Chapter 16 #2
Thus the meal continued. Whenever the discourse strayed too far from what was proper, Mama in her role as hostess, would turn the conversation to other topics.
Occasionally, even she was not quick enough to forestall a particularly egregious advertisement.
Indeed, Miss Augustus—or was it her mother?
—managed a particular favourite: ‘A solitary life at such a grand estate must be terribly lonely. I should think its master would require an equally brilliant companion to preside over his dinners. One who can converse on literature, politics, and the fine arts. I have just finished reading the most delightfully philosophical treatise. Do you find modern philosophy stimulating, Mr. Darcy?’
I was about to make some witty—dare I say, caustic—rejoinder on Hume’s radical empiricism when Mama took my hand, giving me a stern look.
Did I pout like Lydia when denied a favourite comfit?
Likely, for Darcy also turned to me, shaking his head.
Oh, I do wish I could have poked out my tongue, but even I was sufficiently proper not to do so—well, at least in company.
Finally, the meal came to an end, and we retired to the hotel’s parlour. We had just taken our seats when Lady Augustus encouraged her daughter to perform on the piano-forte.
“It would give me great pleasure, Mother. Do you have a favourite composer, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, looking towards Darcy.
“I am fond of Mozart, though I have lately heard much of Mr. Clementi’s works.”
Miss Augustus stood and went to the small instrument, upon the top were scattered several sheets of music.
She found one which was suitable, and sat down on the seat.
Georgiana immediately sprung up to turn the pages.
I sat back to listen, for though it was a simple piece, Mozart’s Piano Sonata No.
16 in C Major offered a sparkling, elegant melody that didn’t demand an aggressive technique and was well-accessible for impromptu recitals.
Unfortunately, Miss Augustus’s powers were ill-suited to such a display; whereas the melody should have been light and easy, it was rendered with a ponderous exactitude, which was neither charming nor technically correct.
She finished to the applause of her mother and received more politeness than enthusiasm from the rest of her audience.
Georgiana was then entreated to play, but she, with a timidness I had not seen before, begged off, citing fatigue after a long day at Kendal. Naturally, Darcy turned to me. I could not with any grace refuse and took my place at the instrument.
“You are a strange creature, wanting me to play,” I said. “If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing only the very best performers.”
Was Darcy smirking? Thus I found myself choosing a piece to play. Those available on the instrument were rather dull, and I wished for something brighter, for I thought our party had grown excessively tedious with Lady Augustus’s tiresome monotone dominating our conversation.
Yet, I forgot myself, for the moment I placed my fingers on the keys, Mary took over and the first movement of Mr. Beethoven’s Waldstein sonata opened with its driving, pulsating rhythm that created such intense tension before expanding into a radiant second theme.
I was lost in Mary’s music, her hands dancing over the keys.
I came to the end of the first movement as breathless as Mama had been viewing the Holy Trinity Church in Kendal. Mary wished to play on, but I managed to wrest control over my fingers. Trembling, I stood, and sank gratefully, if not gracefully, into my seat on the sofa, taking a sip of sherry.
The parlour had grown silent, none of the normal murmurings, snufflings, outbreaks of gentle laughter that characterised a public common room.
Then, as if the gates to a canal lock had opened, applause poured forth.
I could do little but stand and curtsey to the room—how could I possibly explain that it was Mary who played, not I?
Mr. Darcy broke the silence of our party. “I have heard the Waldstein sonata performed in London, it is indeed a remarkable composition. I understand he was inspired by the beautiful resonance of an érard piano-forte gifted to him from Paris.”
“Surely, sir, he would have preferred an English instrument by Broadwoods. Sir Henry purchased a very fine one for Eustacia.” Lady Augustus broke our peace, and soon after the party broke up.
Once the lady and her daughter had retired for the night, we agreed to meet before breakfast and plan the next day’s activities.
Darcy was very quiet—often, I found him looking at me with a strange expression clouding his countenance.
Georgiana was regarding me somewhat with awe, for she confessed she had never mastered the sonata, which she found extremely difficult.
I laughed. “If you wish, Georgiana, I will tell you my secrets—then you too can amaze your friends and acquaintances with your talent.”
“Oh, Lizzy, I never knew you had such skill,” said Mama, as we undressed for the night.
