Chapter 6 #2
“She is,” he told her with a note of pride in his voice. “Georgiana would play and sing all day long if she could. But she has other interests as well. Drawing and painting. She has a natural aptitude for the arts.”
“Kitty is an exceptional artist as well,” said Elizabeth. “Is she not, Mary?”
Peering around the tureen of consommé, Mary inclined her head. “Her portraits, especially, are expertly done. Mr Donovan, her drawing master, has nothing but praise for her efforts.”
“Whereas my efforts,” said Elizabeth with a flippant smile, “are barely tolerable. I am the least talented artist of all my sisters. Give me a pencil or a canvas, and I shall give you an excuse as to why I must absent myself until Mr Donovan departs.”
“Surely,” said Lady Carlisle, “your efforts are not so bad as that.”
Mrs Cahill snorted into her wine glass as Mary giggled.
“All ladies can paint tables, cover screens, and embroider cushions,” said the earl, waving his hand dismissively.
“While that is true, my lord,” Elizabeth replied, “not all of us can do so well. Some of us must claim other talents.”
Lord Carlisle appeared truly perplexed. “What are you good at?”
“Arguing,” said Mr Darcy, directing a small, private smile at Elizabeth from across the table. “Miss Bennet is a great debater, with a clever, well-informed mind and a quick wit. If I had a pound note for every time I was bested by her, I would be able to purchase Pemberley ten times over.”
The way he regarded her, as though she were the most interesting person in the room, made Elizabeth’s heart flutter.
He was so incredibly handsome when he smiled.
That he smiled at her at all after being so long apart—and with such open admiration and warmth in the presence of his family—made her feel light in a way she had not felt in a very long time—not since they were together at Pemberley.
Two years was a long time. Was it truly possible that Mr Darcy still loved her?
The way he spoke to her and about her—as though she were dear to him—gave Elizabeth reason to hope that he might.
She had begun to love him that summer at Pemberley.
Had Lydia’s elopement not required her return to Hertfordshire, would things have progressed between them as she had hoped?
Would he have continued to call on her at the inn, and invited her and the Gardiners to dine a second time, and a third, and a half dozen or so more after that?
That evening, when she had first arrived at Sallow Hall, Mr Darcy had mentioned her father and Lydia before she had interrupted him in a panic.
Clearly, he knew something of what had occurred, but did he know all?
His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was not known for her discretion, nor was Mr Collins.
Mr Darcy was her favourite of all her nephews—a nephew whom she expected would someday marry her only daughter.
The likelihood that Lady Catherine had kept any part of Elizabeth’s disgrace from him was slim to none.
And yet, Lord and Lady Carlisle did not behave as though they knew a single thing about it. Would not she have told them as well?
Of one thing Elizabeth was certain: thinking about Lydia at Lady Carlisle’s dinner table would do her no favours.
As had been the case countless times that evening, her eyes travelled to Mr Darcy, whom she was unsurprised to see watching her. A concerned expression marred his handsome countenance.
An infinitesimal smile, gentle in its tenderness, tugged at the corners of Elizabeth’s lips. “I am well,” she mouthed to him, sans voce, as she reached for her glass and took a sip of wine.
Mr Darcy acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head before turning almost reluctantly to Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had asked him whether he planned to return to London directly, or to stop over at Pemberley.
As Mr Darcy answered him and his cousin offered his own thoughts, his eyes returned to Elizabeth, again and again, as though seeking to ensure she was well.
Her heart, which had not been her own for years, took cautious flight.
A smattering of applause filled the drawing room as Mary lifted her fingers from the keys of the Broadwood Grand.
Elizabeth watched her sister blush and smile as she graciously accepted the praise of all in the room.
Seeing her pleasure was something Elizabeth cherished.
In Hertfordshire, Mary had preferred sonatas and fugues for which her then-meagre abilities were poorly suited.
Now, she had mastered them. If only her father could hear her, he would feel no need to tell her that she had delighted the company long enough or suggest that she should give other ladies an opportunity to exhibit; he would have asked her to play over and over again.
“And now it is your turn, Miss Bennet,” said Lady Carlisle as Mary claimed a seat on the sofa beside her aunt.
Elizabeth readily consented.
