Page 12 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

Cloe dressed herself carefully for her first ball with some difficulty, as Bettina and the maids had taken up a position in front of the looking-glass, and she could scarcely see around or through them.

In the absence of jewels to display, Bettina was evolving a complicated hair arrangement in which her plaits were sculpted and twined about with a feather headdress lent her by Mrs. Darcy.

The sisters’ gowns were both white, but when they at last stood together before the mirror, the maids revolving about them, pulling out their skirts so the material lay smoothly, Cloe felt that no one would take notice of her, when Bettina was by.

Yet she was in remarkably good looks: her white skin shone in the firelight, her light hair was arranged smoothly in bands over the ears, with some small gold flowers taken from the hot-house; and she had the satisfaction of a pair of white-and-gold enamel bracelets lent her by Jane, though a ribbon around her neck was her only other ornamentation.

She appeared a picture of simplicity; yet using similar materials, Bettina had drawn a very different picture indeed.

More statuesque in form, she commanded the eye with her height, bearing, and colouring, more brilliant than her sister’s.

Her dark hair was impressive in its ornamentation, and she waved a feathery fan that Fitzwilliam had bestowed upon her, though she laughingly declined to own where it came from.

On the landing the sisters were met by Jane, who advanced, all elegance, her own silk gown more costly than her cousins’, with diamond solitaires twinkling in her ears and a headpiece of silk roses.

“Oh! Jane, how lovely you look!” cried Cloe.

“You are the ones who are lovely, and I shall be proud to present my cousins,” she replied, kissing them, and they swept downstairs, the two younger girls arm in arm, Bettina pacing behind them, towering over their heads in stately fashion.

The house party was collected in the ballroom already, and carriages were arriving from all the great houses of the neighbourhood.

In spite of Lydia’s fear that the weather might keep people away, the guests numbered scarcely less than three score.

The Pemberley ballroom was fully equal to such a gathering, and it looked its most beautiful, with hundreds of wax-candles sparkling in the great crystal chandeliers, the polished floor gleaming in readiness for the dance, and the holly decorations hanging in festoons from the walls, making a most festive Christmas appearance.

Mr. Darcy beamed fondly at his daughter and took her arm as the procession went in.

“It is fairyland,” said Cloe, enchanted, to Henry, as he took her arm and they fell into step behind Fitzwilliam and Bettina.

“It is pretty, is it not? I am glad you are pleased; that is what my father so kindly intended. And I like seeing you in such good looks: I am sure I may safely say as much, for you are not one of the young ladies that affects anger upon being complimented.”

“To be sure not. I am too happy. Do you know, if I am to be a governess, my recollections of a night like this will be pleasant to me, and I shall be fortunate to have them.”

“Yes—” he said thoughtfully, “but I hope that does not mean you consider your fate as settled. You might marry, you know. People sometimes do.”

“But I am not an heiress,” she replied with a smile, “so it is wisest for me to plan for the day my ordinary life begins again.”

“Cloe, it is not my place to wonder—but is being a governess exactly the lot you should choose for yourself? Or would you choose to be useful in another sphere, say as wife to a useful man?”

“Of course I would rather be that,” she said, casting down her eyes, “anybody would; but I cannot expect such good fortune.”

He said no more, recollecting where he was, but he took her hand as the fiddlers began to strike up for the first dance.

Jane stood by the side of Lord Frederick, the family connection, who was handsome and charming beyond what any family had a right to expect.

With gallant punctiliousness, he had early claimed his right to the first two dances.

“For you have kept me waiting longer than any other partner,” he told her.

“I have been waiting for you to grow up.”

Jane’s cheeks, always pink, went a little pinker. “And are you pleased with the result?” she asked archly.

“No one could be more so,” he returned with admiring sincerity, and they began to dance together, in perfect time.

The older people watched from a row of gilt chairs, with varying expressions of criticism, elation, or spite. The Darcys, beaming on their daughter, looked, and were, some of the most happy and content beings in the room.

“Our Jane is everything she should be,” said Darcy, “you are to be congratulated, Elizabeth, on such a beautiful young woman; she does you credit.”

“There is very little of my merit in her beauty; she resembles me less than she does her Aunt Jane, for which I am thankful, for Jane was always the beauty of the family. Our sons, too—are they not a handsome pair?”