As I lay in bed, I found I needed her gentle succour and rolled over to snuggle into her embrace. Oh, Mama, if only my sweet sisters were with us now—what fun we should have.
* * *
My foolish tongue! In Kendal, I had let it slip that I was no horse-woman, and, of course, Darcy—with Georgiana’s connivance, no doubt—had decided that our excursion along the Keswick Road should best be accomplished by horse.
We had agreed the night before that the route from Ambleside to Keswick lay at the very heart of the Lakes, and offered a chance to enjoy the best of the country.
“I confess, sir, I had rather pictured us walking the distance.” I scowled at Darcy—for waiting in the yard were two Galloway ponies, and three rather fine geldings, already saddled.
“The air is so fine, and the scenery surely best appreciated at a leisurely pace. I cannot think why a horse should be preferable to one’s own feet, at least in such country as this. Surely the pleasure is in the walking.”
“The pleasure, perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, but not the practicality. It is nearly fifteen miles to Keswick, and the roads, while charming to behold, are less so when one is obliged to traverse them on foot for the better part of a day.”
I smirked. “Are you quite certain, sir, that you are not merely eager to display your horsemanship? I would not begrudge you a gallop, but I do not see why Mrs. Bennet and I should be compelled to mount up when we are perfectly content to walk.”
“Oh, Lizzy! You cannot mean to make me walk fifteen miles!” cried Mama. “Surely you do not mean to walk so far!”
“Not at all, Mama. If Darcy had cared to consult the guidebook, he would see that we could take our luncheon at the Swan in Grasmere, thence to the Nag’s Head at Wythburn. You have certainly walked as far before.”
“That was in Meryton, Lizzy, and there were shops and neighbours along the way. Here, there are only sheep and rocks and dreadful little streams to cross. I am not made for the wilds of the North, I assure you.” Mama dissembled.
Having climbed Loughrigg Fell, she was certainly able to navigate the Keswick Road without difficulty.
“Mrs. Bennet, I must agree that the journey would be taxing on foot,” said Darcy. “The scenery is indeed beautiful, but the route is long and uneven. Horses would allow us to enjoy the countryside without undue fatigue.”
“And yet,” I replied, “I have always found that one sees more when walking. The pace is slow enough to take notice of the wildflowers and the birds. A horse will carry you swiftly past all that is worth observing.”
Darcy, becoming increasingly peeved, changed tack.
“There is much to be said for observation, Miss Elizabeth, but there is also the question of safety and comfort. The weather here is changeable—one moment the sun shines, the next there is a downpour. On horseback, we may reach shelter more swiftly.”
“Oh, if it rains, we shall be wet whether on horseback or on foot. I do not mind a little rain,” I replied, a trifle too flippantly. Lydia giggled; Mary gave me a disapproving look—but smiled nevertheless.
“I seldom ride, Lizzy, but I would rather not catch a chill,” said Mama. “I trust the horses aren’t spirited.”
“I assure you, ma’am, that I have arranged for gentle horses, suited to riders of every experience. The innkeeper has vouched for their steadiness. And there is no shame in preferring an easier passage, particularly when the journey is so considerable.”
“You see, Mama, Mr. Darcy means to coax us both into the saddle with promises of gentle horses and a swift arrival.” I gave all the appearance of remaining firm; yet, truly, I had no objection to enjoying the country from horseback. It certainly gave a better view over the hedgerows and fences.
“I am sure Mr. Darcy knows best, Lizzy,” said Mama. “It would be very impolite to refuse his advice when he has gone to such trouble. I shall ride, if only to spare my poor nerves.”
I laughed. “I suspect your nerves are more robust than you claim, Mama, but I will not contradict you.”
“And you, Miss Elizabeth? Will you allow yourself to be persuaded, or must I continue my entreaties?” Darcy held out his hand, and led me to the mounting block. A groom steadied one of the ponies.
“You are very persuasive, sir. But I have always liked the independence of my own feet. A horse feels, to me, like a kind of surrender. But I suppose I must take some pity on poor Mama—or she will never forgive me if I walk her to exhaustion.”
“I should say not!” she cried. “I am quite decided—horses it must be.”
I laughed, taking Darcy’s hand. “Very well. I submit. If you will show me the fells from horseback, I will do my best to admire them as much as you do.”