The harvest ball has been a tradition at Rosings Park since at least the time of Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s father. William has been at Rosings every day helping with the preparations, though I have been unable to determine exactly what form his help takes, or why, with a household filled to bursting with maids and footmen, it is needed.
The ball is tomorrow, and this morning he left for Rosings directly after we breakfasted. I have been playing with Louisa all morning while Martha helps Mrs. Baxter with the laundry, but now Louisa is napping and I am unable to settle to any useful work, thoughts of tomorrow evening plucking at my mind and distracting me from the sewing in my lap. I rise and steal upstairs on my toes, hoping the creaking of the steps does not rouse Louisa. In my bedchamber, I open the clothespress and look down at my new gown. It was an extravagance suggested by William, though I made only a token protest about the unnecessary expense. Both of us, it seems, are vain enough to want me to look my best, though a part of me worries that—despite William’s assurances that my position requires elegance of dress—in making so much effort, I will merely look ridiculous among the tenants’ much simpler Sunday best. And it is with no small amount of shame that I know my desire to look well is only increased because I’ve no wish to look especially dowdy beside Elizabeth.
The gown is prettier than any I have worn in a long while, the lutestring dyed the pale gray-green of sage leaves. When I dithered over fabrics at the draper’s, the young woman working there held this fabric up before me and declared that it was just the color to complement my hair and complexion. It is strange, at thirty, to feel so like a young girl looking forward to her first dance—that peculiar blend of nervousness and excitement and pure possibility—and of course, my first dance was not the triumph I had envisioned.
I reach out, touch the gown with one fingertip, then snatch my hand back and shut the clothespress decisively. Some feelings, I think, are better not examined too closely.
WILLIAM CALLS TO me from downstairs, his voice sounding as anxious as I feel. I take one last look in the glass, convinced that I must have disordered myself somehow, but I am still neat in my new gown, my hair smooth under a narrow ribbon bandeau. Then I touch my pearls where they lie against my collarbone, their warmth a comfort beneath my palm, and leave the room.
William is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looks harried, and he says nothing about my appearance, only offers me his arm.
We arrive at Rosings to find the great hall brightly lit. “The expense,” William whispers to me, gleeful, as he looks around us. “Just think of the expense!” I can nearly hear his mind tallying the number of candles. Though the ball has not yet formally begun, Lady Catherine’s tenants already fill the space. They stand in clusters, dressed in their best clothes, chattering with excitement and furtively looking around themselves at the opulent room.
William nods this way and that in acknowledgment of greetings but leads me unerringly to where her ladyship sits with Miss de Bourgh. Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, and Mrs. Jenkinson stand beside the ladies of Rosings. We make our bows, and as we rise William says, “The hall is glorious, Your Ladyship! I imagine your tenants will be speaking of nothing else for weeks.”
“I should certainly think so,” Lady Catherine says. She turns her attention upon me. “Mrs. Collins, I am pleased that you are able to attend. Your confinement last year was most inconvenient.”
“I am very happy to be here, Lady Catherine.”
She nods, but her expression is peevish. “If Anne were stronger, she would lead the dancing,” she says. “Had it not been for her illness, she would be a most accomplished dancer.” We all, as one, look at Miss de Bourgh, who sits in her chair like an unstarched gown. She gazes down at her lap, as though unaware of our inspection.
“Indeed,” William says, “we must all feel the deprivation—to watch Miss de Bourgh dance would surely be the greatest of pleasures. Her grace would be recognized by all, her—”
“Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Catherine interrupts, “you must lead the dancing in Anne’s stead. Mr. Collins will partner you.”
“You do me great honor, Your Ladyship,” William says, and bows deeply to Elizabeth, who turns away to hide her smile. I pretend not to notice, looking instead at the hall, paneled walls glowing with soft light, tables laden with food for the supper that will come after the dancing. The air is thick with the heat of so many bodies and with the excitement of anticipation. Musicians stand ready in the corner; one draws his bow across the strings of his fiddle, a single long, high note, then adjusts something at the neck of the instrument. My eyes sweep across the familiar faces in the crowd, cottagers and tradesmen and farmers . . .
I do not acknowledge to myself whose face it is that I am seeking until the moment I find it, half-turned aside and most of the way across the long room, and my blood begins to rush queerly in my ears.
