“Mary,” he finally said, addressing my profile. “I’m sorry…” He flinched when I looked up at him, and I shook my head to show him I didn’t understand. “I’m sorry…” he began again, stammering as he removed his hand from my shoulder. When I made as if to reach for him, he visibly recoiled. “I’m sorry…about the state of the shoe-roses. Do you think all of them are ruined?” he asked weakly.
I didn’t offer an answer, and he didn’t wait for one. We picked ourselves up cautiously, and recovering the box from where Mr. Collins had dropped it, we slipped and stumbled down the narrow, puddle-filled lane until, at last, the familiar rectangle of Longbourn appeared to us behind the screen of falling rain. I pushed open the gate, and we walked side by side though not arm in arm slowly towards the house.
When I look back on the incident that followed, I can only describe what happened next as an instant of hysteria. As we neared the front entrance, I suddenly lunged sideways and briefly, politely, respectfully pecked his cheek with my puckered mouth before running away from him at full speed and tearing down the drive with the soggy box of shoe-roses in my hands. Laughing, I banged on the door with my left fist.
“Let me in!” I cried. “I come bearing gifts! A dozen pretty ornaments to adorn all your misshapen, foul-smelling feet!”
The door opened, and I collapsed into the maternal breasts of Mama and Mrs. Hill, as the shoe-roses settled with a pathetic squish on the floor. “There,” I said dramatically. “There are your shoe-roses, Mama. For my life and soul, your shoe-roses.”
Mr. Collins skipped in from out of the rain a few moments after me and again extracted the wet handkerchief from his pocket to dab his brow.
I heard Mama ask what kept me so long, while Mrs. Hill deplored the state of my dress and stockings, which had been washed by Sarah not five days ago. “Well?” Mama repeated. “What have you to say for yourself, Mary, for staying out more than two hours in this weather and making Mr. Collins suffer along with you?”
The wave of concerned siblings arrived as Mama and Mrs. Hill were still wrestling off my coat, and the hall was soon noisy with complaints and anxious inquiries after the state of the shoe-roses. But I could entertain in my mind none of these things. As the heads and bodies of my mother and sisters divided me from the gentleman wringing his hat of rainwater at the door, I could think only of Mr. Collins’s face after I’d kissed him, how he’d touched the spot on his cheek as though he’d felt the prick of a needle; how, as I’d sprinted away and looked back at him, his face had flushed, even in the cold of the rain, and he had smiled tenderly at me through the storm.
For the next four days, Longbourn was a hive of activity. I hadn’t a single moment to myself without one or another of my family asking my opinion of a pair of gloves or the suitability of a coral necklace. And though my judgment was never heeded, I was still expected to sit with the rest of my sisters while they deplored the wretched state of their wardrobes, which, despite containing a profusion of dresses, featured not a single garment suitable for the upcoming ball. The immediate consequence of this was that I saw little of Mr. Collins, except at meals, and even then, there proved no opportunity to speak with him, for Lydia and Kitty dominated the conversation with squabbles over the outfits they planned to wear. But nothing, not even the rain that persisted until the very day of the Netherfield ball, could dampen my sisters’ enthusiasm, and we arrived a little early in order to marvel at the exquisite rooms before they overflowed with people. For the first quarter of an hour, I had all four sisters at my side. Then the music started, and Mr. Bingley whisked Jane away to dance. Lizzy went in search of Mr. Wickham, as much to seek out his company as to avoid standing up with our cousin, and Lydia and Kitty proceeded directly towards the thickest clusters of red.
The ball at Netherfield Park was a much grander occasion than any of us were accustomed to, and the fortunes of our family were considered to depend a great deal on the evening’s success. “If all goes well tonight,” Mama had said, fussing with Jane’s cloak, “I shouldn’t be surprised if we received a visit from Bingley tomorrow morning, and then we shall have the banns published by Christmastime.”
Netherfield was without a doubt one of the most impressive houses in the county, and its usual finery was enhanced tenfold by the guests our host had invited, many of whom had traveled expressly from London. Like birds of paradise, the women embellished the gilded rooms with their splendid gowns and sparkling jewelry. The men strutted as conceitedly as peacocks, posturing in their tailored waistcoats and artfully knotted cravats. Though I had worn my best dress and added to it a few embellishments in order to conceal its unfashionable simplicity, my inadequate efforts could not escape the critical eye of my hostess. And I confess I felt more ashamed of myself than angry when Miss Caroline Bingley openly sneered at my ensemble, her own, of course, exhibiting every advantage of her handsome and imposingly tall figure. There is nothing as effective as the view of so much wealth, culture, and beauty to serve as a reminder of the social and financial inadequacy of one’s own family.
Being left alone permitted me to observe in practice several truisms, the first of which is that women who find themselves without a partner will instinctively gravitate towards other women similarly deprived. One will often see these small groups huddled discreetly in corners of large rooms, observing the fashions of the latest arrivals while picking grapes off their plates of fruit and moderately sipping wine. It is quite easy to spot them, but if you have any trouble doing so, here is another pointer from one who would know. These women will normally appear extraordinarily pleased with themselves and their company, for it is in their best interest that they look as happy in talking with members of their own sex as the women who are engaged in dancing or, worse, the women who are not engaged in dancing but are surrounded by more men than should justly be allotted to them, which, of course, is any number more than one.
