Elizabeth Newark - The Darcys Give a Ball

“Oh yes, please! I should like it of all things. I have a mare, rather old, very quiet. A true lady’s horse, my father says. I have always wished to ride a horse... that was not.”

A small hand clutched his arm, and the gray eyes danced.

“That was not?” Henry was puzzled.

“Not suitable for a lady,” said Eliza.

“My saddle!” Henry was dismayed. “I fear that too is not suitable for a lady!”

“I expect we shall manage very well.”

The groom was still standing at the horse’s head. Henry bent his knee and offered his cupped hand to Eliza as a mounting block. For one giddy moment he felt the pressure of her small foot and the pleasing weight of her form as he tossed her into the saddle. The groom moved away, and Henry walked by Eliza’s side, somewhat gingerly holding her in his saddle (not, of course, a side-saddle), as she rode down the drive. He looked up at her and her eyes (those wide-set gray eyes), alight with pleasure, met his. He wished the moment might never end.

Only now, he thought, had he begun to understand the meaning of life.

“My dearest Jane,” said Elizabeth Darcy to her favorite sister. “Love has broken out like the pox!”

“Lizzie! My dear! Such an expression,” said Jane.

Elizabeth blushed. “I blame it all on Fitz. He will use these cant sayings. I am always shocking Mr. Darcy. But in this case I can think of no other way to express it. The romantic attachments of one’s children are a constant distraction. Do not, I beg you, be surprised to hear me exclaim ‘Oh, my poor nerves—have you no compassion for my poor nerves?’”

The sisters were sitting in the conservatory at Pemberley, admiring the gardenias blooming under glass and also, as it was late June and the garden door was open to the warm summer breeze, the riot of cream and yellow roses that cascaded over the outside of the conservatory. The scent was dizzying.

“Here is poor Fitz, head-over-heels in love with your beautiful Amabel, and that is charming; we shall all be so happy if it comes to a betrothal. And Juliet has returned from town quite wild about young Churchill—not the heir, of course, Francis, that would be too much to ask; that would be tame. No, this is Gerard, such a handsome young man, quite delightful in his cavalry uniform. But a younger son and sadly wild—he has no prospects and, so they say, a mountain of debts! I fear he gambles. Most unsuitable! (His mother is an invalid, and his father does nothing to check him.) And Juliet is just at the stage where she declares that first love is all; she can never love again. She swears she will go straight into a decline, if she cannot marry Mr. Churchill—or elope—though with whom I am not sure. And now—my poor Mr. Darcy is quite without words—here is my fledgling, Henry—oh, it seems but a week ago he fell out of an apple tree, stealing pippins, and tore his pantaloons—well, here he is, barely down from Oxford, not even a full London season at his back, declaring himself in love with Eliza Collins!”

“Eliza Collins?”

“Yes, my dear. Charlotte’s youngest daughter, which is pleasant but, oh Jane, also the daughter of Mr. Collins.What is to be done?

“I blame it on the Queen,” Elizabeth went on. “A young Queen on the throne, crowned at eighteen, courted and newly married in the full glare of the public’s eye within two years. It is too much to bear. All of England is aflutter. Blushes, swoons, heartbreak, and decline are all the rage—though perhaps tight-lacing must bear its share of blame!”

“Have you met Eliza Collins? Is she presentable?” Firmly, Jane Bingley brought her sister back to the subject in hand.

“No, not yet. Henry says she is a sprite, a wren, a moss rose. (Did I mention he sits up at night writing poetry? I wonder if he will make a name as a writer, like that poor young Mr. Keats? But not of course die young! But I digress.) From which I gather that she is small and pale.”

“He is not likely to meet her again, if she is not thrown in his way. I doubt if Mr. Collins will give his daughter a London season.”

Elizabeth stood up and stretched, and ran her hands down her body over her nipped-in waist to the gathering at her hips. “Oh, Jane, how I detest the corsets that are inflicted on us these days! Remember how free we were as girls? To think fashion should demand such a shape from us!

“Henry insists we invite Eliza to Pemberley,” she went on. “Which means of course Charlotte too—I hope I am always glad to see her—but then there’s Mr. Collins! Mr. Darcy turns quite stiff and silent at the mere mention of his name. I hate to think of him exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility—and constant chatter—of Mr. Collins.”

