Chapter 12
Mr. Charles Reed was a man of forty with three children, fifteen hundred a year, and the kindest blue eyes Elizabeth had yet encountered at Darcy House. He was telling her, with great patience and feeling, about his youngest child.
“Sophia was six just after Christmas. She knows her letters already, you understand, but she has formed the opinion that the alphabet ought to allow more than one p and is much aggrieved that it does not. Her sister Catherine has taken to writing her secret notes using as many of that letter as possible, because she wishes to be kind.”
He paused, smiled to himself, and resumed.
“Catherine is ten. Henry is eleven and has lately discovered that he is to go to Eton in the autumn, which has rendered him very grand in his own estimation. He has begun to address his sisters with great solemnity, even when he is asking them to pass the bread.” He smiled, a little embarrassed.
“I do not mean to bore you with tales of my children, Miss Elizabeth.”
“You do not bore me, Mr. Reed.” And he did not.
Elizabeth liked Mr. Reed. He was sensible and well-spoken. He had not pressed her to tell him about her family. He had asked, instead, about her opinion of whether she thought the new Strand Bridge was an improvement or simply a way to make London more expensive.
He was kindness itself, but it was clear within the first quarter of an hour that anyone who agreed to become his wife must also agree to put herself last, for his children would always come first. Perhaps this was as it should be, but Elizabeth knew it would not be her preference.
Mr. Reed was momentarily distracted by Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. While they were speaking, Elizabeth heard a voice at her elbow. “Miss Eliza.”
She stifled a sigh. “Miss Bingley.”
“I am glad to see you in such excellent spirits. It must be difficult for you to spend so much time in London away from the militia. And your family, of course.”
“I fear I must disappoint you, Miss Bingley, for I am very happy here.”
Miss Bingley wrinkled her nose. “I am pleased you find yourself equal to it. Town is not always kind to those who are unused to its society.” Miss Bingley bestowed an insincere smile and moved on.
Mr. Reed, who had not entirely followed the exchange but had observed its tone, seemed to decide not to pry and resumed the story of his youngest child. Across the room, Mr. Bingley and Jane were conversing with three other couples.
Uncle Gardiner was at the card table with Lord Matlock. Lady Anne stood in the middle of the drawing room, occasionally moving people about without appearing to do anything at all. It was a rather interesting talent.
Mr. Darcy stood near the window. Colonel Fitzwilliam approached him, and the two men spoke for a minute.
Elizabeth did not care what they were about, and so she told herself not to observe them.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
She returned with no apparent delay. “Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Reed. You were saying?”
“Only that I had hoped my Henry would learn enough Greek at Eton to know the difference between an opinion and a fact. I am told the pupils do not always succeed in this.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then I should think it must be the masters who fail in their object, Mr. Reed, rather than the boys.”
“That is a charitable interpretation.”
“My father says that a gentleman requires only enough Greek to dissuade people from asking about his Latin.”
Mr. Reed’s hearty laugh was not at all proportionate to the wit of the remark. This made her like him even more. It also made her wish, with sudden and unexpected sharpness, that Mr. Reed had not found it quite so amusing.
For Mr. Darcy was no longer beside Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was crossing the room.
It was at his own polite, steady pace, of course—he was a gentleman and knew not to dash over to an offending guest—but he was making his way over just the same.
Elizabeth had time to observe his progress. Miss Bingley turned her head, her sister’s gaze followed, then Mr. Darcy passed her uncle while adjusting the cuff of his coat.
“Forgive the interruption, Mr. Reed,” he said when he arrived. “Miss Elizabeth, my sister is in the music room and wondered whether you might join her. She has been hesitating to play for the company but thought she might be brave enough to play for an accommodating audience.”
It was not a thing Elizabeth had been prepared for. She hardly knew Miss Darcy.
Mr. Reed recovered first. “Your sister is just sixteen, I understand?”
“Yes,” Mr. Darcy replied.
“Then by all means, Miss Elizabeth, you ought to go. Pray do not stand upon ceremony with me.”
Elizabeth tipped her head slightly to one side to study Mr. Darcy. He was not looking at her. His eyes were trained upon a point slightly past her shoulder. “I should be pleased to assist,” she said.
Mr. Darcy walked beside her, his hands behind his back. They did not speak.
