2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
“E lizabeth, you must never—under any circumstances—sing. Jane, Lydia, and you are strictly forbidden from ever singing a note in front of a man,” her father had said. “If you are among your immediate family, it is well and good. If you are visiting with friends, as long as there are no gentlemen or male servants in the room, you may sing then. But, in all other circumstances, I strictly forbid that you and your two sisters sing.”
Elizabeth had been but fifteen years old at the time, anticipating joining her eldest sister in society soon. Though she had enough rational sense to not allow herself to be overwhelmed by the possibility, she was still a young woman who found the idea of variety exciting. Natural pride had made her aware that her voice was good. Her experience was not yet broad enough to inform her that it was exceptional. That came later when her visits to her aunt and uncle in London, and hearing some of the artists there, led her to believe that she was particularly gifted in that art. Attending several theatre performances to hear professionals, she had confirmed that her voice was something special indeed.
Her mother and Jane had impressive voices as well. Kitty had a pleasing voice, but it was thin and strained. Mary was able to render a melody faithfully, yet it was so pedantically rigid that it gave little pleasure to the listener. There was no expansiveness that lifted the spirits in joy or touched the heart with tragedy. Lydia’s voice was beautiful, but so swollen with emotion, constantly on the brink of bringing tears or laughter to the listener.
Elizabeth had shaken her head in confused curiosity. “But why, Papa? It is a pleasing pastime! No harm can come from a song well sung, can it?”
Her father had sighed, a bout of low spirits creasing his brow. “Elizabeth, you must obey me in this. If you were to enthral a man so that he loses his reason, it could lead to disaster. You may be…compromised. Or trapped in a marriage that you will ultimately regret.”
Elizabeth had laughed, finding the idea of her charms being irresistible an embarrassing, remote one. “This is unlike you, Papa. Are you not the one who always points out deficiencies in logic? Finding that which is ridiculous in others? Foibles based in superstition are not what I would expect from you.”
Mr Bennet had stood rapidly and slammed his closed book down upon the table. It was so out of character that Elizabeth recoiled, as if the next blow may be for her. Tears of fear had swelled in her eyes, and one hand clutched in a fist over her heart.
Mr Bennet, recalling himself, had turned away towards the window till calm returned to his countenance. Gone was the moment of fury that was new and frightening. Elizabeth was still and silent, not wishing to cause him to become angry at her again.
She had soon after been dismissed from his study to nurse her wounded pride and newly created shock at the temper her father could display. Elizabeth was familiar with his somewhat sharp, quick, mercurial nature. One moment, he was pondering earnestly some new philosophical pamphlet; the next moment, he could be pointing out a harmless quirk in Mrs Bennet’s character that amused him almost to the point of cruelty.
Elizabeth had given way to tears and hurt in a favourite corner of the kitchen garden behind their home, Longbourn. Sleep overcame her till she had been discovered by Mrs Hill, the housekeeper. Elizabeth was not so much of a fine lady that her defences did not crumble under the kind enquiries of Mrs Hill.
After relating the unusual interview with her father that had begun as a declaration that she would soon be out with her sister and ended in a flare of his temper, Elizabeth looked up into the round, ruddy face of the old housekeeper, hoping for some explanation.
“You see, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs Hill had begun tentatively, glancing back towards the house. “I’ve been here so long, I can recall when your father was far gone in love with a young lady the next county over. But there was a disappointment. She was not impressed enough with Longbourn to accept him. Whilst he still was feeling his hurt keen and sharp, your mother visited whilst she was in Meryton calling on her sister, the newly married Mrs Philips. And she sang. And her voice cast a sort of spell on your father.”
Elizabeth had snorted out an unladylike laugh, finding the image too silly to be possible.
“Mock if you like, but ’tis true. From that day on, he thought of none but your mother. Some rumour reached us that the women in her family, a family that had always lived next to the sea, had the ability to charm men out of their senses with their voices.”
“Come, Hill! It is too fantastical. I cannot believe it of my father. Under a spell? My mother, a siren of sorts?”
“There you go, tearing every little whim down with your words and sly looks, just like your father. But I wager that he never got over that first lady. And then that voice of your mother’s was too much for him to resist. I’ve no doubt the mistress had her cap set at him from the moment they were introduced. Why else would such a marriage take place? Men of good sense don’t take on daft wives. Pardon me saying so, you won’t tell Mrs Bennet I used such a word, will you?”
Elizabeth had groaned as she wiped all remaining evidence of her tears from her face. “Hill, I believe that is a kind way of putting it. My mother is indeed a little daft. Is that why she only sings when father is away from home?”
