Chapter 22
“You see I have reformed,” Lady Anne said, taking Elizabeth’s hand at the drawing room door. “Only fourteen guests for this evening, if you include my brother and nephews, and not a soul more. My son counted the invitations.”
“Twice,” Mr. Darcy said drily.
Elizabeth looked past Lady Anne. He was looking at her with a strange expression upon his countenance. It was grave, and yet . . . not. “I must commend your commitment to accuracy, sir,” was all she said.
Lady Anne shook her head and turned to welcome Aunt Gardiner.
The room already held the Matlocks, the Wickhams, and all three Finches. Miss Darcy stood slightly apart, anxiously arranging chairs that were in no need of rearranging, and Elizabeth went to her at once.
“Miss Darcy, it is wonderful to see you.” She waited a moment, then placed her hand over her friend’s. “You have nothing to fear from this audience, you know. We are only family and friends here.”
“That is precisely the trouble,” Miss Darcy said. “Strangers only think you play well or ill. Family will remember it forever.”
“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth replied, shaking her head. “I dropped an entire syllabub into my Uncle Philips’s lap when I was seven, and my mother has not allowed a trifle to be served since without mentioning it.” But she laughed as she said it, and some of the tension left Miss Darcy’s shoulders.
“I have put you here.” Miss Darcy indicated a chair in the first row to the side of the instrument. “You will be able to see my hands. You play too, so I thought that might interest you.”
“It does, thank you.”
“I hope you do not mind, but I have asked my brother to sit beside you,” Miss Darcy said. “He likes to see my hands too.”
Elizabeth looked at the empty chair beside hers. “Then I shall endeavour not to obscure his view.”
Miss Darcy coloured at once. “Oh. I did not mean—”
“It was said in jest, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth assured her. “For your brother is tall and I am . . . not.”
The girl giggled then. “I am a little nervous,” she confided.
“I would say that you need not be, but I doubt it would help. Instead, I shall ask why Mr. Darcy enjoys watching your hands—does he play as well?”
“Not since he was quite small. But my mother loves music and so she taught us both.” Miss Darcy glanced towards the instrument, then down at her own hands and flexed her fingers. “He remembers enough to know when I have practised.”
“And enough to be proud of you, I suspect.”
Miss Darcy’s colour warmed. “He is the best of brothers.”
Before Elizabeth could respond to that, they were interrupted by Miss Finch.
“Miss Darcy,” she said as she approached, “I have been sent to ask whether there is a programme for this evening.”
“A programme?” Miss Darcy asked.
“Yes. Something written down, so that when my mother asks whether the difficult part is over, I may answer with authority.”
Miss Darcy laughed, and the last of her alarm seemed to loosen. “There is no programme. Only the sonata, and then perhaps a little rondo if Mamma insists.”
“Then I shall tell my mother so.” Miss Finch turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth. I am glad you are here.”
“You are kind to say so.”
“No, I am rarely kind. I simply mean it.” She glanced at the chair Miss Darcy had indicated, then at the one beside it, and continued without the smallest change in expression. “You have been put in the best place. I quite approve. Persons who understand music ought to be allowed to see the keys.”
“I never allow anyone who understands music to watch what my hands are doing,” Elizabeth replied, “for then they should know all my secrets.”
Miss Darcy giggled again.
Elizabeth longed to embrace her, as she would have embraced one of her sisters when they were anxious, but she did not yet know the girl well enough for that. In any case, it was not really reassurance Miss Darcy needed. What she needed was to begin.
Miss Finch must have agreed, for she looked from Elizabeth to Miss Darcy, then gave a small nod, as if something had been decided to her satisfaction.
“Miss Darcy, we shall not delay you another moment. I am told suspense is excellent for audiences but very bad for performers, which seems unfair.”
Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy’s eye and nodded at the pianoforte. He said something in his mother’s ear, and suddenly everyone was being asked to sit.
“Go on,” Elizabeth said gently to Miss Darcy. “We shall be just here.”
Then, with a nod to Miss Darcy and a last considering glance at the chairs, Miss Finch went to take her place beside her mother, and Elizabeth sat down where Miss Darcy had placed her.
She kept her eyes on the instrument as Mr. Darcy came to the chair beside hers, but she was aware of him all the same. He left a careful distance between them and gave all his attention to the instrument. There was nothing in his conduct to remark upon. Elizabeth noticed it anyway.
Then Miss Darcy began.