The music room lay down the hall and through an open door. The lamps and candles gave off a good deal of light, and she could see Miss Darcy sitting at the pianoforte.
She had not been playing, for the bench was turned slightly outwards. A sheet of music lay open on her lap, and her head was bent over it. She glanced up when she heard them.
“Miss Elizabeth,” she said, clearly happy to see her and just as clearly surprised. “How good it is to see you.”
“And you, Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth crossed the carpet to her, glancing at the open music.
She offered her brother a little smile. “Have you brought me a gentle listener, Brother?”
“I have,” Mr. Darcy said. He had come to stand a little behind his sister, near enough that his hand rested on the pianoforte. As Miss Darcy lifted the sheet, he leaned forward slightly, the way one might towards a quieter speaker.
But she was not speaking. She was placing the music in Elizabeth’s hands.
“I would be obliged if you would offer me your truthful evaluation. My mother is occupied, and my brother and cousin Milton are too kind to me to be believed. My cousin Richard heard the first movement only and pronounced it capital, which I am certain really means I was not listening.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Then I am to be the whole of the jury, Miss Darcy?”
“You are to be the only juror not previously prejudiced for or against.”
“My goodness. That is a position of unusual responsibility.”
“I promise there shall be biscuits afterwards.”
This wry bit of wit amused Elizabeth, but not as much as her brother’s confirmation when he nodded gravely and said, “I am authorised to inform you that the biscuits are excellent.”
The man had been concealing his sense of humour.
Elizabeth turned her attention to the page. She knew enough of music to read a score with confidence and judge a performance fairly. She could also admit when either skill had reached its limit.
“You have marked the dynamics very carefully,” she observed.
“I am still attempting to puzzle it out. I feel confident about the first and third movements, but not the second.”
“Will you play it for me?” Elizabeth asked. “Only the second movement, if you would prefer. It is impossible to give an opinion of a piece from the page. The notes are more like a receipt whereas the music is the meal.”
Miss Darcy nodded and placed her hands on the keys. “Thank you, though I fear I shall play it badly.”
“Play it once, and then I shall offer whatever opinion I am able.”
Miss Darcy played.
The movement was not very long but Miss Darcy played with care—perhaps too much care. When she lifted her hands at the end, she met Elizabeth’s gaze. Elizabeth took the time to consider what she had heard before speaking.
“Your understanding of technique is excellent, a great deal better than mine. The difference is that I do not hesitate.”
Miss Darcy’s brows drew together.
Elizabeth glanced at the marked page now placed on the instrument, and then back to her. “You are—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “You should play as you yourself feel it ought to be played, rather than as you suspect the company would prefer to hear it.”
“That,” Mr. Darcy said, in the dry quiet voice he reserved for his sister, “is precisely what Signor Pellegrini has been saying. He has been saying it in Italian, which is perhaps why I have not been able to translate it into any form she will accept.”
“Brother,” Miss Darcy said, reproachful and delighted at once.
“I have not told Miss Elizabeth that you and I once spent half an hour attempting to decide whether cantabile meant singing or merely capable of being sung.”
“It means singing,” Miss Darcy said firmly.
“Yes. I have been yielding to you on Italian since you were eleven, and I highly doubt that shall ever change.”
Elizabeth had not previously heard Mr. Darcy issue a tease. Mr. Bingley had teased him, but he had not seemed to enjoy it.
Miss Darcy looked down at her hands. “I am nervous.”
“So was I,” Elizabeth assured her, “the first time I played before strangers.”
Miss Darcy’s eyes widened. “Were you?”
“Oh, certainly. I was convinced every person in the room had come for the sole purpose of discovering whether I would strike a wrong note.”
“And did you?”
“Several. But I struck them with such spirit I convinced everyone they were intentional.”
Mr. Darcy laughed quietly.
Elizabeth set that to one side and touched the music sheet. “Will you play it again? Once more, knowing that you need only play it as you feel you ought?”
Miss Darcy nodded and began. The falling phrase now descended softly, like something had been released.
She no longer hesitated, and the melody gained confidence.
When the resolution came, it was indeed mournful, but tenderly so, as if the grief in it was not new, as if it had remembered that beyond sorrow, there was life.
When the movement came to an end, Miss Darcy closed her eyes and smiled a little before she took a breath and glanced up. “I had nearly sent word to my mother that I would not play tonight. But I believe this will do.”