Chapter Eleven #3
Besides, the profound, mournful first movement suited her mood tonight.
She placed her hands on the starting notes, and the crowd faded away, leaving nothing but the music.
The movement was graceful and reflective, bittersweet and wistful as it drew pictures in her mind of her uncle, her aunt, all three of them together, swirled together with the pain of his death.
For the six or seven minutes it took to work through the music, she fed her sense of loss into the notes.
Who was she now? Where did she belong? When she finished, she sat back and let her hands drop into her lap.
There was a short silence and then a burst of enthusiastic applause.
Elizabeth glanced up and saw that Mary was taken aback. Her younger sister lifted an eyebrow. She was asking, silently, why Elizabeth had stopped. She had forgotten that Mary knew she could play the entire piece. Oh dear, she moaned silently, managing a small smile for the room.
Darcy blinked a few times as the final notes of Beethoven faded away and Miss Elizabeth finally glanced up, the somber expression in her golden eyes wavering before dissipating like the lifting of a fog.
She offered a modest smile and stood to make way for the next young lady to exhibit as though she had not stirred the very souls of her audience.
She had chosen the simplest movement of an oft-played sonata, of course, which spoke to her unwillingness to tackle anything technically advanced.
Georgiana would have played the entire piece, including the difficult, agitated third movement that required so much dexterity.
Still, Miss Elizabeth had played that simple section with technical proficiency and a deep emotion quite lacking in most of the performances in town.
Music at a private party had never made him feel the chill of desolation and the heat of longing quite like her brief exhibition.
As she was stepping away from the instrument, she caught him watching her.
The expression in her dark eyes was surprised and then…
curious. Darcy dragged his gaze away with some difficulty.
Elizabeth wandered over to speak with Jane and Mr. Bingley, but paused along the way to greet Colonel Foster, who was attending with his young wife.
Not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered how men in their forties could desire women so much younger—Mrs. Forster was barely older than Lydia and a good deal sillier.
As Elizabeth was teasing the Colonel about subduing a French invasion in sleepy Meryton, they were interrupted by a throng of young women begging for a ball.
Elizabeth smiled, thinking a ball with the officers a singularly poor idea, but had few fears for her own family.
Jane was too enamored with Mr. Bingley to pay any attention to the militia, Mary would frighten the men away, and Kitty was too frightened of them.
Lydia, the only one among them who would welcome such an event, was fortunately not yet out.
Despite her attendance tonight, she would not be invited to such an event.
Well, perhaps Mama would enjoy it, she thought.
“Is such an opportunity not something that would interest you, Miss Eliza?“ Miss Bingley asked primly.
Good heavens, Elizabeth started. The woman is a specter.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Caro?” she replied smoothly.
Miss Bingley stiffened. “Miss Bingley,“ she said almost angrily.
“Ah,” Elizabeth said calmly. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“You should certainly attend a ball with the officers, Miss Elizabeth,“ Miss Bingley nearly hissed. “I am sure you would enjoy company more at your own level.”
Elizabeth’s mood brightened considerably. “Do you think so, Miss Bingley?” she asked, all innocence. Do not smile, Elizabeth. Do not smile.
“Of course, dear,” Miss Bingley replied with a haughty look about the room. “Do not we all?”
“I find myself well pleased in most company, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth responded. “There are good people to be found in many places.”
“Good people,” Miss Bingley agreed smoothly, her gaze fixed just over Elizabeth’s shoulder, “but not the best people.”
Elizabeth was suddenly struck by a memory of the baronet’s daughters, and she abruptly changed course.
“Miss Bingley,” she said earnestly, placing her hand lightly on Miss Bingley’s sleeve, “when you reach out to others in genuine friendship, you may not pull yourself quite as high, but you will be surer of your footing.”
“That is certainly good advice,” Miss Bingley smiled icily, derision nearly dripping from her lips as she spoke. “You should take it.”
She was missing the point entirely, Elizabeth thought. She was disappointed, but nodded. “I already do, Miss Bingley.”
Darcy heard Miss Elizabeth offering some sound advice.
It spoke well of her character and her wisdom, he thought.
She was not ambitious in that way. She would rather have good friends than dangle after well-placed ones.
It took a moment longer for him to realize how generous it was, that Miss Elizabeth meant to help Miss Bingley despite the woman’s constant barbs.
As Miss Bingley left to seek Mrs. Hurst, he stepped to Miss Elizabeth’s side. “Excuse me, Miss Elizabeth,” he said roughly. In a low voice rich with sincerity, he said, “I must apologize for overhearing your words to Miss Bingley, but the thought was well stated.”
“Apologies for overhearing?“ Miss Elizabeth asked, her rosy lips offering him a small, private smile.
“I see.” She smoothed her skirts before looking up into his eyes.
Darcy felt his traitorous heart hammering against his chest as her dark, expressive eyes found his own.
“All I ask, sir,” she said, her face raised to his own, “is that rather than listening to my conversations in future that you join them instead. Might we agree to that much?”
Darcy would have been embarrassed, but he barely heard her. Stunning, was all he could think. He regained his composure enough to say, “Of course, Miss Elizabeth.”
She waited expectantly, but as hard as he tried to gather the tattered remains of his wit, it was hopeless. He offered her a quick bow and strode away.
Idiot, he berated himself. He glanced back to see her blow out a breath and shake her head. When he turned back, he caught a glimpse of Bingley and Mr. Bennet returning to the ballroom. Bingley, he thought, disconcerted, what are you about?
The younger Lucas girl sat at the pianoforte and began to play a few Scotch and Irish airs to encourage the younger people to dance, should they so desire.
Miss Elizabeth stood to the side, observing Miss Kitty and Miss Mary being led to the small area cleared for the purpose, an almost maternal expression on her face, and something else he recognized. The fleeting sadness of loss.
Why would she have such a look upon her countenance as she viewed her sisters?
It was yet another part of the puzzle presented by Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Her sisters had all stood with their mother at one time or another this evening, but she had not.
She had debated Miss Lucas’ notions of marriage with spirit, but had ultimately stopped short, almost as though she feared giving offense.
If they had a long-standing friendship, certainly she would have risked more.
Perhaps Sir William’s elevation was more recent than he supposed, and the women had not known one another long enough for that sort of trust to build between them?
It was perplexing. She was a mystery, Miss Elizabeth, and though he knew should not, he found himself approaching her.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he asked solemnly.
There was surprise in her dark eyes when she turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, and Darcy thought she sounded amused. It was not the reaction he was expecting, but he plowed ahead.
“May I have this dance?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She tipped her head slightly to one side, and three ebony curls bounced nearly to her shoulder. He swallowed. And waited.
Finally, after what seemed an interminable interval, her bow-shaped lips stretched into an impish little smile, and she replied, “Yes, Mr. Darcy. You may.”