Chapter 11
Pemberley
“Oh, Georgiana, I am sorry!” Kitty Bennet exclaimed, letting her hands rest on the pianoforte. “I misplayed those chords quite dreadfully.”
Miss Georgiana Darcy lowered her violin, “That is quite all right, Kitty. We have been playing for some time, and I too feel somewhat weary.”
Kitty glanced at her wristwatch and leaped to her feet, “Oh, it is almost three o’clock! I lost track of the time and must refresh myself before proceeding to the conservatory; I promised Lydia that I would draw a part for the latest steam engine.”
“I do hope you will not freeze,” Georgiana responded in concern.
“No, no, it is quite pleasant in there.”
“I wonder how they manage to keep the hothouses so warm in winter,” Miss Darcy mused. “It is quite amazing.”
Kitty, who was hastily tidying the music at the pianoforte, chuckled, “I do not know, but if you are interested in a lecture, do ask Mr. Collins. I am certain he could provide some useful information on the topic.”
That was entirely true, of course. Mr. Collins seemed to know at least a little bit about everything, and a vast quantity about some topics. If the heating of conservatories turned out to be one of the rector’s passions, he could easily chatter about the subject for hours on end.
“I will see you at dinner, Kitty. Thank you for playing with me.”
“Thank you, Georgiana! I know you are far more skilled than I am, but I am learning through your tutelage. Oh dear, I really must run!”
Kitty rushed out of the room in a flurry, leaving Georgiana Darcy behind.
The young blonde smiled after her friend, then gazed around the music room with satisfaction.
The chamber was of good size, fitted up with comfortable couches, and the walls had recently been painted a soft biscuit color, which lightened up the room.
Above the dancing fire was a portrait of her dear mother, Lady Anne Darcy, who had passed on to Heaven’s reward when Georgiana was but a child.
The picture had hung in the portrait gallery of Pemberley for many years, but Fitzwilliam had moved it here at Georgiana’s request. She had very few memories of her mother, but looking on her mother’s lovely face and blonde hair – the latter so much like her own yellow locks – helped her feel close to the woman who had given her life.
The musical instruments too were a source of great joy.
The pianoforte was the best that money could buy, and in the last years her brother had provided additional instruments including a harp, a viola, and the violin she held in her hands.
It was not usual for a woman to play the viola and violin, but Fitzwilliam was both generous and understanding.
She adored both playing and listening to music, and her brother knew and approved of her passion, as did her dear sister by marriage, Elizabeth.
Here at Pemberley, surrounded by her loved ones, she felt free to be herself. The future was far more unnerving and confusing and was not growing simpler with time.
Georgiana lifted the violin to her chin and began playing again. Her eyes slid closed, and once again she was wafting along with the strains of the music, her heart free, her mind and soul soothed by the notes which fell like rain drops onto a parched land.
When Georgiana opened her eyes a few minutes later, she gasped in shock. Mr. Collins was seated on a sofa across from her, his plain face suffused with awed pleasure.
“Oh, Mr. Collins, how you startled me!”
“My dear Miss Darcy, I do apologize! I have been told that for such a portly man, I am rather light on my feet.”
She laughed as she shook her head, “You are not portly, Mr. Collins.”
“Well built? Well fed? I do not let it worry me, Miss Darcy. The good Lord chose to give me a larger form, but I am healthy enough. But I do apologize for unsettling you.”
“That is quite all right,” Georgiana assured him, just as Mrs. Collins entered the room with a small bundle in her arms and a maid with a tray at her heels.
“My dear Mr. Collins,” his lady declared, “did you get lost? I thought we were having tea in the west sitting room!”
“I was attracted by the sound of Miss Darcy’s music,” the man explained simply. “It was a delightful fragrance to my soul, especially after last night.”
Charlotte Collins chuckled and focused on Georgiana, “I am afraid our little David did not sleep peacefully.”
Georgiana rose to her feet, placed her violin carefully in its case, and approached Mrs. Collins to inspect the tiny child slumbering in his mother’s arms, “He is absolutely precious, Charlotte.”
“He is a bonny lad indeed but rather noisy. Last night he was especially fussy, and William kindly walked him up and down for me in the drawing room for two hours.”
“Of course, Charlotte does the hard work,” the parson declared as he took the tea tray from the maid and dismissed the girl with a smile. “Much as I love our son, I am not gifted with the capability of feeding him.”
