Chapter Fifteen #3
“Nothing,” added Mary, “so conduces to rational reflection. A well chosen piece in the minor key must awaken sensibility even in the most reluctant listener.”
Thus prepared, they waited until after tea to execute their scheme.
Mrs. Annesley, despite suspecting stratagems, readily approved their proposal that music might “cheer the evening.” Mr. Darcy looked pleased at his sister’s intention, and Elizabeth—mistakenly imagining this was pure civility—expressed delight in hearing them play together.
Seated at the keys Georgiana whispered, “Which shall we begin with, Mary—the Andante amoroso?”
“Indeed yes,” Mary murmured, “though we must perform it with delicacy, not ardour. Refinement persuades where passion offends.”
Their first duet, accordingly, was executed with magnificent seriousness. Georgiana’s touch trembled with expression. Mary’s, was firm with conviction. The result was undeniably impressive. No one could doubt that the performers meant every note as an appeal to sentiment.
Darcy listened with polite composure, his hand resting thoughtfully upon the back of a chair. Elizabeth, by contrast, was half amused, half-bewildered by the intensity with which the young ladies exchanged meaning glances across the keyboard.
Between pieces, Georgiana leant toward Mary. “Did he look moved?”
“He looked thoughtful,” said Mary. “That is always the precursor to emotion.”
Encouraged, they chose their second piece—a tender air reputed in Meryton to have driven a captain of militia nearly to tears. They played it with hearts uplifted, confident that romance itself hovered in the air.
When the final chords subsided, Georgiana ventured a timid look at her brother. “Do you not think that was expressive?”
“Extremely,” said Darcy, smiling a little. “But Miss Mary should not weary herself on our account.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Indeed, your sister and mine seem to conspire to charm us both.”
The remark, innocent enough, set Mary blushing scarlet and Georgiana nearly dropping the music. For a dreadful moment, they thought themselves discovered. But Darcy only thanked them again and stepped nearer to turn the pages for Elizabeth, who, to their mutual joy consented to sing.
Mary leant toward Georgiana, whispering breathlessly, “There! We have accomplished it—proximity and participation. We shall not need another stratagem to-night.”
Georgiana clasped her hands in silent ecstasy as Elizabeth’s voice filled the room. Their plan had succeeded—or so they flattered themselves—though any impartial observer might have concluded that the victory belonged entirely to chance.
When Mary and Miss Darcy at last retired, trailing their sheet music and radiant self-satisfaction, an air of peace descended upon the room. Mr. Darcy stood by the mantel. Elizabeth sat near the fire, absently turning the pages of a volume.
At length she smiled. “Your sister and mine are very companionable—though I confess I do not always comprehend their designs.”
Darcy turned to her, puzzled. “Designs?”
“Only that they appear perpetually to be arranging—something,” Elizabeth said, half laughing. “Whenever I enter a room, they are whispering, with the air of generals planning a campaign. And just now—those solemn duets!”
He met her gaze steadily, a faint warmth stirring in his expression. “Designs? I cannot think what you mean”
Elizabeth smiled, leaning back in her chair. “Nor can I, quite. Only that whenever I come upon them, they appear to be in the midst of some concerted whispering. It gives one the odd sense of having interrupted a committee.”
He looked momentarily alarmed. “A committee? Of what nature?”
“Oh, something perfectly harmless, I assure you,” she said, amused.
“Mary has ever possessed an orderly mind. She cannot even pour tea without a plan. And Miss Darcy, though all sweetness, has a gentle determination that would render any household well-regulated. Between them, they could reform the world—if they ever agreed upon how it ought to be reformed.”
Darcy’s expression relaxed into genuine amusement. “You describe them perfectly. But I own, I had not perceived them to be so industrious. Perhaps they are arranging musical programmes, or composing lists of worthy books.”
“I should like to believe that,” said Elizabeth, with mock gravity, “but they blush too much for literature.”
Darcy’s seriousness yielded to amusement. “I had observed Miss Mary’s talent for regulation. I thought it merely constitutional, but you believe there is a scheme?”
“I am convinced of it,” Elizabeth said, her tone teasing but her eyes thoughtful. “Only I cannot guess what it is. They follow us, then flee from us, they whisper, blush, and vanish. I begin to wonder if we are the subjects of some benevolent experiment.”
