Chapter Eleven
The notes from the pianoforte had been painful to hear, discordant strikes against ivory that bore no resemblance to music.
Darcy had tried not to wince too visibly as the sounds drifted across the parlour, but he had noticed Fitzwilliam grimacing beside him, and even Lady Catherine had shifted in her chair with obvious displeasure.
The lesson, if it could be called such, had lasted perhaps ten minutes before dissolving into silence.
Now, as Darcy glanced toward the instrument in the corner, he saw something that made his chest tighten with unexpected concern.
Anne was crying.
Not the delicate tears of a lady moved by sentiment, but the trembling shoulders and bowed head of genuine distress.
The candlelight caught the wetness on her pale cheeks, revealed the way her hands clutched at the green silk of her skirts.
Her breathing came in small, visible gasps that made Darcy think of a wounded animal trying not to make noise while suffering.
Beside her, Elizabeth sat with her back partially turned, her expression neutral as she gazed toward the window rather than at her supposed student.
The contrast was stark. Elizabeth appeared entirely composed, seemingly unaffected by Anne’s obvious distress, while Anne herself looked as though she might collapse.
Guilt struck Darcy with unexpected force.
He had approved of the lesson, had even spoken in favour of it when Elizabeth had shown reluctance.
Had thought it would be beneficial for Anne to receive instruction, had viewed it as an opportunity for her to develop an accomplishment denied by her delicate health.
Now, watching his cousin’s shoulders shake with silent sobs, he realised he had pushed her into something she was utterly unprepared for.
Lady Catherine’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Anne is overwrought,” she announced to the room at large, her tone carrying that particular edge of displeasure mixed with concern. “The exertion has been too much for her delicate constitution. She requires rest.”
The words were delivered as though Anne’s distress were both expected and vaguely inconvenient. Darcy felt his jaw tighten at his aunt’s casual dismissal, at the way she remained seated rather than going to comfort her daughter. Someone needed to offer Anne support.
Darcy set down his coffee cup and rose from his position near the fireplace. Lady Catherine’s gaze snapped to him immediately, her expression suggesting she found his movement both unnecessary and inappropriate.
“Darcy, there is no need,” Lady Catherine began, but he was already crossing the room, his long strides carrying him toward the pianoforte.
Darcy was aware of the room’s attention shifting to him, of conversations pausing as people turned to observe. But he kept his focus on Anne, on the trembling figure in green silk who had not yet looked up, who remained bent over her lap as though trying to disappear entirely.
As he drew closer, Darcy could see the full extent of Anne’s distress.
Tears streamed down her face unchecked, her pale skin blotched with red around her eyes and nose.
Her hands twisted in her skirts with enough force to wrinkle the expensive silk.
Her breathing remained rapid and shallow, each inhalation audible.
The sight struck Darcy with surprising force.
He had seen Anne unwell countless times, had witnessed her fatigue and weakness and the general frailty that characterised her existence.
But he had never seen her like this, so completely undone, so visibly suffering in a way that went beyond physical illness into something that looked remarkably like despair.
“Anne,” Darcy said quietly, pitching his voice to carry only to her. “You appear a little tired and overset.”
The words were inadequate, he knew, too gentle for the depth of distress he was witnessing. But what else could he say? He could hardly acknowledge the full scope of her suffering in front of the assembled company.
Anne looked up at him then, and what Darcy saw in her expression made his breath catch.
Not embarrassment about her failure at the pianoforte, though surely that was present.
Not simple distress about being pushed beyond her capabilities.
What he saw was something deeper, more desperate, something that looked remarkably like pleading.
Her pale eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that seemed to convey wordless communication. Help me, those eyes seemed to say. Please help me. But help with what? What could Anne possibly need from him beyond the obvious comfort he was attempting to provide?
Before Darcy could speak again, before he could attempt to decipher that strange, desperate look, a familiar figure materialised at Anne’s other side.