“If looks were virtues, we might be perfectly satisfied with all our children,” was the reply.

But the Darcys could not indulge themselves in parental compliments of longer duration. Lady Catherine leaned over Elizabeth to speak to her nephew.

“Darcy! I must beg that this disgraceful scene be stopped. Cannot these musicians play something other than a valse? It is not proper. Country dances, or minuets, were the mode in my youth. But these valses—with such close embraces, and such swift movement, will cause the dancers to become dangerously feverish, and to swoon, with the very worst consequences that can possibly be.”

“Lady Catherine is quite right,” Mr. Collins agreed, with energy.

“It is the very thing to inflame the passions and to occasion brain fever. I do not like to speak of such things before ladies, but when I see young cousins dancing together in such a fashion, it is my duty, as a clergymen, to remonstrate.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Collins, Fitzwilliam and that girl have had four dances together: four, and there is no end to it. People are starting to talk. Something must be done.”

Elizabeth had little desire to do anything to please Lady Catherine, but this was a rare instance of their thinking in concert, for to her discomfiture, as she examined her feelings, she found that they were not very dissimilar from her Ladyship’s.

“Miss Partridge is not dancing,” she said.

“I am very concerned to see it. Let me find Fitzwilliam, and ask him to dance with her.”

But a survey of the ballroom failed to disclose her older son or Miss Wickham, though everyone had seen them only moments before, and Elizabeth finally laid her gloved hand on Cloe’s arm as her partner returned her to the chaperones.

“Have you seen your sister, my dear? I want Fitzwilliam, and last time I saw them they were dancing together.”

“Yes, they were, ma’am. But they cannot be dancing any longer—the first set of dances is over, and I have changed partners, so I suppose Bettina is in a similar situation.”

“No doubt I will see them when the dancers take the floor again,” said Mrs. Darcy.

Henry came over to her. “You want Fitzwilliam, Mama? Perhaps he is in the card-room or the supper-room. And some of the dancers may have stepped into the garden. Shall I look there?”

“Surely no one can be outside at this hour,” objected Mr. Collins. “There is actually ice on the ground, and in thin dancing-clothes it would be most incautious.”

“But some of the gentlemen go outside to smoke.”

“Good heavens! But Fitzwilliam does not smoke.”

“He does; I have seen him do so at the races.”

“Races! Mr. Henry, surely you, a clergyman, never attend race meetings.”

“I have been to one or two in my life; I am very fond of horses, you know, Cousin Collins, though of course I do not bet. But this is not much to the purpose, when my mother is thinking about Fitzwilliam.”

The music began for a schottische, and Elizabeth returned to her seat in despair. Nowhere in the flouncing dancers could she discern her son or his cousin, and as they were two such striking figures, their not being in the room was certain.

In fact, the young couple had stepped out through the garden door to breathe the chilling air, for Bettina scorned fears for her health, and there Fitzwilliam, fired by her bounding spirit, her beauty, and her open pursuit of himself, proposed to her, quite contrary to his father’s commands, and was accepted instantly, indeed almost before he could speak the words.

They returned to the heated ballroom, an engaged couple; and the happy man, who had taken a sufficient number of cups of wine punch to loosen any feeling of restraint, ebulliently stepped up to his father and spoke the tremendous news, conveniently overlooking what would be Mr. Darcy’s likeliest reaction.

“Father, I have proposed to Miss Wickham, and I am glad to say she has accepted me. I know this is not precisely in accordance with your best wishes for my future, but I am sure, when you see how happy we are, you will approve.”

“Great God, Fitzwilliam! That is more than I know! But how can you conceive that this is the place for a discussion of such things? Consider, almost everyone we know in the world is present in this room, and probably ten or twenty of them are listening at this moment. Let us end this. You will come to my study in the morning, if you please, sir, and we will talk then. But I must say, such an application at this time, and in this place, is highly displeasing to me.”

Fitzwilliam tried to say something, but Mr. Darcy continued, “Enough has been said, sir,” and turned away.

Fitzwilliam returned to Bettina. “Well, he was a little taken by surprise, certainly he was surprised, but I think all will be well in the morning,” he told his bride elect, who smiled and simpered and tried to blush.