Chapter Eighteen #2
Fortunately for them all, Elizabeth’s music master had been exacting.
He would not allow her to sing a song in public unless she could hit each note perfectly.
Practice is for private, he would say imperiously, and there were a handful of very difficult songs she had not been able to master which would forever remain at home.
Elizabeth knew her voice was strong-- better, in fact, then her playing.
While she would never be asked to sing for royalty, she thought laughingly, she was skilled enough for the drawing room.
She hit the first high note and felt her heart opening to the joy of the exercise.
Then she pushed all her suppressed annoyance with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst into the music and let it soar away.
When she reached the end, biting the final note off crisply and completing the piano score with a flourish, she felt lighter.
She was also exhausted. Anger was taxing.
As the music faded, she stood to a silent room.
Jane gave her a tiny shake of her head, but Elizabeth was unmoved.
Everyone else appeared stunned. Almost as stunned as they were when I appeared in the breakfast room, she thought with some pride.
Except Mr. Darcy. She met his darkening gaze, which managed to be gentle and intense at the same time.
There was a connection. She could feel it, and she knew he had as well.
He had felt the music. Really felt it, like she did.
She dropped her gaze to the floor, overwhelmed, before the humor of the situation reasserted itself.
The rest of them are so entirely surprised.
Their expectations must have been very low indeed.
“Miss Bingley, will you play?“ she asked kindly.
Miss Bingley nodded coldly and moved to the instrument, selecting a piece by Haydn, which she performed to technical perfection. She did not sing.
Darcy was amused, at first, by the selection of Piccinni’s opera. It was based on the novel Pamela, and he felt the jibe Miss Elizabeth was sending his way. The heroine in this opera was socially beneath the hero, and the Marchese wavered a good deal before finally deciding to offer marriage.
Darcy closed his eyes. Georgiana had learnt several pieces from this opera even before it had been performed in London last year, but before he allowed her to purchase the music, he had read the libretto.
He worked now to dredge up the plot. Had the Marchese proposed only after the miraculous and highly unlikely discovery that Cecchina was the daughter of a baron?
Yes, he did. Not much of a love story, that.
His diversion lasted only until Miss Elizabeth began to sing.
She had played at Lucas Lodge, but not like this, and she had not sung at all.
Her touch on the pianoforte was confident, but her voice…
as he heard the notes, he was struck by an image of Elizabeth stepping lightly from one stone to the next to cross a stream, one foot on the new stone before the other had relinquished the old.
Her voice was too clear, too sweet for the “rage aria” she was singing, but, as with the sonata she had played, she was releasing her own emotions into the music and allowing them to float away--anger, yes, but something more.
Anger and longing, anger and fear, anger and love.
He opened his eyes, staring at her as though he could see it all soaring wildly into the air above her head before it vanished.
The music swelled, and when she finished with a short, clean note and a flourish, he held her gaze, trying to convey his own longing for her, his own love.
She blushed and looked away, but a connection had been made. He was sure of it.
He was through hiding anything from Elizabeth. It was foolish even to try.
Miss Bingley remained at the instrument for some time, playing one difficult piece after another.
This suited Darcy well, for while Mrs. Hurst insisted on sitting next to him and commenting on her sister’s performance, Miss Elizabeth had taken the seat on his other side, giving him not only the pleasure but the responsibility of speaking with her as well.
“Caroline has always had an affinity for the pianoforte,” Mrs. Hurst was saying, her cultured tones grating on Darcy’s ear.
Normally he was content to simply ignore her, but she seemed to be putting herself forward with more determination than she had in their previous encounters.
He identified a sort of desperation beneath the surface, but she was a married woman.
Why should she care if he was not inclined towards her sister?
“Indeed,” he replied politely, his mind working on the problem.
“Her performance reflects it.” She wants the connection, he concluded, and if Bingley marries Miss Bennet she fears they might lose it.
They need to persuade me away from the second sister so they can separate their brother from the first. Hurst was in his cups too often for Darcy’s liking, but he was a decent sort if they met at Brooks’s or anywhere away from his wife.
