Chapter Eighteen
After dinner was over, Elizabeth ran upstairs to fetch her sister to the drawing room.
Jane had eaten well and slept a good deal.
She was therefore anticipating the visit with increasing excitement.
Molly had been recruited to do Jane’s hair and help her dress, and they were very nearly finished with her toilette when Elizabeth arrived.
“Oh, it is such a pleasure to be allowed out of this bedchamber,” Jane said emphatically. Molly smiled along with Elizabeth. “I am very grateful for the care the Bingleys have offered me, but I am tired of being sick.”
Elizabeth kissed the top of her sister’s head.
“Oi!” cried Molly. “Her hair, miss!”
Elizabeth turned to look at Molly, whose cheeks flushed.
Elizabeth bit her bottom lip, trying to restrain her laugh.
Molly, realizing she was not about to be reprimanded, relaxed a little, but the outburst was not quite as humorous to her.
She corrected the damage Elizabeth had done to her sister’s coiffure, and said quietly, “You are finished, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth reached out to touch Molly’s arm reassuringly. “I promise not to destroy your hard work, Molly. I do apologize, truly.”
“No, miss,” Molly mumbled. “My apologies.”
“Molly,” Jane replied gently, “you have done wonders with my hair. I appreciate your efforts. There is no need to apologize.”
Molly nodded and scurried out of the room. Jane turned to Elizabeth. “You are scaring poor Molly, you dunderhead.” Her words scolded, but her playful expression told another story.
“Dunderhead, is it?” Elizabeth exclaimed, hands fluttering to her chest. “What terrible language you use, Jane! Mary is a poor influence on you, I think.” Her hands moved down to her hips.
“Perhaps I am such a stupid person that I cannot recall my way to the drawing room and you shall have to make your way alone.” Her lips twitched.
Jane rolled her eyes. “As if you do not wish to see your handsome Mr. Darcy this evening.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips and sat down in a chair next to her sister. “He is handsome. It can be quite unsettling.”
Jane sighed. “I know just what you mean.” She stood from the vanity. “Take care you are not caught out by Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst,” she warned her sister, only half in jest. “Or you may not have any hair left on your head by the time you leave Netherfield.”
Jane might not be in earnest, but Elizabeth was. “Tomorrow morning, Jane,” Elizabeth said, her mind quite made up. “We are leaving tomorrow after breakfast. I am rather fond of my hair.”
“I am sure I feel well enough, Lizzy,” Jane agreed. “I will continue to rest at home. And I should so like Mr. Bingley to accompany us to Longbourn.” She glanced askance at Elizabeth. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy might also join us in the carriage?”
“He was almost overt at dinner, Jane,” Elizabeth replied, her chin tipping down bashfully.
“If I do not find a way to get him to Papa soon, he may actually crack in half from the pressure.” She stood and led the way to the door.
“And his cousin is not helping, making all sorts of faces. Really, the two of them together are like…”
“Family?” Jane asked with a tilt of her head. “Not unlike the way we are at Longbourn?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “How am I ever to get along with such a fair-minded sister?” she complained, hooking her arm through Jane’s as they approached the stairs.
“I have hardly missed our walks at all for the number of times I have traversed these stairs,” she jested.
Jane made no reply. Elizabeth, realizing that Jane was growing nervous, let her be.
When they entered the drawing room, the men were already there. Clearly, they had eschewed the traditional separation of men and women after the meal, and a covert glance at Miss Bingley revealed that she was very pleased. No doubt she thinks it a compliment to her.
“Miss Bennet!” cried Mr. Bingley as they entered.
He approached them both with a wide smile on his face.
He bowed to Elizabeth and took Jane’s arm, leaving Elizabeth standing by herself near the entrance.
Before Mr. Darcy could make his way to her side, Mr. Fitzwilliam was there, offering his arm and leading her to a place far removed from his cousin.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth chided him, “what are you about, sir?”
“Just a little thank you, Miss Elizabeth, for your assistance this morning.” He gave her a wink.
She returned his impertinence with a flippant response. “You cannot blame me for leaving you with them for breakfast. Small recompense for gossiping about me as though I was a London amusement.”