The older servant had nodded knowingly. “What once gave him so much pleasure now causes Mr Bennet’s temper to sour. I think he still regrets that other young lady sometimes.”
“Is that why Jane was forbidden to sing anymore a few years ago when that fellow wrote her some poetry?”
“Exactly, miss. That young gentleman who was visiting your uncle in Meryton heard her sing one evening. The moon eyes he made at her after that! Even though Miss Jane had only just come out, he began leaving her all sorts of scribbles hidden away, pretty words that he had made up himself. Why, it got so bad that after he had paid a call, I used to have to turn down every pillow to gather up all those verses.”
Elizabeth had giggled, clearly remembering how Mrs Hill had torn about the parlour, grumbling about improper men adding to her work. Whenever she found a scrap, she had lifted it up and cried out in triumph, glad to have discovered yet another poorly composed piece of poetry that had been intended for Jane’s eyes only.
Mrs Hill and Elizabeth had walked back into the house, Elizabeth puzzling over the mysteries of the heart. The refinement that had caused her father to fall in love with her mother was now the thing Mr Bennet could not abide. Regret or bitterness made him unreasonable when his daughters sang. To imagine that he wished to prevent his daughters from ensnaring a man through imagined powers of mystical persuasion was ludicrous. It took some time for her to accept this eccentricity of her father’s.
After several days of reflection, Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that a happy relationship with her father was well worth forgoing the pleasure of singing before strangers. It left her dissatisfied, uneasy at making a concession to such a superstitious fallacy. But she loved her father dearly, and she hoped that, one day, if she had children, they might be willing to endure a few of her own quirks. She was accustomed to making these small sacrifices in the name of household peace, for her mother’s temper flares and flights of fancy were a common occurrence.
She had gone to her father’s study and promised that she would do her best to obey him. An out-and-out vow was more than she was willing to make, but Mr Bennet seemed pleased with her promise to attempt to obey his wishes. It was never spoken of again, except in whispered exchanges, late at night, between Jane and herself.
As recollections of her reassurances to her father rose in her memory, Elizabeth stared at the ivories before her. There could be nothing—absolutely nothing—to the myth Mr Bennet believed in, could there? Doubt gnawed at her.
Lady Catherine was momentarily distracted by the bringing in of a letter. Elizabeth composed her countenance as well as she was able and glanced around. Mr Collins was so enamoured of Lady Catherine and, to a significantly lesser degree, his wife, that he was in no danger of developing a passionate regard for her. Charlotte, Mrs Jenkinson, Maria Lucas, and Miss de Bourgh were in no danger of a heated regard for her. Colonel Fitzwilliam, though pleasant, never took an interest in her the way men commonly did with women. Perhaps his heart was already engaged. Or perhaps he was a woman-hater who was disgusted by the thought of marriage and preferred the company of fellow bachelor friends.
Either way, Elizabeth doubted very much that the colonel need be a concern. That left only Mr Darcy. Though close to her as she sat before the instrument, his attention was momentarily engaged in giving Lady Catherine curt replies. She studied his profile. It was a shame he had so little regard for the feelings of others, for he was handsome, intelligent, and could be lured into a lively debate when the mood struck him. However, Elizabeth could never forgive the ways in which he had insulted her, her family, her friends, the entire populace of Meryton, nor the severe injuries he had inflicted upon George Wickham, that handsome officer of the militia. Mr Darcy had wilfully disobeyed his deceased father and brought financial ruin to that amiable young man. It was more than she could bear to think about.
With her jaw clenched, she decided she would sing before the present company. Mr Darcy despised her too greatly to let his heart be swayed by a fictitious fairy tale. To imagine that the females of her family were in possession of some power of seduction through song was laughable. If anything, Elizabeth was certain that he would scowl and find fault.
Her courage strengthened. A lull in the conversation made her realise that all eyes were back on her. With deliberateness, Elizabeth rested each fingertip upon the cool ivories. Inhaling deeply, she pressed down and began her song.
Soon, all nervousness was forgotten as the rising tremors of sound ran through her flesh, coursing through her entire body. The song itself wove through and around her heart, forcing every misgiving about betraying her father’s faith from her awareness. The grand, ornate room seemed to fade to ashes, dull and grey, leaving only the melody that Elizabeth performed to fill the cavernous space.
Once the final notes had fled and the song was truly finished, silence greeted her. Blinking, Elizabeth opened her eyes, for they had been closed. Clapping, strong and unreserved, began from Colonel Fitzwilliam. She smiled, glad that there was no hint of rapturous passion in his eyes, just genuine appreciation.
