Chapter XXVII
The Netherfield Ball, October 25, 1811
The light streaming through Netherfield's west-facing windows poured molten gold over every fixture in the ballroom.
Caroline Bingley could not appreciate the aesthetic atmospherics despite the beauty of the sunlight glinting off of gilt-laden furnishings and crystalline chandeliers. There was, as of yet, far too much to accomplish before her 150 guests arrived some three hours hence. Not only were tasks still being completed, but Caroline was also convinced that none would meet her standards unless she personally supervised the final execution.
She had heard from nearly a dozen of the local doyens that it had been nearly five years since a ball of this magnitude had been given in this backwater corner of England. Miss Bingley would never admit to having a cloud cross her brow when faced with what seemed to be insurmountable. She privately would allow that there were moments in the darkness of her chamber when she stared up at the featureless plain stretching above her, butterflies batting about her ribcage.
After Charles impetuously had taken it into his head to put on a ball, Caroline had spent the fortnight discovering how much she could find in the estate's storerooms and what she would have to bring in from Town. Carters' wagons bound for Netherfield daily rumbled along the turnpikes connecting the capital, St. Albans, and Ware to Meryton. Their beds were filled with hothouse flowers, choice viands, elegant tableware, and untaxed liquids. This was one of the times she did not eschew her father's business acumen; his fortune founded in trade made this evening possible without discomfort.
Nary a soul would have dared compare her methods to plan the Harvest Ball with those used by her bête noire, Mrs. Bennet, to organize Mary Bennet's wedding. Yet, both ladies were alike in their planning discipline: lists upon lists covering sheets of foolscap scattered about both estates' public areas as if the parlors had been turned over to der Generalstab des preußischen Königs. Both Bennet and Fitzwilliam had been heard complimenting their respective hostesses' Teutonic efficiency. Neither lady was exactly certain how much was praise and how much was sarcasm.
Miss Bingley doubted that any of the country bumpkins crossing her threshold this evening would notice any shortcoming in her preparations, but she was determined that all would be as perfect as if the Beau was on the guest list. Her own self-image insisted that she show these rusticated ladies—the local gentlemen would only notice if there was a sudden shortage of port and brandy in the card room—how an accomplished hostess met every obstacle.
Now, she had but an hour before she would prepare herself to greet her guests. And those salutations, while made between clenched teeth and fluted through upturned nostrils, would cement her standing as the arbiter of style. None could gainsay any decision Caroline made: of this, she was convinced. She fully expected that her enhanced reputation, gained from the ball's flawless execution, to precede her when she made her triumphant return to Town.
The one complication to her great success was that she would, perforce, share the receiving line with the Reverend and Mrs. Benton. She had already fought and lost the battle with her brother about turning the Harvest Ball into a post-nuptial festivity. Caroline had no specific objection to the newlyweds. Everything she had seen suggested they were both serious people and not prone to emotional outbursts, unlike the lady's mother. They would exhibit manners that were everything proper. However, while they were undistinguished, they were well-known in the neighborhood. The well-wishers would pass by Caroline and Charles to greet the Bentons. Her victory would be tempered.
At least I convinced Charles and Mr. Fitzwilliam to nudge Mr. Bennet into bowing to his own indolent proclivities. They bruited about the idea that some spectacular well-aged brandy would be available to him in the library if the Bennets could find a way to abandon tradition, specifically if the elder Bennets could eschew the receiving line. Perhaps he could suggest to his wife a place of honor in the ballroom, one of the alcoves with a gold-brocade divan where Mrs. Bennet could hold court. Then the lady could bask in her neighbor's adulation while Mr. Bennet sipped some 'sunshine in a glass'i insulated from her exultations.
A clattering commotion interrupted her musings. Two footmen had tangled their feet and managed to drop that self-same sofa about which Caroline had just been thinking. Shouting for Mrs. Nichols, Caroline sped across the room to lambaste the offenders.
As her fulminations ran their course, Miss Bingley caught sight of her lady's maid hovering on the outskirts of the latest conflagration. Emmaline would be faced with a daunting task to coif and clothe her mistress in time to greet early arrivers. Caroline may have been a right tartar when it came to the manner in which she marched to engage in society's wars, but she also was no fool. She knew that the Frenchwoman could only hope to accomplish so much…and less if put under unreasonable time constraints…in three hours. Her preparations would demand every minute.
The tradesman's daughter needed to be at her best if she was to step as she planned into the ranks of the aristocracy by impressing Sir Thaddeus with her ahem accomplishments.
With a withering look at the housekeeper and a snapped "See that nothing is broken or scratched!", Caroline spun on her heel and swept from the room, a battleship arrayed in a full suite of billowing orange silk sails trailed by a drab black and grey cockboat scurrying to keep up.
Fitzwilliam was congratulating himself on defusing the redheaded powder keg that masqueraded as the Ball's hostess. He had estimated that Miss Bingley could bear up with only her brother and the Bentons by her side.
Convincing Bennet to offer his lady a throne from which she could shower her acolytes with effusive gems brought about a diversion of the first order. And, I must tip my hat to my host. Bingley can be as sly as he is open. That twist with the brandy—and I am tempted to quaff a bit of a pre-Revolution bottle—was pure genius on his part. Bennet was motivated to remove an extra queen from the board leaving Miss Bingley to lord over the entrance and the supper-room.