“I had nothing but congratulations to offer my cousin,” he replied cheerily. “It is not my fault Hurst was hiding on the settee.”
“Mr. Hurst is always hiding on the settee, Mr. Fitzwilliam,“ Elizabeth said. “Are you sure you are a military man?”
“Retired.” He frowned. “My skills might be somewhat rusty.”
“Undoubtedly,” Elizabeth concurred. She noticed Mr. Darcy, his jaw clenched, fuming.
“I do believe I am not the only one put out with you, sir.” Mr. Fitzwilliam appeared pleased with himself, and Elizabeth lost all patience.
“Now, if you please, lead me back to the center of the room, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she demanded.
“My sister is only just recovered from her illness. She may have need of me.”
“Your sister is being very well looked after, Miss Elizabeth,” he muttered.
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled around the room.
Miss Bingley was edging as close as she dared to Mr. Darcy, who held his arms tightly behind his back to prevent anyone from latching on to them.
Elizabeth pitied him. That cannot be comfortable.
Mrs. Hurst stood before Mr. Darcy, her back to Elizabeth, while Mr. Hurst poured himself another glass of wine.
She and Mr. Fitzwilliam were bickering in the corner of the room.
Yet Mr. Bingley and Jane saw none of this, caught up as they were in one another.
Mr. Bingley placed a blanket over Jane’s lap before stepping to the screen before the fire, adjusting it until she was comfortable.
As uneasy as Elizabeth was in her present company, she was very pleased for Jane.
And for myself as well. Mr. Bingley will make an admirable brother.
She glanced again at Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, doing all they could to attract Mr. Darcy’s complete attention.
“Please, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said directly, “take me back.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam appeared to understand that this was no longer a game, and he acquiesced without further comment.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy asked as they approached, his posture softening a bit as her eyes met his. “Would you be willing to play for us tonight?”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy,” she replied. A good way to pass the time, she thought.
“An aria, Lizzy,” Jane pleaded from her perch near the fire. “You sing so beautifully.”
Elizabeth gave Jane a hard look whilst doing her best to ignore the astonishment of her audience. I believed Jane kind, but she is determined to see me bald.
She knew very well Jane wished her to play a love song, and both Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were likely no less eager.
Were she not in enemy territory, she might be inclined to oblige, but she was not.
Miss Bingley was mistress of this house.
She was enamored of Mr. Darcy, and no less determined, she was sure, to separate her brother from Jane.
Both causes had already been lost, but Miss Bingley did not know that.
If Elizabeth had her way, Miss Bingley would not know that before the Bennet sisters were safely ensconced three miles away at Longbourn.
Singing a love song in such a situation was certain to stoke Miss Bingley’s ire.
“Very well,” she replied, and strolled to the pianoforte.
It was older but had been tuned recently, and the sound in the room was good.
Elizabeth warmed up with few scales, going over her repertoire in her head.
Ire. Hmm. Fury. Perhaps… Then, with an expression meant to mimic Mr. Darcy’s best stony mask, she launched into Furia di donna irata.
She had not selected the piece entirely to confound her listeners.
She did appreciate the music, as her soprano was well suited to it, and the beginning of the piece was a challenge to perform.
Staccato in legato, her music master had repeated endlessly as she learned it.
Staccato in legato, each note clear and discrete, yet connected effortlessly to the notes that surround it.
As the music grew more urgent, Elizabeth could feel it welling up in her, staccato in legato, individual yet connected, separate but the same, all her sisters surrounding Jane in a circle with a space reserved for her.
The heroine of La buona figliuora, Cecchina, was in love with the Marchese and he with her, but her social position was inferior. His sister Lucinda was angry with her brother, because her own suitor Armidoro refused to marry her if her brother chose a bride so far beneath his expectations.
Elizabeth was singing the part not of the star-crossed but independent Cecchina, but Marchesa Lucinda, the angry sister.
It had always made Uncle Phillip laugh to hear her perform it.
She could see him now, nudging her aunt until she slapped his arm to make him cease.
Then Aunt Olivia would close her eyes as she absorbed the music rather than the words.