Mrs. Jenkinson had crossed the room with surprising speed, her face set in lines of protective concern mixed with something that might have been warning.
“Come, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice carrying that particular authority of a long-time companion. “You have overtaxed yourself this evening. You require rest immediately.”
She placed one hand on Anne’s shoulder, not roughly but with enough firmness to communicate that resistance would not be tolerated.
Anne’s gaze remained fixed on Darcy for another moment, that same pleading desperation evident in every line of her face, before she finally allowed her attention to shift to her companion.
“I am tired,” Anne whispered, her voice emerging rough and broken. “So very tired.”
Mrs. Jenkinson made a sound of agreement and began helping Anne to rise, supporting her elbow as she stood on trembling legs. Anne swayed slightly, and Darcy instinctively reached out to steady her, his hand hovering near her arm though propriety prevented him from actually touching her.
Anne looked at him one final time before Mrs. Jenkinson guided her toward the door.
That look hit Darcy like a physical blow, so full of desperate pleading and helpless sorrow that it made his chest ache with confused sympathy.
What was she trying to communicate? What did she need him to understand?
Then she was turning away, allowing Mrs. Jenkinson to lead her from the parlour with careful, measured steps. Darcy watched them go, watched Anne’s bent head and trembling shoulders disappear through the doorway.
He had suggested this lesson. Had thought it would be beneficial. And instead, he had subjected her to an experience that had clearly devastated her.
The door closed with a soft click, and the parlour gradually returned to its previous hum of conversation. Lady Catherine made some pronouncement about Anne’s delicate constitution. Collins agreed with obsequious enthusiasm. Charlotte looked troubled but said nothing.
Darcy remained standing beside the pianoforte, staring at the closed door, that final pleading look still vivid in his memory.
Anne would recover, surely. She always did, bouncing back from moments of weakness with the resilience that chronic illness had forced her to develop.
By tomorrow she would be resting comfortably, and this evening’s distress would fade into just another example of her fragile health being overtaxed.
Yet even as he reassured himself with these thoughts, Darcy could not shake the memory of that desperate, pleading expression.
Could not dismiss the conviction that Anne had been trying to tell him something, to communicate some urgent need that went beyond simple distress about failing at the pianoforte.
Darcy turned his attention from the closed door back to Elizabeth, who remained standing beside the pianoforte as though nothing extraordinary had just occurred.
The candlelight caught the healthy colour in her cheeks, the vitality that seemed to radiate from her even in stillness.
She appeared entirely composed, her hands folded loosely before her, her expression pleasant but unrevealing.
No trace of concern for Anne’s distress showed on her features, no acknowledgement that she had just witnessed her supposed student dissolve into tears.
The lack of reaction troubled Darcy more than he wanted to admit.
Surely anyone with normal sensibility would show some sign of being affected by such obvious suffering.
Would express concern, or at least mild distress.
Yet Elizabeth stood there looking as serene as though she had just completed a pleasant afternoon stroll.
Darcy moved closer, aware that the parlour’s attention had largely returned to other conversations.
Lady Catherine was speaking to Mr. Collins about some parish matter.
Fitzwilliam had engaged Maria Lucas in conversation.
Charlotte sat quietly on the sofa, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the pianoforte with that same troubled expression.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, keeping his voice low. “Since you are already at the instrument, perhaps you might favour us with a song? It seems a pity to have the evening’s music end on such a...” He paused, searching for a diplomatic word. “Discordant note.”
It was a reasonable suggestion, he thought. Elizabeth played and sang quite charmingly, and having her perform might salvage something from this increasingly uncomfortable evening.
But Elizabeth’s response was immediate and definitive. “No, thank you, Mr. Darcy. I find I am not inclined to play this evening.”
The refusal itself was not surprising. Elizabeth had never been one to perform simply because propriety demanded it.
But something about the way she delivered it struck Darcy as wrong.
The words emerged too quickly, as though she had been waiting for his suggestion solely to refuse it.
And her expression showed none of the playful spirit he might have expected.