He could hear Mrs. Bennet loudly extolling the graciousness of the Bingley siblings to dedicate their harvest ball to Mary and Edward. Then the lady quickly shifted to rubbing Lady Lucas' nose in another anticipated Longbourn success, the betrothal of Mr. Bingley to Jane.
"He has 5,000-a-year, you know. And, he has been most attentive to our Jane since she returned from her tour of the Lakes. Now, he leads her out in the first set!" the lady enthused from somewhere on the other side of the room.
Fitzwilliam chortled and thought, I have no doubt that Bingley does plan to offer for Miss Bennet. I may have put some steel into his spine by suggesting that if he did not plan to do so, he should clear the field for a serious campaigner like me. Not that I would actually pursue the blonde goddess. Miss Elizabeth's spirit and fine eyes are more the thing for me, but I could not do that to my cousin.
If Charles asks my advice after they marry, I will tell him to write off the lease on this place and purchase something further away from Jane's mother. Having that woman within an easy carriage ride would be insupportable!
As the ballroom filled, Richard casually observed Bingley's guests over the rim of a goblet sloshing with the richly aromatic amber-colored Scots' liquid fire, uisge beatha…the water of life. The most common reaction upon entering the vaulted hall was to slowly step in, perhaps another twenty feet, and spin in a complete circle. Men and women drank in the opulent decorations; great wreaths woven from sheaves of grain, maize leaves, and dried gourds were suspended before the mirrored panels which themselves reflected the light from hundreds of beeswax candles. The usually nondescript ceiling panels had been touched by the hands of several exiled Florentines to offer hints of Hertfordshire's skies pinked in sunset on the western side while the east front featured early evening constellations winking out of a darkening heaven.
The sound of the orchestra tuning led Fitzwilliam to drain his glass and seek out his first partner, Miss Elizabeth. Scanning the room, he caught sight of the lady. She was dressed in a creamy confection topped by a gauzy garnet overdress, its rich hue complementing her chocolaty locks. While her face bore the excited look of many of the young women around the room, the way her hands wound around themselves betrayed an underlying set of nerves. Richard set his glass upon a side-table and made his way to Lizzy's side.
"Miss Elizabeth, while you seem the picture of happiness, I sense that something is concerning you," Fitzwilliam said.
Lizzy looked about to be certain they were not overheard before leaning in to whisper, "You read me aright, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I have been bothered since this morning. No, it has nothing to do with Mary and Edward, I assure you. You were there. Edward appreciated that you agreed to stand up with him on such short acquaintance. Mary was radiant and beyond happy to be marrying her vicar!
"Rather, the disturbance is non-specific, at least so I would say if pressed.
"I sense something looming above this assembly like a thunderstorm awaiting the most opportune moment to break loose and drench all of us in its downpour."
Alarm bells began tolling in Richard's psyche. His decade of military experience pushed his more recent manner into the background. Skepticism now became his watchword.
He coolly addressed his younger partner so as not to cause any overt reaction, "Calmly now, Miss Elizabeth. Do you suspect that this feeling of yours has something to do with any of Longbourn's guests?"
Elizabeth cast a worried look toward him, "In truth, yes…both of them.
"Mr. Collins competently performed his office this morning, if spoiling the nuptials somewhat by offering a sermon on obedience that droned on-and-on. However, immediately after the ceremony, he was back on about how the Lord had ordained the separation of the classes. That is his way of reminding me of my lack of suitability as a wife for Hunsford's vicar! All of it goes back to Mr. Smith and me in the Dower House's back garden.
"My cousin remains fixated upon Mr. Smith even as the event recedes into the past. Papa and I have been trying to divert him onto more suitable topics. Mr. Collins has had no further cause to criticize me. But, he is like a terrier with a rat: he clutches closely the idea that I am consorting with William, and he just will not let it go.
"Papa has little patience to cut through the man's obtuseness. More-and-more, he has left me to my own devices. I became so desperate that I even suggested to Mr. Collins that he might pay a call to Lucas Lodge and avail himself of the company of the ladies domiciled there. While t'would be a knife to Mama's heart—for she is set on having me perform suttee—if Mr. Collins refocused his matrimonial intentions upon one of the Lucas ladies. I refuse to throw myself on the funeral pyre incinerating my hopes for true love to secure my sisters' futures."
She lowered her voice, "I fear that my cousin will use this audience to expand upon his distaste about my behavior. There are so many people here tonight, and we are so close to the Dower House. What would happen if Mr. Collins inspired the curiosity of the wrong persons?"
Fitzwilliam's reply was interrupted by a fanfare calling the revelers to begin forming up for the opening set. The crowd paid close attention to the first pairs leading the multitude onto the floor: Mary matched with her Edward, Caroline Bingley was led out by Sir Thaddeus Soames, and Jane Bennet could be found at Charles Bingley's side. About halfway down the line of dance were found two pairs of eyes, one of chocolate-brown and the other steel-grey, darkened by difficult thoughts.
i The slogan of Monnet cognac.