Mr. Travis’s dark hair is unusually tidy, and he wears a coat I have not seen before. I let myself see these things and then I turn away, look back at Lady Catherine in her high-backed chair with her mouth curled up and her eyes sharp. She makes a gesture and the musicians begin tuning their instruments in earnest. William turns to Elizabeth.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he says, and Elizabeth, her face impressively blank, looks neither at me nor at her husband as she allows herself to be led onto the floor. I step back, nearer to Mrs. Jenkinson’s place beside Miss de Bourgh’s chair. A murmur runs through the crowd; a few brave couples join the set. Lizzy calls the dance.
There is nothing like a dance to change the energy in a room; I feel the notes of the song in my fingertips and toes. I hear so little music, here in Kent, beyond a performance, now and again, on the pianoforte at Rosings. The dancers move through the figures with more enthusiasm than expertise—even Lizzy, encumbered by William, is less graceful than I remember her being—but it is a merry song, and enthusiasm, really, is all that is required. My feet tap lightly against the polished floor, hidden by the hem of my gown and soundless in their soft slippers.
“Mrs. Collins, you should be dancing,” Lady Catherine says. She leans forward in her chair, reaches out and catches at her nephew’s sleeve. “Darcy—set an example.”
My hands twitch, and I hide them in the folds of my skirt. Mr. Darcy’s shoulders are one tense line. “Your Ladyship,” I say, “it has been a long while since I last danced—”
She frowns. “I am sure you have not forgotten how, Mrs. Collins.”
Mr. Darcy turns to me, hand extended. “Will you do me the honor?”
I am embarrassed for both of us. “Thank you.” I can feel the eyes of the parishioners upon us as we take our place at the end of the line; I keep my own eyes on Mr. Darcy’s waistcoat, not allowing myself to look about and see who, exactly, is watching us, until the moment comes to enter the dance. And then there is nothing but movement and music, people coming together and flinging apart. I had almost forgotten the heady rush of so many bodies, the heat generated among us, the din of stamping feet and clapping hands. The steps return to me quickly, and Mr. Darcy, for all his reluctance in a ballroom, is an excellent dancer. When the set has ended, I am out of breath and giddy with it. Mr. Darcy offers his hand, leads me from the floor.
“Charlotte!” comes Lizzy’s voice. We turn; she and William hurry toward us. Lizzy looks less exhilarated than I feel, and she drops William’s hand the moment she politely can, looking at Mr. Darcy. “I wondered how soon Lady Catherine would have you dancing.”
Mr. Darcy’s smile is pained. “She chose a fine partner, at least,” he says, with a half bow in my direction.
I doubt whether Lady Catherine will insist on her nephew’s dancing again, for I cannot imagine she wishes to see him partnered with farmers’ daughters or tradesmen’s wives. But it would be impolitic to say so—though if I were having this conversation with someone else, I mightn’t be sensible enough to censor myself. I glance over to the corner where Mr. Travis was standing earlier; he is still there. He sees me looking, smiles just a little. I nod, feel my lips pull up in response, and look away again.
“Speaking of my aunt, I should be dutiful and see if she or my cousin needs anything.” Mr. Darcy looks from Elizabeth to me and raises his voice, for the music is starting again. “Would either of you like refreshment?”
“No, thank you,” I say, and Eliza shakes her head. He bows, turns, and begins to weave his way through the crowd. I look at William, hovering behind Lizzy’s elbow.
“My dear,” I say, “perhaps you ought to attend her ladyship as well.”
He seems relieved. “Yes! Of course. An excellent idea.” He turns around a little too quickly and nearly stumbles over the feet of a passing woman. I keep my face very still, listening to his stuttered apologies, and then Lizzy turns to me.
“I was surprised when Darcy told me that there is a tradition of holding a harvest ball at Rosings,” she says, bending her head close to mine. “It did not seem very like Lady Catherine to willingly mingle with her tenants.”
William has moved far enough away now that the music and conversation around us have drowned out the sound of his voice. I make my own voice light and teasing. “But you are forgetting her famous generosity.”
She laughs. “How foolish of me. Of course. I—” But then she stops, her attention caught by something just over my shoulder. I turn, and there is Mr. Travis only a few paces away. His posture speaks of indecision, but he sees us looking and bows immediately.
“I apologize, Mrs. Collins,” he says. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Not at all.” My voice sounds thin, and I resist the urge to clear my throat. “Elizabeth, may I introduce Mr. Travis? Mr. Travis, my friend Mrs. Darcy.”
He bows again, and Lizzy does likewise, rising with an expression of polite curiosity.
