Chapter 11 #2
Near the parlour window stood Georgiana’s harp, its pale wood catching the candlelight beside the pianoforte.
Outside, the winter dusk pressed close against the glass, a thin rime of frost beginning to form where the panes were coldest. Inside, the blaze on the hearth and the circle of candles set a soft, wavering glow over the worn carpet and familiar prints.
As Georgiana took her place beside the harp and Mary settled herself at the pianoforte, a hush spread through the room.
Even Lydia, for a moment, forgot to whisper to Kitty. Mrs. Bennet’s fan stilled.
The first notes were tentative, then steadier. Mary’s accompaniment was steady and sure, giving Georgiana all the support she required. Kitty, seated close to Mrs. Gardiner, leant forward in fascination, her fidgeting stilled.
Near the door, beside her father, Elizabeth stood whilst the room grew still: conversations faded, chairs scraped closer to the fire, and every face turned towards Georgiana and Mary.
The mingled scents of fir, beeswax, and cooling plum pudding seemed to deepen rather than disturb the quiet.
The familiar, shabby parlour seemed to expand with the music.
The worn carpet and mismatched chairs were, for the space of a few minutes, transfigured into something almost grand.
Georgiana’s fingers moved lightly over the keys, the air all but vibrating with the last notes of a slow movement. Mary sat beside her, supplying a steady bass, her eyes fixed on the page, her lips compressed in concentration.
“My dearest Miss Darcy, how charmingly you play!” cried Mrs. Bennet, loud enough to make Georgiana start and strike the keys a little more sharply. “I declare, you put our poor Mary quite in the shade. She hammers away very well, to be sure, but one hears directly who has had the best masters.”
Mary’s hands faltered. A single wrong note jarred in the bass. Colour rose in two bright spots on her cheeks, and she bent still lower over the music, as if she might press herself into the printed page.
“If Miss Darcy plays with spirit, it is because she is so well supported,” Darcy said, before Georgiana could attempt a protest. His tone was even, almost indifferent, but he moved to stand where he could see both faces, the firelight catching in the dark of his hair.
“Miss Mary’s steadiness is exactly what my sister requires.
She never performs so well as when she is not admired, only assisted. ”
Mary’s next entry came in on the beat, firm and sure.
She did not look up, but the stiffness went a little out of her shoulders.
Georgiana’s glance flickered towards her with a quick, grateful smile, and the two young ladies played on together, melody and bass in better accord.
Elizabeth, from her corner, had an odd sensation in her throat at so kind an amendment to her mother’s praise.
That such a man, who once would scarcely look at a Bennet, should now concern himself with her sister’s mortification and comfort, seemed a change almost as remarkable as the music itself.
“Well, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet murmured at her elbow, low enough that only she could hear over the dying notes, “it appears Mr. Darcy has brought more to Longbourn than footmen and trunks. He has brought us a concert.”
She smiled, her gaze drawn unthinkingly to the man standing near the hearth, his features softened by the firelight, his eyes fixed not on Georgiana alone, but on the circle about her—Mary’s steady hands at the keys, Kitty’s rapt attention, her aunt’s gentle smile.
The line of his mouth was thoughtful rather than severe.
In the play of light and shadow, his habitual reserve looked less like mere self-command and more like a man unaccustomed to sharing his burdens, unexpectedly at ease in another’s home and half afraid to trust the feeling.
The performance ended to warm applause, and in the flurry of shifting chairs and fresh talk, Mary rose quickly from the pianoforte. Georgiana, still seated beside her harp, watched her gather the music.
“Miss Mary,” Georgiana said softly, before the others could press close, “might I—that is, would you walk with me to the morning room? My brother brought something from London that I hoped you might accept.”
Mary's eyes lifted, surprised. “Of course, Miss Darcy.”
They slipped away whilst Mrs. Bennet was still exclaiming over the sweetmeats, and the morning room, when they reached it, was blessedly quiet.
The fire had burnt low, and the room held a pleasant, hushed chill.
Georgiana closed the door behind them and crossed to where Mrs. Annesley had earlier left a small parcel wrapped in plain paper.
“I found this in a shop in Town before—before I came to Hertfordshire,” Georgiana said, her fingers working at the string. “It is only a trifle, but when I recalled it, I thought of you directly.”