“It would perhaps be as well for Henry to see her in his own surroundings. Perhaps she is gauche? Or pert? ‘Sprite’ can mean so many things. I know,” said Jane. “Why don’t you give a ball? Juliet will be nineteen in August, will she not? And now Henry is down from Oxford, he should be introduced formally to society. Nothing could be more suitable. A month or so’s delay may cool his ardor. And then Henry will see his Eliza among all his friends, and Mr. Collins will be diluted in a river of old acquaintance.”

“My dear Jane!” Elizabeth was impressed. “The very thing! I count on you to help me plan. Now, whom shall we invite? There are a number of young Collinses to be considered. The eldest son,William, is now the vicar of Highbury and is married, I believe, to a Miss Elton, Eugenia Elton. (Charlotte does not like her; she does not say so, but I can read between the lines.)

“And that is yet another reason why it is so important whom one’s children marry!” cried Jane. “It must be most trying for poor Charlotte for, as I recall, William is his father’s favorite and he must often be asking them to stay at Longbourn.”

“Well, at least we need not worry about them. And one of the older girls is engaged, if I remember rightly. How many will come?” This was a worrisome point. One Collins was more than enough for Mr. Darcy; a whole litter (as Elizabeth put it to herself ) might badly discompose him.

“And I will invite as many eligible young men as I can find. Juliet shall swim in admirers! She too must have a chance to compare. I am anxious for her,” Elizabeth went on in a different tone. “She is so willful! We have spoiled her sadly, I’m afraid, our beautiful little girl. Mr. Darcy worries about a possible Collins connection; but when I worry over Juliet I think not only of Lydia (so reckless), but also of Lady Catherine (so arrogant)! There are questionable attributes on both sides of the family, and what if the two traits combined! When Juliet was a baby, lying in her crib, I was dismayed by the shape of her nose. It seemed to me to bear a definite resemblance to Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine as a baby, that is (if she ever were a baby; one’s imagination is at a loss)! But she grew out of it—or into it—Juliet, I mean.

“But I cannot feel that Gerard Churchill would be a suitable match for her. She needs someone with bottom. Another of her most determined beaux in London was Colin Knightley. He seemed very stricken. Both he and Christopher, his twin, are tall and handsome, and very well brought up; there is good blood in that family. Donwell Abbey has considerable history attached to it—a very fine house, indeed. (And I must confess, dear Jane, that I have always had the tiniest tendre for Mr. Knightley. Mr. Darcy likes him too. He says he’s a sensible man, a rare compliment, I assure you.) But Juliet finds Colin somewhat dull. She calls him ‘her country squire.’ It is only mothers who welcome a dull, respectable suitor. However, he did not make her a declaration, and may well have come to his senses by now, poor young man.”

At ten o’clock that night, Elizabeth joined her husband in his study. He had been out most of the day visiting his tenant-farmers with his steward, and at dinner seemed weary and preoccupied. There had been a rash of rick-burnings in the neighborhood, not Pemberley tenants but close by, and discontent was infectious. The unrest among the working-class was a source of anxiety. But now the house was quiet. Fitz was staying with cousins in Scotland, Juliet and Henry had retired to their rooms, Juliet to try on her latest evening ensemble and pester her maid, Henry to work on his ‘Ode to Eliza.’

Mr. Darcy was writing a letter. Elizabeth still enjoyed her moments alone with her husband. She made light conversation for a few minutes, circling round her subject. Mr. Darcy put down his pen.

“Dearest Elizabeth,” he said. “Dare I say that you begin to remind me of Caroline Bingley? You are full to the brim with news. If you cannot let me finish my letter, pray tell me what is disturbing you.”

“Poor Caroline. So sad she never married,” said Elizabeth absently. Caroline Bingley still lived with her sister, Mrs. Hurst, now a widow. Her disposition had not improved. She paid regular visits to the Bingleys and, rather more often, descended on Georgiana Darcy, now married to Lord Charles Baluster.

Henry had arrived home late one night the previous week, and had poured out his world-shattering news at the breakfast table the following morning. Elizabeth had already discussed the problem with her husband.