Speaking as an intrepid survivor of every awkward and belittling circumstance that may possibly arise in the course of these joyous evenings, I will now share two advantages of existing as an outsider at an elegant ball. The first is that I have become an expert in several aspects of human behavior and can tell at a glance when a woman is jealous and displeased, even when she smiles. From several feet away, I can spot the critical moment when strife has arisen between husband and wife, and so long as I pay close attention, I can discern, too, the turning point in a conversation when a man begins to regret the company he has joined and commences to search the room for any excuse to leave it behind. These number only a few of a multitude of delicious and entertaining scenarios I’ve picked up over the years, which arise anytime a large group of respectable people have congregated to socialize in a shared space. But even more remarkable, I believe, is the second advantage I’ve gained from being generally ignored at these events, which is the ability to employ myself for hours with the undertaking of exceptionally meaningless tasks. These range from counting the number of women wearing the same color (blue appears particularly in fashion this season), the ratio of dresses featuring long sleeves to dresses featuring short ones, and the number of times Kitty and Lydia can publicly disgrace our family in an evening (the results vary but fall between three times on a good day to a standing record of thirteen separate instances on a night when both proved especially excitable and uninhibited).
Standing in the great ballroom of Netherfield Park, I had just finished counting the number of crystal chandeliers that spanned the length of the gilded ceiling (eight, four layers each, a dozen lighted candles in the two middle layers, six at the ends) and had embarked on the harder but more amusing task of noting the number of instances in which Mr. Darcy looked indifferently away from the worshipful gaze of Miss Caroline Bingley, when Charlotte Lucas, trailed by a starry-eyed Maria, arrived at my side. Like hostages who have been delivered into safety, we instantly embraced. I’d never been happier or more grateful for the sight of Charlott
e and Maria, and they seemed equally pleased at seeing me, so much that both sisters squeezed my hands as they remarked how pretty I looked and that the large white feather in my hair was quite the inspired touch. Having eagerly received their compliments, I was now duty-bound to return the praise, and running a quick eye over both their persons, I soon settled on Charlotte’s heart-shaped gold locket (“Really brings out the length and elegance of your neck, my dear”) and Maria’s dragonfly brooch with the sapphire eyes (“How positively lifelike it looks! Do you think it’ll start flying about the room, if you don’t watch it carefully?,” which made both sisters laugh and gave our coterie the appearance of being the most cheerful and fashionable little group in the whole of Netherfield Park).
“Mary, how we’ve missed you,” Maria exclaimed. Despite the fact that we’d walked the grounds of Longbourn together not five days ago, this was a perfectly natural thing to say, since all three of us numbered among the less interesting category of women at balls and, therefore, found strength in displaying to one another an unwavering allegiance and affection that, under any other circumstance, would have been considered quite excessive. I replied with no less enthusiasm that I felt the same and that it had been far too long.
“And look, none of us have anything to eat or drink,” Charlotte pointed out.
The act of eating and drinking is critical, as I’ve explained, to the partnerless woman and her friends appearing at leisure on a stage in which they’ve been assigned the role of living scenery. She must also never draw excessive attention to herself by forgetting that her attendance at a ball is merely a polite formality, and that the host may not even know who she is without being first reminded of the names of her sisters and parents. The fruit plate and wineglass are both vital props in sustaining a quiet and unassuming dignity, and Charlotte, being a more tested veteran of these events than even myself, showed great intelligence in promptly leading us along the edges of the large room to an adjoining one where there were four long tables set with enormous pyramids of fruit, tray upon tray of cheeses and cold meats, and pitchers of wine. I shall also let my readers in on a little secret I’ve discovered over the years, which is that an empty wineglass should never be surrendered to a server without being immediately replaced by a full one. It is far better to hold onto an empty wineglass, if it cannot promptly be substituted for something else from which one can either eat or drink, should conversation reach an awkward lull.
We subsequently busied ourselves with selecting the choicest fruits and cheeses for our plates and, this being soon done, winding our way through all the rooms open to the ball in search of an unoccupied divan, should we be so lucky, or an empty corner that provided a good view of the dancing. With Maria and Charlotte flanking either side of my person, I could comfortably observe Mr. Bingley’s most sumptuous gathering. Roses, columbines, and lilacs spilled thick from gold-plated vases. The servants wore clean, dignified frocks and impassive expressions on their faces (smiles and laughter being the prerogative of guests, not the staff). All around us, there was tasteful, pleasing music, and my feet glided across the polished marble floor to the perfectly unified lamentations of the violins.