Georgiana unwrapped a slim volume bound in dark morocco. The gilt letters on the spine read: “Duets for Harp and Piano – G F Handel, Arranged by Webbe.”
“Oh,” Mary breathed. Her hands, when she took the book, were reverent. “Georgiana, this is—I have never seen such an edition.”
“The arrangements are quite new,” Georgiana said, a small, hopeful smile touching her lips. “I thought—that is, I hoped we might attempt some of them together, if you would wish it.”
Mary opened the book, her eyes scanning the first page. “Sonata in G minor,” she murmured. Then, looking up, “This is far too generous. I have nothing of equal—”
“You have given me something of far greater value,” Georgiana interrupted, then caught herself, colouring a little.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to speak so plainly, but it is true. When I, when you and your sisters took me in, I was—” She stopped, her fingers gripping the fringe of her shawl.
“I could not think myself fit to be received anywhere. Yet you have never looked at me as though I required pity or protection. You have only asked me to play music with you.”
Mary closed the book with great care and set it on the small table beside her. When she spoke, her voice was measured, thoughtful—the same tone she used when parsing a difficult passage in Fordyce or Johnson.
“My sisters,” Mary said slowly, “are all of them more lively than I am. They make friends easily. They know how to give comfort through warmth and kind words.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the darkened window where their reflections wavered ghostlike in the glass.
“I do not possess that gift. I have always found logic more natural than sentiment. But I have observed that sentiment, however well meant, may sometimes overwhelm rather than soothe.”
“Yes,” Georgiana whispered.
“You have suffered a great shock,” Mary continued, each word chosen thoughtfully.
“And you are not yet fully recovered from your illness. Moreover, you find yourself in a place entirely strange to you, amongst people you scarcely knew a few weeks ago.” She paused.
“Any one of these circumstances would be taxing. Together, they must be considerable.”
Georgiana nodded, unable to speak.
“Then permit me to offer what I can,” Mary said.
Her voice remained calm, almost detached, yet there was an unexpected gentleness in it.
“You need not feel obliged to be anything here beyond what you are at this present moment. If you are fatigued, you may rest. If you wish for company, there is company. If you prefer silence, there is silence. No one expects you to make conversation or appear composed or behave as though nothing has occurred.” She touched the book lightly.
“Music demands only that we attend to the notes before us. It does not require us to be anything other than musicians.”
Georgiana's throat eased a fraction. “When I play,” she said haltingly, “I need not think about—about anything else. Only the next measure.”
“Just so.” Mary's lips curved in what was, for her, a warm smile. “If we are to attempt Handel's sonatas together, I shall require all my concentration merely to keep pace with you. There will be no leisure for either of us to dwell on painful subjects.”
Georgiana gave a small, shaky laugh. “You are very wise, Miss Mary.”
“I am very logical,” Mary corrected. “It is not the same thing. But I have found that logic, applied with consistency, may sometimes arrive at wisdom by accident.” She picked up the volume again, running her thumb along the gilded edge. “Thank you for this. I shall treasure it.”
No Reasonable Hope
The letter reached Darcy at Netherfield on a raw, grey morning just after Christmas. He broke the seal in the library, whilst the others were still at breakfast, and read the surgeon’s cramped hand by the cold light at the window.
Sir,
I write again, as agreed, to acquaint you with Mr. W——’s present state.
The fever has quite exhausted him. The wound continues to suppurate, his strength fails daily, and I am now obliged to pronounce the case desperate.
In my judgement there is no reasonable hope of recovery.
It only remains to keep him as easy as his circumstances allow until nature has done her office.
I remain, Sir,
Your obedient humble servant,
He stood for some moments with the paper open in his hand.
So this was to be the end of George Wickham: not on a field of honour, not dragged at last before a court, but wasting by inches in a mean London lodging, dependent on the charity of those he had wronged.
There was justice in it, of a sort, yet the taste it left was bitter.
He folded the letter and locked it away in the small drawer of his travelling desk, among the other London papers. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be altered, and nothing to be gained by carrying such intelligence upstairs to Georgiana. She was safe. She need not know.
Punctuality