At these words, one month old David Collins opened his little blue eyes, took one look at his mother and opened his toothless mouth in a mighty howl.
“Oh, dear, he is hungry. I will need to feed him. Miss Darcy, I will see you later at dinner …”
“If you would care to stay,” Georgiana suggested, “there is a comfortable chair in the corner mostly shielded by the bookcases. Elizabeth has often sat there to nurse her babies while I play in the evenings.”
Charlotte Collins looked uncertain over the increasingly vibrant wails of her infant, “Are you quite sure?”
“Of course!” Georgiana insisted. “There is no need for you to make the baby wait. I would enjoy speaking with Mr. Collins for a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte responded, moving quickly to the corner chair and sitting down to nurse her child. Mr. Collins carried his wife’s tea over and set it down on a small table before coming back to sink into the couch with a sigh.
The sudden silence seemed almost deafening, and Georgiana felt herself relax.
She was not a mother, but she felt herself grow tense when in the company of loudly unhappy children.
Since the halls of Pemberley were often filled with small Darcys, Bingleys, Martyns and Collinses, there was plenty of screaming and wailing to go around some days.
She leaned forward and poured herself some tea, adding some of the spherical sugar lumps which were now available in the Pemberley’s kitchens. Mr. Collins was exceedingly proud of his sugar lumps, which was as it should be. They were marvelously uniform.
“That music you were playing on the violin,” Mr. Collins commented suddenly, “I do not remember hearing it before. Who is the composer?”
Georgiana Darcy felt herself flush scarlet, which provoked Mr. Collins to inquire, “Is there a problem? Is the identity of the composer a secret?”
She sighed to herself and managed a smile.
She was very fond of Mr. Collins, she truly was, but he was not a typical gentleman.
Most men, or at least ones of her level of society, would leave off questioning a young lady when she was clearly distressed.
Mr. Collins bore no malice, but he had a penetrating need to understand not just engines and balloons, but people and their circumstances.
“Well, Mr. Collins, I composed that particular piece of music myself,” she admitted, her face still pink with embarrassment.
“Did you indeed?” Mr. Collins responded with enthusiasm. “It is marvelous, Miss Darcy, absolutely marvelous! You are very gifted.”
Georgiana smiled and ducked her head, “I am not certain it is that wonderful, but I am pleased with it. I have been working on it for several weeks.”
“Georgiana, I agree that it is entirely splendid,” Charlotte Collins commented from behind the bookcase. “I had no idea that you are a composer.”
“I would not call myself a composer,” she insisted unhappily. “I dabble a little, but of course women are not composers.”
“Now that is most certainly not true,” Mr. Collins exclaimed.
“Just think of Hildegard of Bingen, the German abbess from many hundreds of years ago. In addition, the Italian Barbara Strozzi published eight volumes of her music in the seventeenth century. Marianna Martines of Austria was an accomplished singer and pianist as well as a composer, and she died only a few years ago.”
“None of those women were English,” Georgiana replied unhappily. “In any case, I ... I ...”
“What is it, Miss Darcy?” Collins inquired, his gentle eyes luminous in the fire light.
“I believe I will be married soon,” she continued, forcing her voice to be steady.
There was a soft sound of amazement from the hidden Charlotte and Collins’s gaze turned from fond to frowning.
“You sound unhappy at the prospect, Miss Darcy.”
Georgiana exhaled slowly before speaking, “I am more confused and unsettled, to be truthful. In some ways, my suitor is a marvelous person, but on the other hand ... oh, I am so uncertain!”
“I believe,” Charlotte commented, appearing from the corner of the room with her now replete baby in her arms, “that Mr. Collins is the resident marital expert of Pemberley and her environs. Please feel free to speak to us knowing that we will not share any of your confidences.”
The younger woman hesitated and then decided to seek counsel. Indeed, she was well aware that Mr. Collins had been instrumental in the marriages of many of her favorite people, including her brother and Elizabeth. Perhaps he could provide useful insight into this complex situation.
“The man in question is Viscount Hugh Hartington, the heir to the Marquis of Salisbury,” Georgiana explained.
“He is about seven and twenty years of age. His elder brother, Samuel, now deceased, was a close friend of my cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. The current viscount is a fine young man, and I like him very much.”
“But you do not love him?” Charlotte asked softly as she rocked her baby son, who was gazing at her adoringly with one partially opened blue eye.