamond,” he said, and sauntered off through the crowd.
But he did not go far. Spreading his net, he began to talk to Mrs. Bingley; he knew how close the Darcys and Bingleys were. It would stand him in good stead to make Mrs. Bingley his friend. Then, somewhat daringly, he invited her to dance. Jane Bingley was delighted. She chaperoned her daughter to balls, but seldom danced herself these days. She demurred, but then consented. Her husband was in the card room, doing his duty, and she went willingly out onto the dance floor with this well-spoken man.
Then he danced again with Catriona Fitzwilliam. She had several seasons at her back and was far more sophisticated than her cousin Juliet, and had a lively sense of humor. She did not for a moment take his compliments seriously; he changed his tactics and soon had her laughing. As he danced, he kept his eyes open for Juliet, dancing first with Charlie Musgrove, then with Torquil Fitzwilliam, and then Anthony Bingley.
The Darcys Give a Ball Page 8
