Chapter 1 #2
Though his voice was barely audible above the background music and myriad conversations in the hall, I will always remember the delight in his eyes as I bent to kiss his cheek.
I stood there, catching my breath—a little overawed by the experience—that I, Elizabeth Frances Bennet, was now fully out in society.
At least in Meryton. Gone was my sheltered childhood.
I was now fully exposed, where every conversation, dance, and glance was likely interpreted as a performance aimed at securing a suitable match.
Truly, it was alarming—was this a future I should look forward to?
William Goulding—I had once thought him a lanky, pimply boy—nervously came to ask for my hand.
Mama smiled and Papa scowled, but nodded nevertheless.
It was the beginning of my entering the world.
Papa would lose my sole attention—so the days of my curling up in a chair by the fire in his library, while not ended, were to take second place to assemblies, dinners, and card parties. The life of a young woman in society.
Jane, of course, was already on the floor.
I watched her from my position further down the line, her elegant figure illuminated by the sconces as she made a turn with her partner.
She moved with such natural grace and elegance.
Jane had always been tall, with a full, rounded figure.
In childhood, her beauty was a source of delight for all who saw her.
Now, at seventeen, it had become something far more complicated.
There was a maturity to her that set her apart from most other girls, whose bodies were still uncertain and angular—as mine was.
Jane, by contrast, seemed to embody every painter’s vision of loveliness: the blush in her cheeks, the curve of her neck, the gentle sweep of her gown.
“Will you stand up with Jane?” I asked William, for I knew he had a tendre for her. “She does enjoy your company.”
He blushed. “W-with Jane? But my mother told me I should dance with you.”
I felt tears flood my eyes—of course he would have preferred to dance with Jane! No doubt, he still thought of me as that little girl who stole apples from his father’s orchard.
The set continued in silence. He knew he had made a mistake, but had no idea what he had said that was wrong, nor any idea how to correct it. And for me? Certainly, I wished he had asked me to dance for my own sake—notwithstanding my lack of any hint of a womanly figure. But did I envy Jane?
For Jane, beauty was not the blessing everyone assumed.
At the last assembly, I had watched a group of older gentlemen, widowers and bachelors alike, cluster near the punch table, their eyes following her as if she were an exotic creature on display.
I saw the way their gazes lingered too long, the way they sought her attention.
It was no secret among the Meryton mothers that Jane Bennet was the most eligible girl in Hertfordshire, and the gentlemen of the neighbourhood were not immune to the knowledge.
It seemed to me terribly unfair that at such a tender age—barely seventeen—Jane should find herself the object of so much attention from men who were, likely as not, Papa’s contemporaries.
I knew that Jane felt it keenly, though she rarely spoke of it. Once, late at night, she confessed to me in a whisper that she wished she could be less noticed, less remarked upon.
“I do not desire to be thought beautiful, Lizzy,” she had said. “I only wish to be liked for myself.” But the world did not allow Jane such simplicity. Her beauty shaped the way others treated her, often in ways she found quite unwelcome.
It was not only the older gentlemen who were affected.
Among the young men of our acquaintance—those with whom we had played as children—Jane’s presence seemed to inspire not boldness, but nervous awe.
I had seen it at our own table, when Mr. Long’s sons sat to dinner, and could scarcely manage a word in her company.
They fidgeted with their cuffs, stumbled over polite phrases, and blushed furiously whenever she addressed them.
They were boys, really—barely more than children themselves—and Jane, with her serene composure and gentle conversation, seemed to them a creature from another world.
They admired her, but from a distance, her loveliness seemingly unapproachable.
This awkwardness often left Jane alone at gatherings, her dance card full, but her heart quite empty of congenial companionship.
I wondered what it must be like, to walk through every room knowing oneself to be the subject of speculation and whispered admiration, yet to feel so isolated by the very thing that drew others’ attention.
I was not blind to the contrast between us.
Whereas Jane’s beauty was soft and striking, I was smaller, livelier, possessed of what Mama called ‘fine eyes’ and a ‘lively wit’ but little of Jane’s serene charm.
I was grateful for it, truly. It was easier to move through the world without attracting such fervent notice, to retain a kind of invisibility that allowed me to observe, to listen, and to speak my mind without censure.
Yet tonight, as I watched her move across the ballroom floor, I felt a pang, which was indeed of envy—but not for her beauty, but for the way she bore it.
Jane never allowed herself to be flustered or made vain by the attention she received.
If she noticed the stares of the older men, she did not show it; if she sensed the discomfort of the younger ones, she met it with kindness and a gentle word.
She was, as always, perfectly composed—too composed, perhaps.
I sometimes wished she would laugh a little louder, dance a little wilder, or allow herself the luxury of a sharp retort. But that was not Jane.
The set concluded, and I found myself scanning the room for a friendly face.
Charlotte Lucas caught my eye and gave me a reassuring smile.
She had always been a sensible sort, never prone to jealousy or envy.
I made my way toward her, weaving through the clusters of mothers and daughters, the knots of gentlemen engaged in serious conversation.
“How does it feel, Eliza?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “To be out at last?”
“I feel as if I am on display, like one of Mrs. Long’s dreadful porcelain figurines,” I replied, lowering my voice. “Except I am more delicate, and far more likely to shatter at any moment.”
Charlotte laughed quietly. “You? Never. But I do not envy Jane. Every man in the room seems to have noticed her tonight.”
I nodded, glancing over at my sister. “She would be happier if fewer did. It is a strange sort of burden, to be too much admired.”
Charlotte’s gaze softened. “I suppose it is. But perhaps it will be different for you.”
Certainly, Charlotte was alluding to my lively wit. “I believe I would enjoy the evening more if I had stood up with Papa. Oh, goodness me! I had not meant to disdain Sir William—he is all kindness.”
“And how many times did he speak of dancing at St. James’s. I daresay, Eliza, that he listed all of the dances called at the Palace.”
“Charlotte, your father is perfectly amiable. Perhaps we should ask our band to play some Scottish tunes, and then you and he can demonstrate the true elegance of the Hanoverian Court.”
Charlotte swatted me with her fan. “You are impossible, Eliza! If there were to be a Scottish reel, then Papa must surely stand up with you. I have seen both Jane and you practise—by far, you are the lightest in your steps. It is a joy watching you and him together.”
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