“My word, Miss Bennet! You have shocked this worldly soldier exceedingly. I had no notion that Hertfordshire harboured such a rare songbird. Why, the best stages would be lucky to have you trod their boards.”
“I thank you, you are too kind.”
“Not at all! It is the truth.”
“Of course, if you had the opportunity to engage true masters from London, you may be able to develop your talent into something respectable,” Lady Catherine said with a wave of her hand.
Elizabeth suspected that Lady Catherine’s disdainfully tilted head hinted at some darker emotion. Jealousy? Envy? Scorn of a young lady whose talent made her own daughter fade even further into the exotic upholstery of the settee? Whatever the reason for the thinly veiled anger, Elizabeth took solace in the fact that she had been practically commanded to sing and had accommodated the great lady. She had already begged off several times in the previous weeks, claiming a sore throat. If she had attempted the false excuse again, she feared that Lady Catherine would begin to accuse her of carrying an infectious disease. Elizabeth shuddered to imagine the medical care that Lady Catherine would deem necessary for a minor sore throat. No doubt the ministrations would cause more harm than any benefit that may be realised.
Elizabeth sang another melody with a defiant throb in her voice, wishing to eliminate snide opinions from Lady Catherine. She felt free of any reservations, as she judged that none of the men in this room were in any danger of falling in love with her. Her voice, having been silent since their arrival here, had an added layer of pleasure and purity as the room, with the expensive instruments that were in a perpetual state of quiet, rang and reverberated through with her efforts.
Elizabeth paused at the end of her song, allowing the silence to resume its familiar, insidious presence. Finally, she stood to leave the instrument for the remainder of the visit. She assumed that the bench upon which she had been sitting was pulled back by Colonel Fitzwilliam. Turning to thank him with a nod, Elizabeth was shocked that it was Mr Darcy who stood before her.
“Thank you for gracing us with a song,” he said in a voice that lacked that certain quality of hardness that the gentleman usually spoke with. In its place was a deep and soothing lilt, like rough-hewn stone that has been smoothed and polished. It surprised her to suddenly notice this tone, and Elizabeth wondered if it was new or there had been a wilful lack of perception on her part.
She arched one eyebrow, not fully convinced that he was not being satirical at her expense. “Thank you, sir. How gentlemanly of you.”
A light frown briefly emerged on his lips. “I should hope that I never give rise to accusations that I am anything less than a gentleman.”
“I think a man of strong judgment accompanied by the willingness to share those judgments with others may be perceived as a shade less than a perfect gentleman. But, then again, perhaps my ideal of a true gentleman is far too rigorous for any mere mortal to attain.”
He smiled and shook his head gently, saying, “I must presume that what was sauce for the goose must now suit the gander. You speak again of my list at Netherfield of what an accomplished lady should possess.”
“And Miss Bingley’s suggestions. You did not refute any of her requirements.”
“You must permit me to defend myself on that point. True, I did not refute any of her requirements, but neither did I recommend them.”
“Since we are now in the murky waters of memories—who said what, who refused recommendation by omission, who had the final claim to be in the right—let us first agree that there should be an equally monstrous list of refinements for the gentlemen as there was assigned to a lady.”
Mr Darcy held one hand up with half a smile upon his face. “You have called me out, Miss Bennet, and I dare not attempt to scold you for it. Though I have studied hard to earn the title of gentleman and not simply claim it as my birthright, I do not think if I held myself up to such an imposing yardstick as the one we conjured for an ideally accomplished woman that I could withstand the scrutiny.”
Elizabeth was astonished. Was she witnessing Mr Darcy admit to some weakness in one of his judgments? Was he truly allowing her the victory in this clash of memory and mind? Could he be that gracious?
“What are you talking about? I must have my share!” Lady Catherine declared from the grouping of visitors she presided over.
Mr Darcy turned towards her with a rueful smile and a mild nod of the head as he extended his arm. “Miss Bennet?”
Puzzled, Elizabeth took his arm as they strolled across the vast room to rejoin the others. As she sat, her eyes followed Mr Darcy. If he had always striven for the title of a gentleman—not just from birth, but equally from his character—how was it possible for him to have treated Wickham so abominably?
There was a debate in her heart. Her friendly warmth towards Mr Wickham was examined. The officer had undoubtedly helped to heal her injured pride when the casual jibe of Mr Darcy at the Meryton assembly had stung more than she had acknowledged aloud to anyone. Her wounded dignity was reluctant to admit just how insulted she had been in that moment, even to herself. The flattery of Mr Wickham, who arrived on the scene seemingly for the sole purpose of repairing her dignity through attention and distinction, had gone a long way towards healing the cutting slight from Mr Darcy.