He gave a short laugh. “Then Heaven protect us when the subject is revealed. Their seriousness will be formidable.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “I sometimes think the world has never known two people of such virtuous purpose. They mean to improve something—and I begin to fear that something is us.”
“Us?” Darcy repeated, incredulous. “Surely we are beyond improvement.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Elizabeth, her eyes dancing. “Still—it is safest never to underestimate the zeal of reformers.”
They shared a brief, companionable silence, each privately entertained by the absurdity of their young companions’ intensity, and not the least aware that they themselves stood at the very centre of all that mysterious “designing.”
The following morning found Mary and Georgiana in the breakfast parlour, united in a state of exalted satisfaction.
Their music, their modest self-sacrifice, and the tender looks they were sure they had observed between Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth had all combined to prove, beyond moral or musical doubt, that love now reigned supreme.
“I scarcely slept for delight,” Georgiana confided, pouring tea with trembling enthusiasm. “Did you observe, Mary, when my brother turned the pages for your sister? I had never seen him look so composed—yet so animated.”
Mary nodded gravely. “Yes. His attention was fixed—indeed, rooted. And Elizabeth’s expression was one of softened reflection. It was a triumph of sentiment. I cannot but regard last evening as decisive.”
“Oh, I am sure of it! They will be engaged within the week!”
Mary’s sense of propriety shuddered faintly. “Within a fortnight, perhaps. Such matters demand a becoming interval for reflection. We must not rush Providence.”
Georgiana blushed, but smiled. “Of course. Still, how happy they will be! To think—we helped it forward!”
“Our motives were pure, Miss Darcy, and our conduct irreproachable. If felicity attends the result, we may accept it as Heaven’s sanction.”
At that moment, Mr. Darcy entered the room. Both young ladies sat up at once, hearts fluttering with mutual anticipation. He greeted them kindly, took some letters from the sideboard, and after a moment's silence, said, “I must ride to Rosings soon. It is nearly Easter.”
The stillness that followed could not have been greater had he announced his own arrest. Georgiana’s smile collapsed into astonishment. Mary’s teacup halted midway to her lips.
“To Rosings!” Georgiana repeated faintly. “So soon?”
“I shall be absent only a fortnight,” Darcy replied, perfectly calm.
With this simple announcement—the opposite of the declaration they had been expecting—he bowed and quitted the room.
As the door closed, Georgiana turned to Mary, pale and round-eyed. “Gone—to Rosings! Then—all our efforts—ruined!”
Mary sank back, aghast. “It cannot be. No sensible man retreats after success.”
“Unless,” Georgiana said desperately, “he fears his feelings. Or wishes to compose them before—before making them known!”
Mary’s expression brightened with sudden logic. “Yes—yes, precisely. It is entirely consistent with his character. You are right,. Reflection, self-command, moral discipline—these are Mr. Darcy’s idols. He retreats not from love, but from haste.”
Georgiana clasped her hands, vastly relieved. “Then all is not lost?”
“On the contrary,” said Mary, recovering her composure. “This is merely a pause for moral deliberation. I would wager he returns renewed in purpose. A man does not look at a woman as your brother looks at Elizabeth without intending to declare himself. The question is only when.”
Georgiana's spirits revived somewhat. “How soon after his return, do you think? He will wish to be careful. To find the proper moment. Perhaps three days after his return, when he has settled back into the house and can arrange things properly.”
“Three days!” Mary said. “He will not last three days once he sees her again. By the evening of his return, at the latest.”
Georgiana looked doubtful. “You think so? But he is always so measured, so deliberate—”
“In ordinary matters, yes. But a fortnight's separation will undo all his deliberation.” Mary smiled slightly. “Shall we make it interesting? Let is say a guinea? If he speaks the very day he returns, you must pay. If he waits three days or more, I shall.”
Georgiana extended her hand. “Done.”
They shook on it with great solemnity.
“Then we must be patient,” Georgiana said, “and ready to observe—but not interfere—when he comes back.”
Mary inclined her head solemnly. “So long as our consciences remain clear, Providence will accomplish what our planning only began.”
With that high assurance, the two conspirators returned to their tea—chastened, but still delightfully certain that they held the keys to destiny.
Later, as they rose from dinner, Georgiana enquired, with some hesitation, whether her brother had yet fixed the day for his journey into Kent.
“I had thought of going on Tuesday,” he replied, after a pause. “My aunt grows impatient when the calendar does not move exactly to her wishes.”