Elizabeth watched Miss Darcy’s hands. At first, her fingers moved rigidly, each note placed correctly, but not fluidly.
Shortly after the first page, they seemed to remember what to do.
Her hands relaxed. Her wrists followed. The stiffness gradually left her arms, and then her shoulders lowered, the music drawing the fear out of her one measure at a time.
She leaned forward a little as she gave herself over to it.
Beside Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy sat back a little. It was the smallest movement with no more than a quiet release of breath, but she understood it. He had been anxious for his sister. Now he knew she was safe.
Lady Anne, seated to one side and just within Elizabeth’s vision, did not move at all. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes never left her daughter. Whatever she had arranged, managed, or intended for the evening, she seemed to have forgotten it.
For this moment, at least, she was only Miss Darcy’s mother.
As Miss Darcy entered the most difficult part of the sonata, Elizabeth heard a faint whisper beside her.
She glanced down to see Mr. Darcy’s hand fisted, his thumb rubbing the side of his forefinger.
Back and forth, a little like a cricket scraping its wings.
The sound was almost nothing, but the tension in it was unmistakable.
When Miss Darcy finished, the applause was immediate and sincere.
Miss Finch delivered her verdict with practical generosity. “That was the best playing I have heard this season, Miss Darcy, and I have been made to listen to a great deal of it.”
Miss Darcy blushed and smiled down at her hands. “Thank you.”
“There,” said Lady Anne. “You are made, my dear. Now, the rondo before tea?”
Miss Darcy looked once towards Elizabeth, who smiled a little and nodded.
With no additional coaxing, Miss Darcy set her hands upon the keys.
The rondo was flawless.
As everyone applauded and then began to rise, Mr. Darcy said to her, “You have done my sister a great kindness.”
“I did very little.”
“You did what we could not.” His eyes went to Georgiana, who was blushing under Lady Finch’s praise. “We are her family. Our admiration must therefore be treated with suspicion.”
“Surely not.”
“No, it is true. Georgiana says we must think well of her. But as you have no such obligation, she trusts your assurances.”
“I hope she knows I thought well of her because she deserved it.”
“She does,” he said. “And I thank you for it.”
The tea came soon after. Mr. Darcy bent to say something to his mother as she poured. Elizabeth could not hear him, but Lady Anne paused, the sugar tongs in her hand, and then glanced towards her.
A moment later, Mr. Darcy brought Elizabeth a cup.
“I believe this is yours.”
She took it, surprised to find it prepared just as she liked it. “Your memory is very accurate, Mr. Darcy.”
“My mother is accurate,” he said. “I am only useful.”
She shook her head at the tease and sipped her tea.
“Do you remain in town through the spring?” he asked after a moment.
“Through April, I believe. My aunt claims us until then, but my father’s letters have begun to hint that Longbourn cannot spare Jane and me much past Easter.”
“And the Gardiners? They are fixed in Gracechurch Street? They have no thought of Bath, or the coast, when the season turns?”
“None that has been confided to me.” She tilted her head. “Your questions are rather particular, Mr. Darcy. Am I to be examined on my calendar?”
“No. Forgive me. I had only—” He stopped.
“My sister will be sorry to lose you,” he said.
Elizabeth did wonder why his questions had come so quickly one following another. But Mr. Darcy often said nothing at all in company, and so perhaps it was not so odd that when he did speak, everything came out at once.
As she thought about that, her eyes drifted over to a commotion at the tea table. Colonel Fitzwilliam had turned from the tray and nearly met Miss Finch coming the other way. He had checked himself just in time. She did the same, though her teacup gave a dangerous little rattle in its saucer.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“No harm done,” Miss Finch assured him. “Though if you had upset it, I should have been obliged to form a poor opinion of your skill at manoeuvres.”
“Then I am fortunate to have saved both the tea and my reputation.”
Miss Finch lifted her brows. “A reputation that cannot survive one cup of tea must be a delicate thing.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “I shall not test it.”
“That seems safest for all concerned.”
Lady Finch, who wished to speak about the music, called Miss Finch back to her side.
Colonel Fitzwilliam reclaimed his place near the fire and offered Lord Matlock one of the macarons on his plate.
Presently, Mr. Darcy excused himself and returned to Lady Anne.
She said something, put a cup of tea into his hand, and sent him away with it.
He carried it to Lady Finch by the window.
Lady Anne gave him another, and he took it to her Aunt Gardiner.
In this way he made a slow circuit around the room.