For a brief, mortifying moment, Elizabeth wondered if the sound of her voice really had swayed Mr Darcy. Never before had he been so attentive. If Elizabeth had been of a more naive, impressionable temper, she would have begun to truly suspect that he had just been enchanted by her voice.
Despite some sly comments by Charlotte about how often Mr Darcy glanced her way or visited the parsonage during her visit, Elizabeth felt herself justified in assuming that Mr Darcy’s opinion of her was so hopelessly fouled, she could risk swelling her song in his presence. There was no danger of that particular gentleman becoming enamoured of her.
As they spent the rest of the visit listening to the outlandish proclamations of Lady Catherine, Elizabeth occasionally stole glances at Mr Darcy in order to reassure herself that he had not fallen under her spell. Feeling ridiculous, Elizabeth was dismayed to note that he was frequently already gazing in her direction. Several times, she caught him turning his eyes away from her just as she looked upon him. And more than once, her own cheeks warmed as they both glanced towards the other at the exact same, awkward moment.
His mood was a mystery to her, his face unreadable.
Elizabeth was enormously grateful when the party from the parsonage was brusquely dismissed by Lady Catherine in preference to a solitary meal with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Darcy. Her only regret was the loss of the company of Colonel Fitzwilliam, as that gentleman could always be relied upon for keen observations and the occasional repressed merriment at Lady Catherine’s posturing and Mr Darcy’s awkward silence.
The colonel and Mr Darcy escorted them to the door, both gentlemen apparently not relishing the coming evening with no other source of conversation than their aunt and cousin.
“Really, Miss Bennet,” the colonel said, “your rendition of that aria was entirely novel, yet lovely. You must have a trail of hearts broken in two by the sweetness of your sound.”
Elizabeth laughed at this bold compliment. “Indeed not. I cannot boast of that, sir.”
“No, she cannot!” Maria interjected with a rare showing of confidence. She did not usually speak up in the company of either Colonel Fitzwilliam or Mr Darcy. “For, I do not think I can recall an instance when I have heard her sing in company. Only at her home or when she visits Lucas Lodge. Whenever we ask her in mixed company, she refuses! Is that not so, Elizabeth?”
Her heart tight with consciousness, Elizabeth replied, “Why, Maria, you make me sound so peculiar! That cannot be, you must be misremembering. I think other gentlemen have heard me sing, such as your father.”
“Yes, but when there are unmarried gentlemen about, you demur and merely play.”
“I have had the very great pleasure of hearing Miss Bennet sing before today,” Mr Darcy said softly.
Elizabeth turned, stunned and speechless. She had always been so scrupulous! How was this possible?
“You—you have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she stammered. “I do not have the pleasure of recalling…”
“Nor should you. It was entirely by accident, I assure you. I had been desirous to walk the path up to Oakham Mount for a glimpse of the famous view. You were in the valley below, just to one side of a stone barn, quite hidden away from general view, but I was able to see you. By a trick of the barn wall, your voice was clear as you sang. I could not bring your attention to my presence, for the distance was too great, unless I tossed some pebbles down upon you, which I did not judge you would appreciate. Therefore, I did not consider my eavesdropping rude, for the only other way to get your notice would have been if I had waved my arms and shouted. I estimated those actions would have been far more shocking to you than my quietly enjoying your impromptu concert.”
No! A horrible turn of events. Of all the gentlemen in the country to hear her sing! It shot her to her core with embarrassment and worry. The glances he stole at her after her song just an hour prior, were they warm with feeling? This was as terrible a development as she could imagine. What if Mr Darcy, the most disagreeable fellow imaginable, had indeed fallen under her spell?
With a shake of her head, Elizabeth laughed in an attempt to cover her mortification. “You acted correctly, sir. My song may have taken a turn to frightened screams if I had spotted a tall man bouncing about on top of Oakham Mount. I am ashamed that my voice, in such an informal setting, was heard by ears that have no doubt enjoyed far superior performances by world-renowned professionals. I am glad that I was unaware of your presence, for then I had no need to worry over any critiques.”
By this time, both gentlemen had apparently forgotten their aunt as they walked the party to the edge of the formal gardens. Elizabeth was briefly cheered from her worry by the humorous image in her mind of Lady Catherine stalking in front of the windows of the parlour, fuming at the tableau of her nephews walking with the guests of her parson.
“You are quite mistaken. I found little fault in your voice.”
“I suppose ‘little fault’ must content me when coming from one whose demands of a lady’s accomplishments are more numerous than the stars in the sky.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam overheard this last comment during a silence between himself and Maria and laughed loudly. “No one would ever accuse Darcy of having standards that were anywhere below laudable.”