As she rose, Mrs Cahill said, “I do hope you will indulge an old woman and play my favourite, Elizabeth. It has been some time since I have heard it.”
“Yes,” she replied with an impish smile, “nearly a full week has passed. I cannot image how you have managed to bear such a deprivation.”
“Then it best be memorable,” said her aunt, but there was affection in her tone and a smile on her face as she shooed her niece towards the pianoforte.
Laughing, Elizabeth hastened to the Broadwood and settled herself on the bench, pausing for a moment to run her fingers over the keys.
It was a beautiful instrument and would be an absolute pleasure to play.
She was poised to begin when Mr Darcy rose abruptly from his chair and made his way towards her.
Elizabeth acknowledged him with a smile. “I cannot imagine that you have come all this way to intimidate me, Mr Darcy.”
The corners of his lips lifted. “You know I have not. I desire only to be of assistance to you. May I turn your pages for you, Miss Bennet?”
The idea of him sitting beside her on the bench, close enough that their shoulders might touch, was one that made her feel both anxious and euphoric.
Had she settled on another song, she would have accepted his offer gladly.
But for this particular piece, a piece she played so frequently that she knew it by heart, his assistance was unnecessary.
With something akin to regret, she said, “I thank you for your kind offer, but my aunt has requested this melody with such regularity that I do not so much as glance at the arrangement anymore. I could play every note in my sleep.”
He looked so serious then, almost disappointed as he inclined his head to her in acknowledgement. “Forgive me for my presumption,” he murmured, and began to turn away.
Elizabeth could not bear to see him looking so sombre, so serious, like The Mr Darcy of Old. Nor did she want him to go. “Mr Darcy,” she called with a boldness that made her blush at her own daring, “a moment, if you please.”
He stopped at once, turned, and looked at her askance.
“Your assistance may not be required,” she told him softly, “but your company would be most welcome.”
The look he gave her then made her pulse quicken. “I am your servant, Miss Bennet.”
He seated himself on the bench beside her. He was close, but not so close that they touched. The way he regarded her, though, with the same intensity of feeling that he always had, made her feel that he wished to, very much.
After expelling a slow, fortifying breath, Elizabeth positioned her fingers on the keys and began to play.
The sheer loveliness of the piece—Gluck’s Melodie from Orfeo ed Euridice—had always affected her.
Tonight was no different. Closing her eyes, she surrendered herself to the music, which was by no means an easy feat with Mr Darcy sitting so closely, so attentively beside her.
He was a large man; not large in the sense that Mr Collins was large, but tall.
Taller than any gentleman of her acquaintance.
There was nothing awkward about him, however.
He always carried himself with an air of sophistication and confidence; a confidence that came part and parcel with the surety of his position in life and his place in the world.
While the piece itself was evocative and undeniably beautiful, with delicate notes and soft, sombre chords, it was quite short.
After only a handful of minutes, it reached its conclusion.
As she often did, Elizabeth allowed her fingers to linger on the keys for several moments afterwards as she returned to herself.
Her eyes, which had been closed for the entirety of the movement so as not to allow Mr Darcy to distract her more than he already had, remained shut.
And her heart… Her heart beat a staccato within her breast that felt faster by far than its regular, steady tempo.
Mr Darcy’s hand grazed her own and her eyes flew open.
His touch was slight, barely anything at all, but Elizabeth felt the effects of it all the way to her toes.
Her lips parted and she stared at him in wonder as the frisson of pleasure winding its way through her veins stole her breath.
She had not even noticed the smattering of applause that filled the room, but when she did, she was almost shocked to discover that they were not alone but in public, surrounded by their relations.
Swallowing audibly, Mr Darcy withdrew his hand at once, but his eyes lingered on her own, silently searching for she knew not what, before he stood and extended his hand to her.
Elizabeth’s cheeks felt as though they were on fire as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to assist her from the bench. “Thank you,” she whispered unsteadily as he silently escorted her to a vacant chair beside her aunt.
He saw her settled, then bowed. “Miss Bennet,” he murmured before excusing himself and quitting the room.
Elizabeth watched him go, her gaze as fervent as her heart was frantic, and wondered whether his departure was for her sake or his own.