I’d begun to wobble my head to the light and winsome entry of a flute when a partial family portrait opened up before me. At one end of the room, I witnessed Kitty and Lydia chasing two laughing officers. Between shrieks of delight, they grabbed for the ends of the red sashes secured around the officers’ waists until Lydia, impatient to bring the game to a victorious conclusion, finally caught one of her victims and began, to my horror, to tug vigorously on the poor man’s sash in an attempt to remove it. This was a ghastly enough picture in and of itself, but it was quickly supplanted by an even more mortifying one. Watching Kitty and Lydia from the other end of the room were my parents, Jane, and Mr. Bingley. Jane had turned as scarlet as the officers’ regimentals; having never been a partnerless woman in her life, she could not know the indispensable purpose a plate of fruit and a glass of wine will serve in humiliating situations such as this. Empty-handed and voiceless, she looked imploringly to our mother, who undoubtedly saw something of her former self in her two youngest girls’ enjoyment, for she wore a most satisfied and approving smile on her face. As for Papa, it is impossible for me to describe his inaction without feeling a deep sense of disgrace; he shook his head and, turning back to his plate of fruit, greedily munched on a large and succulent pear before murmuring something flippant about girls of a certain age to the elderly couple nearest him. His reaction encouraged others to do the same—that is, to glance knowingly at their neighbors and shake their heads at my sisters’ collective shamelessness—while Mr. Bingley had taken to swirling his index finger around in his champagne glass and bouncing awkwardly on his heels.
Charlotte kindly guided me away, and I followed her and Maria wordlessly out of the room.
“You’ve run out of grapes, Mary,” Charlotte said. “Let us go and replenish them.”
To do so obligated us to pass the dancing, and it was here that Maria suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Look!” Maria cried. “What a sight to behold, for who do you think is dancing with Mr. Collins?”
I’d seen little of Mr. Collins for most of the evening. Though I’d sat next to him in the carriage to Netherfield, we had said nothing to each other, and my glancing at him often to check if any of my looks might be reciprocated had repeatedly ended in disappointment. Upon arriving at the ball, he’d disappeared from my view, and subsequent attempts to recover his company had proved unsuccessful, for no sooner would I glimpse him in a crowd and endeavor to make my way to his side, uttering several pardons to the guests I inconvenienced as I did so, than he would seem to see me and move swiftly away, adeptly dodging the many broad and delicate shoulders that obstructed his path. The first time I’d given up for bad luck, but in the third instance, I had called out to him. Upon hearing his name, he’d spun his head about the room and, spotting me waving at him several feet away, had briskly turned back around. After this, I’d followed him no more.
It was some moments before I’d recovered myself. Upon reaching the great ballroom, I had fortunately happened upon a quiet corner and had turned to the magnificent set of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. These I’d begun to count in my head, mouthing the numbers and starting afresh if I thought I’d miscalculated, even as a familiar heaviness gathered in my throat and in my eyes. I was glad Charlotte and Maria had discovered me soon after I’d finished, and it was a lucky thing that neither of my dear friends had noticed a few discreet tears in embracing me and kissing my cheeks.
But we presently looked upon a queer sight, and I confess that the picture in real life of Mr. Collins and Lizzy dancing showed itself much stranger than anything my imagination would have been able to conjure, even at the height of its powers. Whatever tasteful compliments he may have issued to my sister during the course of light-footed hopping almost certainly fell on deaf ears, so visibly disinterested did she appear to anything he addressed in her direction. She looked frequently over his head, and when they were obligated by the nature of the dance to hold hands, she turned away from him and flashed a charming smile at whoever happened to catch her eye, so long as it wasn’t Mr. Collins himself. But he wouldn’t give up his task so easily. His mouth continued to shape a thousand pleasing words, and his twinkling eyes betrayed the hope burning fervently in his optimistic breast of securing her attention. Though this is all speculation on my part, I do not think I stray too far from the truth in my interpretation, for both Mr. Collins and Lizzy took no pains to conceal their emotions, which were made much easier to distinguish by being the exact opposite of whatever the other was feeling. The dance, however, soon concluded, and I had just time to see Mr. Collins bowing so low to Lizzy that his forehead seemed in danger of touching the floor before Charlotte steered me away once again, back into the room of towering fruit and brilliantly polished silver.
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For the better part of two whole minutes, I stared without moving at a pineapple, until, from a hollow distance, I heard Charlotte’s voice. She seemed to be speaking to me, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Mary,” she said. Ah, now I was certain, for that was my name, and I slowly turned to meet her gaze. “Mary,” she repeated. “I see you haven’t refilled your plate. Oh, goodness, you do look pale all of a sudden. Are you all right?”
“I feel fine,” I replied, just as more guests entered the room—Mr. Collins and Lizzy included. Walking swiftly in front of him, she seemed eager to acknowledge everyone in her vicinity except the one person most starved for her notice. He persisted, however, in trailing behind her as if he were her own shadow. In fact, the room might have been empty for the way he bungled past other guests in order to close the distance between himself and my sister, and when Lizzy swerved suddenly to her left, he nearly tripped over the train of a stranger’s gown to keep his place by her side. At last they came close enough that I could hear some of their—or, rather, his—conversation, divided, as we were, by a small cluster of guests which conveniently obscured Mr. Collins and Lizzy’s view of me.
Mary B Page 11