Elizabeth smiled, glad to be relieved of the worry that her song may have inadvertently ensnared Mr Darcy’s affections. Even if he had a brief warmness towards her as a result of hearing her sing, her other, numerous deficiencies would soon overcome it. She risked a glance at Mr Darcy and bit her lip as he was apparently unamused by his cousin’s declaration.
“We should be returning. Lady Catherine will be worried,” Mr Darcy said quickly as he bowed.
“Yes! How commendable, sir,” Mr Collins exclaimed. “That fine lady should never be left waiting, for her preference is so irreplaceable! I was just about to mention that you should be returning. One would not wish to give the impression—”
Charlotte pressed her hand on her husband’s forearm. “My dear, our supper will begin to grow chilled if we do not make haste.”
Mr Collins clamped his mouth shut instantly, for even the condescension of Lady Catherine de Bourgh must give way to the parson’s passionate epicureanism. The colonel bowed and both men took their leave, walking briskly back towards Rosings.
Charlotte laughed. “My goodness, Lizzy. It seems you may have made not one, but two conquests today. I always wondered why you so frequently declined to sing before mixed company. I can see now that it was very sensible of you. Your voice could indeed lure men onto the rocks if you were a creature of the seas.”
“My dear! Surely her voice is not that extraordinary,” Mr Collins chided. “If Miss de Bourgh had the strength, and had learnt, she would be as equally accomplished. I perceive nothing that would raise my cousin Elizabeth above her station, though her voice is a pleasant one.”
“Of course, you are right,” Charlotte said with a nod towards her husband. Elizabeth knew this was her way of diverting him from a particular subject. Agree with the man, and he was so assured of his own correctness that he had no doubt that the agreement was sincere—which it very rarely was. She could not help but admire her friend’s elegant ways of managing a very silly husband.
Later that evening, Maria Lucas pulled Elizabeth aside with a twinkle in her eye, apparently eager to share some sort of secret. Maria was so very different from her older sister, Charlotte, that it occasionally struck Elizabeth as odd. Where Maria was distractible and easily swayed, Charlotte was earnest and steady. But then her own family was such a study in incongruous dispositions, she thought it must be more common than not.
“Oh Lizzy! Do you not think that Colonel Fitzwilliam is the handsomest man you have ever seen! It is too bad that Lydia is not here to give her opinion.”
“Mmm, yes,” Elizabeth said, not wishing her youngest sister to be anywhere near Rosings. The idea of a meeting between Lady Catherine and Lydia, while sure to be entertaining, would be a mortifying spectacle for the relations on both sides.
“Though, perhaps handsome is not quite the word for it. Something about his uniform makes him so, do you not think? Would you say he is distinguished? Mr Darcy is nothing to such a man, even if he is richer and better-looking.”
“Quite.”
“That reminds me! Earlier, when we were walking back to the parsonage, before the gentlemen returned to Rosings, I wanted to tell you something, but the colonel kept me by his side, insisting on relating a story about Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth recalled that the colonel had seemed intent on keeping Maria near as she and Mr Darcy had talked. It struck her as odd, for surely the colonel, a second son with a small fortune, could have no designs on a girl of fifteen with little in the way of a dowry.
“Yes?” Elizabeth asked, feeling unaccountably nervous by what the two had discussed.
“He said that Mr Darcy had recently saved a friend from a fortune hunter! Quite the hero, swooping in to make sure that his friend did not marry an adventuress out for riches. Apparently, the young woman came from a questionable, lowly family. Grasping people, you know. Anyway, I thought it was kind of Mr Darcy. But he is still not nearly as fine-looking a gentleman as Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth felt a surge of warmth flood her chest and neck. Anger was potent fuel and burned hot in her veins. There could be no mistaking whom the friend was that Colonel Fitzwilliam referenced. Mr Bingley, a wealthy, agreeable young gentleman, had departed Netherfield so soon after the ball, his sisters indicating their thorough disgust with the entire neighbourhood. It was clear that Mr Darcy had been involved in the intrigue that worked against her dear sister Jane and Mr Bingley.
“Goodness! Lizzy, do you think you taxed your voice too terribly by singing today? You seem as though a fever may be affecting you. Your cheeks are as red as apples! And your breath is quick.”
Elizabeth shook her head and gave a trifling laugh, unconvincing even to her ears. “I think you may be onto something, Maria. Perhaps I shall never sing in mixed company again. It seems to lead to no end of mischief. I do feel a headache coming on and will retire early this evening.”