“Mr. Travis planted the roses for us,” I say, for want of something better.
“Oh, yes—Mr. Collins was very eager to show them off,” Elizabeth says. She smiles her easy smile, and my teeth grind together. “How kind of you to offer your time and expertise.”
Mr. Travis chuckles, glances at me, and rubs the back of his neck.
“It was nothing, ma’am,” he says, and then, “I truly did not mean to interrupt—it is only that I have strict orders from my father, Mrs. Collins, to give you his greetings, and I did not know whether I would have another opportunity.”
“Oh—I am sorry he is unable to be here.”
“As is he.” More people are crowding about; he edges a little nearer, jostled by a passing couple. “This was always his favorite event of the year.”
“Please tell him I will call with Louisa very soon—well, after we return from Hertfordshire,” I say, but then Mr. Clifton, whose estate lies two miles from Rosings, steps forward out of the crowd and bows low to Elizabeth. His bald head gleams in the light of so many candles.
“Might we dance this one, Mrs. Darcy?”
She takes his hand. “I—yes, thank you,” she says, and follows him to the floor with a quick, startled look back at me.
“You go to Hertfordshire soon, then?”
I am very aware of Mr. Travis’s nearness, and I keep my eyes on Eliza and Mr. Clifton, who stand awaiting the start of the music. “Yes—in but a few days. But we will not stay long. Only a fortnight.”
“I am sorry you will have so little time with your family, though—” He breaks off and I do look at him now. He is frowning at the forming set, but he must feel me eyeing him, for he turns a little in my direction.
“You are a fine dancer, Mrs. Collins,” he says abruptly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself very much.”
He watched, I think, and then do not let myself think of it any further. “Yes,” I say. “I missed it more than I realized.”
He half-smiles and looks again at the lined-up couples. “I would follow Mr. Clifton’s example and ask you to dance,” he says, “but I suppose doing so would be seen as something of a presumption.”
My lips part. There is nothing in the world I want more than to be part of the fray with him, a partner with whom I could be at ease. With whom I could laugh. I imagine our hands touching and our bodies moving together with the music. The longing to accept batters me. But: just a little ways away, Mrs. Prewitt and her niece are standing, also watching the dancers assemble; I think of Mrs. Prewitt’s words outside the church and suddenly I cannot breathe. I look at Mr. Travis’s face, still turned toward the dance, at the lines at the corners of his eyes, the bit of tightness at the corners of his mouth, and I wonder how I can possibly step back from this friendship that has grown so easily, seemingly from nothing.
But perhaps it is arrogant to think that he would mind if our conversations dwindled away, if we met at church or by chance in the village and exchanged only indifferent greetings. Perhaps the prospect of retreating into cold civility would not leave him sore and aching.
Then I look at his fingers, knotted together hard behind his back, and my mind goes blank and silent.
Miss Harmon is smiling anxiously at nothing in particular. There is a wrenching inside of me, and I say, in a voice that is too falsely bright to really be mine, “If you truly wish to dance, Mr. Travis, I see a young lady in need of a partner.” I tilt my head in Miss Harmon’s direction.
Mr. Travis opens his mouth, glances in the direction I have indicated, and closes it again. “I . . . Of course.”
I am conscious of his presence behind me as I make my way over to Mrs. Prewitt and her niece.
“Mrs. Collins!” Mrs. Prewitt says. She flicks a look at Mr. Travis. “What a fine occasion this is!”
“Yes, indeed,” I say, and to Miss Harmon, “May I introduce Mr. Travis to you, Miss Harmon?”
She looks at him, smiles prettily. “It would be my pleasure.”
I make the introduction quickly. “Miss Harmon is visiting from the north,” I tell Mr. Travis.
“Oh, yes?” He turns to her, all polite attention. “That must have been quite a journey.”
“It was. But it is very good to see my aunt and uncle.”
He says, “Would you care to dance?” She agrees, and he offers her his arm. Then he bows swiftly to Mrs. Prewitt and myself. “Excuse us, ladies,” he says, with one quick, unreadable look at me, and they join the set.
“A fine beginning,” Mrs. Prewitt says from beside me. “They do look well together, don’t they, Mrs. Collins?”
Miss Harmon dances beautifully, and Mr. Travis, though less light-footed than Mr. Darcy, moves with confidence. Their hands clasp in the course of the dance, and then they part, twirling away from each other. And then they return. A headache threatens suddenly, just between my eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “They do look very well.”