Chapter 8 #2
They slowly sipped the spicy, aromatic drink and conversed about this and that but not about Miss Hughes’s connexion to any royal court.
While discussing foreign words and how certain ones were working their way into the English language, they enjoyed a second round, only for its digestive benefits, of course.
Soon their glasses were empty again, and their host indicated they should join the ladies.
In the drawing room they found the women talking about, in Darcy’s opinion, nothing worth hearing. He was relieved when Mr Baker spoke up.
“As much as we enjoy hearing female voices conversing, we gentlemen look forward to some pretty music this evening. Which of you will perform for us first? You, Emma?”
“No, not me. Miss Wright, perhaps you will oblige us. Both Miss Margaret and Miss Althea have been praising your vocals.”
Having agreed, Miss Wright went to the pianoforte and applied to either Georgiana or Miss Margaret to accompany her. As Darcy expected, his blushing sister politely declined.
With alacrity, Miss Margaret moved to the instrument, seated herself upon the bench, and whispered with her elder sister awhile.
“Are you certain?” Upon receiving a nod and appearing flustered, she announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear— Oh, you had best announce the piece yourself, Hannah, for I cannot do justice to even its title.”
“Gladly, Meg. I shall be performing Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen.”
While the performers practised scales, Mr Baker leant towards Darcy. “That is from The Magic Flute, and I know from our time in cultured Bath that the name of the piece translates to ‘Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart’.”
“I have attended a performance of that Mozart opera. If I remember properly, in a fit of vengeful rage, the Queen of the Night urges her daughter to assassinate the mother’s rival.” Egad. Why would Miss Wright choose such a menacingly grandiose aria for an intimate drawing room performance?
Mr Baker shook his head in what Darcy interpreted as disapproval.
Poised by the instrument, Miss Wright cleared her throat. “For those of you unfamiliar with this operatic piece, I am about to sing in German a fast-paced, coloratura soprano part memorable for its multiple upper register staccatos.”
“Hannah does not actually speak German,” Miss Althea told Georgiana.
“She sings the foreign lyrics using phonetic mimicry.” Perhaps she had not realised how quiet the room had grown in anticipation of the song, but everyone must have heard her, including her eldest sister.
Miss Wright’s fierce glare caused the poor girl’s face to turn an alarming shade of red.
During Der Holle Rache, Darcy suspected that Miss Wright’s anger at Miss Althea might be enhancing her performance.
He had often enjoyed the fair singer’s agile vocals, but never before had he heard her sing that particular aria, nor perform with all the fervour of a jealous rage.
Looking about the room, he suspected everyone there was in awe of the performer’s incredible skill and the menace it imparted.
Although Miss Wright’s voice was awe-inspiring, his gaze often strayed to Miss Elizabeth.
Both ladies had caught him looking that way, and he had been duly frowned at by the singer.
She cannot know, can she? How could she possibly perceive his secret admiration of another?
For the remainder of the performance he would watch only the auburn-haired beauty, not the brunette one.
It was a novelty for him to think of Miss Elizabeth in that manner and a far cry from her being merely tolerable.
After the performance ended and Miss Wright and her sister were profusely bestowed with due praise, Miss Baker moved to Darcy’s side.
“How thoughtful of Miss Wright. She must have chosen to sing in German for Frederick and me.” Catching her brother’s eye, she raised her voice.
“My knowledge of the German language has unfortunately grown as rusty as the hinges on our gate.”
Unsure what he was supposed to make of the woman’s emphasis on her rusty hinges, Darcy hoped she was not expecting him to do aught about them.
She was an unusual creature, as was, to a lesser degree, her brother.
Mr Baker had mentioned an acquaintance with culture, but, speaking of rust, he and his sister seemed to have allowed their ‘town bronze’ to become tarnished.
“Miss Bennet, may we have the pleasure of hearing you play tonight?”
While Darcy added his earnest entreaty to Miss Baker’s, Miss Wright, on the way back to her chair, passed close by and appeared disconcerted by his having made such a request of another lady. But Miss Elizabeth would not hear of playing.
“I must humbly decline. Surely no one could expect me to follow Miss Wright’s extraordinary performance.”
“Your easy and unaffected playing at Lucas Lodge was most pleasing.” Though by no means capital. “What of Miss Hughes? Does your friend perform?”
“She plays and sings, and I know she has brought her instrument with her. She may not care to perform, though. Miss Hughes is in mourning, or half-mourning now. However, I shall enquire.”
Watching as the two spoke, Darcy assumed there would be no consent. After briefly conferring with her aunt, Miss Hughes spoke to the footman, who then left the room.
Upon return to Darcy’s side, Miss Elizabeth told him her friend’s instrument was being fetched.
She bit her lip, though, and frowned. “Miss Hughes will sing and accompany herself, and although a lone, late blooming rose is used as a metaphor, I admire her courage in choosing a song with poignant lyrics that speak of lost loved ones and of solitude.”
The footman returned and handed to Miss Hughes an elegant wooden instrument that was painted a lovely shade of blue with pretty gilded designs. He then took the bench from the pianoforte and placed it just so in the middle of the room for her.
While tuning the instrument, Miss Hughes said, “This is a harp-lute, perfect for accompanying one’s voice in such an intimate venue as this. The song is called”—she bowed her head, took a deep breath, then raised her chin—“The Last Rose of Summer.”
Miss Baker gasped, and her brother clasped his hands in front of his mouth.
Seated and resting the harp-lute against her shoulder, Miss Hughes played and sang, her voice silvery sweet and bright.
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone
Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered. Miss Elizabeth rushed to her side, joining her friend in harmony.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
Miss Hughes persevered through the entire second verse; but, although she kept playing, her voice failed her during the final verse. Miss Elizabeth sang the last four lines alone.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! Who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Abruptly standing, Miss Hughes set her instrument upon the bench, curtseyed, then fled, leaving a silent room behind her.
To his consternation, Darcy’s eyes prickled. Looking about the room, he saw Georgiana reaching for her handkerchief. Tears rolled down Miss Elizabeth’s lovely cheeks as she returned to her seat. Miss Baker openly wept.
Next to him, Mr Baker gruffly cleared his throat. “Moving lyrics, sweetly sung.”
“Indeed.” The Wrights, Darcy saw, fidgeted and appeared to suffer more from confusion and embarrassment than any other emotion.
No one seemed to know what to do, until, to Darcy’s amazement, Georgiana took Miss Althea by the arm and led her to the pianoforte, where they played a Beethoven piece with a frolicsome air meant for four hands.
Already this sojourn has worked wonders on her. Brava, little hen!