That might be the best way to carry on once they returned to town.
Mrs. Hurst paused until he was about to address Miss Elizabeth and then spoke again. “This is a difficult transition, sir,” she explained, lifting an elegant hand.
“So it is,” Darcy nodded. “Miss Elizabeth, I…”
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst said reproachfully, “you really must attend to this part of the…”
“I thank you, Mrs. Hurst,” he responded bluntly. “My sister learned this piece some time ago. I am familiar with it.” He turned to Miss Elizabeth, who was conversing quietly with his cousin.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he asked, his voice pitched just above a whisper. “When do you and your sister return to Longbourn?”
Her eyes danced. “Ready to be rid of us so soon, Mr. Darcy?”
Richard shook his head. “Really, Darcy, you are most unsociable.” He patted Miss Elizabeth’s hand. “Not to fear, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her good-humoredly. “You and your sister have some true friends here at Netherfield.”
Darcy did not dare touch Miss Elizabeth, not her hand, not any part of her. Mrs. Hurst was observing him as a hawk did its prey. He took a deep breath and leaned in a bit. “I believe you understand the reason for my urgency, madam.”
Elizabeth lowered her head. She grows shy at the strangest moments. It was charming and very appealing.
“Tomorrow after breakfast, Mr. Darcy,” she told him. “Mr. Bingley had promised us the carriage.”
“Your sister is well enough?” Darcy was elated, as he had every intention of accompanying her and speaking with her father. Still, it would not do to risk Miss Bennet’s health. The weather had remained quite cold.
Miss Elizabeth glanced up at him through her dark lashes, an expression of fondness in them he had not yet seen.
“Jane is well enough, I thank you.” She nodded once towards Bingley and her sister who were still isolated from the larger group, but Bingley caught her gaze and stood, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat.
“As your cousin has pointed out, she is being well looked after.”
Miss Bingley began to play more loudly as Bingley made his way over. Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “The tension in this room is worse than any London ball,” he mumbled. “It reminds me of the hour before a battle.”
“Did you say ball, Fitzwilliam?” Bingley cried from a few feet away.
“I did, Bingley,” Richard replied, then, inclining his head to Miss Elizabeth, continued. “I also said battle, but I suppose his hearing is rather selective.”
“Oh, Charles,” Miss Bingley said, stopping her recital abruptly and closing the instrument.
“Are you really serious about holding a ball at Netherfield?
“ She cast her eyes about the room, and to Darcy’s chagrin, they fell on him.
“I am certain there are some members of our party for whom it would be rather a duty than a pleasure. Might you not reconsider?”
“If you mean Darcy,” her brother said, “leave him to me.” He slapped Darcy on the shoulder, forcing Mrs. Hurst to lean away. “Somehow, I will convince him of its merits.”
There was a choking sound near the door where Mr. Hurst was attempting not to snort wine through his nose.
“I should like balls infinitely better,’ Miss Bingley replied, rising regally, “if they were carried on in a different manner. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of the day.”
“Much more rational, Caroline,” Mr. Bingley agreed amiably, “but not near so much like a ball.”
“Have no fear for me, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, tugging one cuff down and then the other.
“I shall manage.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Elizabeth sitting, her hands folded in her lap, her mind far away.
She was the picture of weariness, and he felt for her.
She could not have had much rest, caring for her sister and exerting herself to remain civil to both her hostess and Mrs. Hurst. He stood and held out a hand to her.
She was initially taken aback but placed her hand in his without question. He helped her to her feet.
“Perhaps you should retire, Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
She smiled at everyone, but her smile for him lingered just a bit longer. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, I do believe it is time.” She collected Miss Bennet and together, they left the room.
Mrs. Hurst’s expression was thoughtful, her eyes on the doorway through which the Bennet sisters had made their exit.
As Richard moved to join Hurst for some wine and Bingley sat in the space previously occupied by Miss Elizabeth, Mrs. Hurst turned to face her brother and Darcy.
“Miss Elizabeth,” she announced as though she had solved some great mystery, “is the only Bennet sister who is not blonde.”