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.
Chapter Eight
Breakfast with Mr. Darcy
She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour...
He was discovered to be proud, to be above his company,
and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in
Derbyshire could then save him from a most forbidding,
disagreeable countenance.
Eliza Collins woke early next morning. She was her mother’s daughter, whatever other inheritance she might have, and she had listened to Charlotte and carefully schooled her heart after Henry Darcy had left Longbourn. He was charming, their time together had been delightful, he was everything of which she had dreamed; but three days was not enough for a lasting attachment. So her mother said, and she was right. He must know—or would soon meet—so many beautiful, wealthy girls from the first ranks of Society. She would be foolish to count on constancy, though his last words to her had been “This will not end,” spoken under his breath as he made his bow.
Eliza was not foolish. She tied up her three-day romance with mental ribbons, and put the package away, allowing herself to unwrap just a glimpse now and then in the small hours of the night. But then the invitation had come—the first such invitation ever from Pemberley. And she had seen her mother’s eyes on her as she talked of acceptance, and what they could expect at that Mecca of her father’s dreams. Her mother was so wise, thought Eliza. But then there was Papa. Sorry though she was at his painful attack of gout, she could not help a moment’s thankfulness. The visit promised many obstacles to overcome; one at least was postponed.
She flung her arms wide in the comfort of her bed, which was piled with feather mattresses, so that, lying there in her simple white lawn nightdress with its rows of pin-tucks, she felt like the heroine of a fairy story. She wriggled her toes for sheer joy, then sat up and pulled off her nightcap. Impatient for the day to begin, she slid out of bed and ran barefoot to the window, looking eagerly out. All traces of the storm were gone. The sun was up, and the air was fresh and sweet. Doves cooed on the roof. A green expanse of lawn stretched below her, notable for the complete absence of interruption by daisy or dandelion. Indeed it might be expected that had such an upstart seedling shown its head, it would have wilted directly from feelings of inadequacy. Beneath her window, a cock pheasant paraded across this immaculate lawn, trailing his tail feathers, brave in the knowledge that he was safe from harm for a short while longer; a robin dug for worms. Cream and yellow roses covered the conservatory to her left; the wide borders were filled with lupine and delphinium, lavender, phlox, mignonette and night-scented stocks, and edged with lobelia, pansies and candytuft, which spilled over onto the grass while, round to the right, she could see two peacocks, seven feet high, clipped out of yew. Looking farther afield, she saw that the hill, crowned with trees, from which the coach had descended, was a beautiful sight. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight.
And the crowning glory—she was riding with Henry at eight o’clock.
The previous evening had been difficult at times. Miss Bingley’s dislike was obvious, though Eliza did not understand it. She had been allowed only one dance with Henry. She had longed to talk with him (perhaps about poetry?—it was so remarkable that they both read Wordsworth) but they had only been able to snatch a few moments’ conversation; they were constantly disturbed. Juliet Darcy, too, seemed prepared to resent both her and Jonathan—or at least ignore them. But dances such as this were few for Eliza. Despite those pin pricks, she enjoyed herself. For that matter, there were pin pricks at home. She did not often win her father’s approval, and her two sisters both considered it a duty to depress her. Eliza, fortified by the knowledge of her mother’s love and with Jonathan’s companionship and affection, had learned to deal with pin pricks.
She thought of Jonathan now. As they danced, he had whispered to her of his admiration for Lucy Baluster. He was much taken with her shy charm and big dark eyes. Just for a moment, Eliza had been a little hurt; this was the first time she had seen Jonathan in the throes of admiration for another girl—she had never before had to share his affection. But almost at once she was pleased, and proud that he should confide in her. And she liked Lucy. The time she had spent with her, after they left the conservatory, had been happy. They had not talked a great deal, but Lucy, delighted to display the wonders of Pemberley, where she had often stayed since childhood, to a new and undemanding friend who seemed ready to enjoy everything that came her way, had revealed more about herself than she thought. Lucy had not yet acquired the veneer of sophistication that her cousin Juliet displayed. Her idea of Pemberley’s glories included a tree where a wren nested each spring (“such a dear little nest”); the rap, rap, rap of a woodpecker; deer in the Park, new foals in a meadow beyond the stables; hound puppies tumbling about their placid mother at the kennels. After the stuffy confinement of the afternoon, with its interminable conversations about dress, parties, and beaux, the change had been a joy to Eliza.
But Miss Bingley, in throwing Henry and Lucy together so determinedly, had succeeded in keeping both Eliza and Jonathan at a distance. Jonathan had managed to dance with Lucy twice, however, though they had had little chance for conversation.
Eliza did not want to disturb her mother, and was not quite sure where Jonathan was sleeping. She dressed in her riding habit, her brown curls brushed and tied simply back with a blue ribbon. Then, her hat and her gloves in her hand, she left her room and went quietly down the grand staircase, sliding her hand pleasurably down the highly polished wood, hoping to find a side door into the grounds. All was quiet as she descended, though she knew enough to imagine the ordered chaos in the kitchen and butler’s pantry, as the staff prepared for the ball. But as she reached the hall, a door opened and a man came out, tall and upright, grave of face, not young but very handsome, his dark hair streaked with silver.