Several weeks later, the first of the winter balls was to be held at Ashe Park, the grand residence of Mr. and Mrs. John Portal. With Cassandra away at the Fowles’, Jane was left with her own taste in front of the small mirror on her bedroom wall. She had planned for days to wear her rose gown because she had been complimented by how well the color complemented her complexion. But, laying it on her bed on the afternoon of the ball, she was disappointed in it, and felt that it was in need of something, she knew not what. She lay on brighter ribbon instead of the lace. She tried a different sash and a different necklace, imagining how they would look on her. But nothing would do. Everyone would have seen them all before in every configuration she could devise. At last, she threw the dress over her shoulder, and went in search of her mother.
She found her downstairs in the pantry, scolding Cook for eating the last bit of gooseberry pie—a favorite of Mrs. Austen’s.
“Oh, Jane, what a fuss about your dress! No one will notice in the least. And why should they? There are to be new visitors. Do not flatter yourself that you are the only girl who grieves at a paltry wardrobe in advance of a ball. It is the hallmark of every young lady catching beaux to try to outshine even her particular friends. But, however, now I think of it, I have laid by a pretty sort of flowered satin that may do very well. Molly! Fetch me the flowered satin from my cupboard.”
“Ah, does it not look well?” asked Mrs. Austen when the article was produced. “It does not take much, you see, to turn a turnip into a turban.”
Although the comparison of her rose gown to a turnip without the flowered satin was vexing, Jane could admit that with the flowered satin, the gown looked very well. She did not often find success in appealing to her mother for advice. Mrs. Austen had a peculiar gift with words, as apt to offend by thoughtlessness or unfortunate constructions as to provide relief—and often simultaneously. In this instance, however, Jane was much too pleased with the result to make a complaint about either the turnip or trying to outshine her friends.
When the carriage was brought round after supper, the Austen party, consisting of Jane, her older brother James, who had come home for a visit, and Mr. and Mrs. George Austen, were searching for gloves and a hat and a muffler for one or the other of them. John, the driver, gave a wink to Molly, who was nearly beside herself with all the commands Mrs. Austen had been issuing about the preparations. Only Mr. Austen was as composed as usual. His nature was to be always prompt, but, weighing that ideal against the turmoil that would ensue if even the smallest item were left behind, his nature also allowed for expediency.
“Oh, how I love a ball! What more could one hope for than everyone at their worst behavior?” asked Jane of James when they were on their way at last, the light snow crunching beneath the wheels. “But, you must not be ill behaved, James. You must do your part in searching out anyone in need of a partner—particularly me. I was mortified at the last ball to be without a partner for four dances together.”
“Had I been there,” said he, “I would have favored you above anyone.”
“You are all goodness, James. And, your dancing has improved vastly with my tutoring this last week. I shall claim all the credit for any conquests you make this evening.”
“Be assured, then, that if I do make any conquests, you shall have the credit of them all.”
“It shall be no less than I deserve.”
Mr. and Mrs. Austen, being accustomed to these repartees from their children, especially from Jane, took no notice of them.
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