CHAPTER TEN
Caught up in the lingering exhilaration of the previous night’s triumph, Elizabeth found herself rising later than her usual habit the next morning.
Sarah brought her a breakfast tray and the customary morning tea, along with a message from Darcy’s valet: the master was presently occupied in his study and expected to be there for much of the day.
Elizabeth supposed that he must be composing his letters to the Arcane Office, detailing their latest development.
She spent a leisurely morning attending to her own neglected correspondence. Yet, as the hours wore on, a new resolve began to form within her. With Colonel Fitzwilliam now their guest, there was no reason to continue the tradition of trays delivered to their respective chambers.
Tonight, she decided, they would dine. Together.
She sought out Mrs Reynolds. Together, they conferred upon the menu, a task Elizabeth approached with enthusiasm.
Three courses, she determined, would do nicely, served à la francaise.
She then dispatched notes to both Darcy and the colonel, informing them of these arrangements, a slight rebellious thrill coursing through her at the thought of Darcy’s potential reaction to this change.
As Sarah assisted her into a dark green evening dress, Elizabeth could not entirely suppress a flutter of nervous anticipation.
How would Darcy respond to her initiative?
Would he simply ignore her request, preferring the solitary gloom of his study?
Or had the previous night’s extraordinary merging of their powers wrought some alteration in his temperament?
She had her answer as she descended the grand staircase, her hand resting lightly on the balustrade.
He was there, standing at the foot of the stairs, an imposing figure in his impeccably tailored evening attire.
For a man she had determined to be so disagreeable, he was undeniably handsome, she noted with a bit of vexation.
The lantern light was kind to him, softening the usual severity of his expression and highlighting the clean, classical line of his profile.
The cut of his coat suited his frame perfectly.
He raised his head as she approached, and watched every step of her descent with an expression that sent a disquieting flutter through her chest. Mere politeness could not lend such intensity and depth to his gaze.
As she neared the final step, she saw his lips part, as if to form a word, but then press together again into a firm line.
Then a few beats more, where he simply looked at a loss for words, before his expression smoothed into one of polite reserve.
It appeared the Master of Pemberley, so articulate in his disdain, was entirely lost when basic civility was required.
Finally, as if seizing upon the most simple and inarguable phrase available, he said formally, “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Mr Darcy.”
He offered her his arm, a gesture of courtesy, and led her toward the drawing room. There they found Colonel Fitzwilliam, who turned and bowed as they entered.
Together, the three of them proceeded into the dining room.
As they took their places at the table, Elizabeth found herself wondering how this dynamic would unfold.
Would the evening be stiff, constrained, largely silent, as all their shared meals thus far had been?
Or would the events of last night, or perhaps, more prosaically, the amiable presence of the colonel, create a different, more harmonious atmosphere?
Two footmen laid out the courses. Elizabeth had selected a simple menu, eschewing the heavy, overly sauced dishes and elaborate ragouts that might have been expected in such a grand house, in favour of hearty country fare: a savoury broth, roasted pheasant, and a selection of freshly baked breads.
Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed the offerings with appreciation. “You have outdone yourself tonight, Elizabeth. Though,” and his eyes glimmered, “the rather Spartan nature of my solitary tray the previous evening perhaps set a low bar for excellence.”
“I must apologise, Richard,” she said, with a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks, “I have been a remiss hostess since your arrival.”
To her surprise, before Colonel Fitzwilliam could offer a polite, conventional demurral, Darcy spoke. His voice held a note of contriteness. “The fault is entirely mine. I fear I have set a sombre tone for this household. Fortunately yours and my cousin’s forbearance has been commendable.”
Elizabeth stared at him, momentarily speechless.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, looked taken aback by his cousin’s uncharacteristic admission, though he recovered his composure with military speed. “Nonsense, old fellow,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “And Pemberley, even at its most sombre, is always a distinct privilege to visit.”
Darcy served the soup and then focused his efforts on carving.
“You must tell us, Elizabeth,” said the colonel, after he had finished his soup, “what entertainments you have planned for the evening? Darcy is not renowned for his skills in this area. His idea of a lively evening usually involves deciphering old texts or reviewing the latest bills from Parliament.”
Darcy shot his cousin a look that could have curdled milk, but there was a quirk to his lips that belied his annoyance. “I find the pursuit of knowledge more rewarding than the frivolous pastimes you favour.”
“I believe the game ‘Lighting the Candle’ would suit Mr Darcy very well,” she teased.
A hint of amusement flashed in Darcy’s eyes, a startling thing to see, though his voice was grave as he replied, “Based on my prior observations, I would only consent to participate on the condition that I am partnered with my cousin.”
Elizabeth laughed, and answered his quip in kind, “Two against one? You flatter me, sir, to think my poor talents require such a formidable opposition.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, clearly enjoying the exchange.
He addressed Elizabeth with the air of a fellow long-sufferer.
“It sounds far more diverting than discussing the precise magical composition of Derbyshire mud, which I believe was my cousin’s chosen topic of conversation the last time I dined here. ”
Darcy said seriously, “The composition of Derbyshire mud has important implications for the foundational wards of this estate. A matter of rather more import, I would venture, than the latest gossip from White’s.”
“You make a compelling case for the significance of Derbyshire mud, Mr Darcy, and I shall endeavour to cultivate a deeper appreciation for it,” said Elizabeth, her eyes dancing with laughter.
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. The beginnings of a smile lifted one side of Darcy’s mouth.
She continued, “However, one might argue that the intricate web of alliances and enmities revealed in the ‘latest gossip from White’s’ also constitutes a foundational ward of sorts – for society. And one that can be equally perilous if neglected.”
Darcy replied drily, “I shall continue to place my faith in the tangible properties of earth over the more fickle allegiances of London society. The earth, at least, does not change its composition based on the latest on-dit.”
“One naturally trusts the subject one has mastered,” she observed, her smile knowing.
He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture of almost unconscious agreement, before replying softly, “I cannot deny it.”
As the dinner proceeded, the mood remained easy.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s engaging presence, characterised by his easy charm, his ready, infectious wit, and his inexhaustible fund of amusing anecdotes from London society and his various military postings, acted as a vital bridge, encouraging a flow of conversation.
There was no formal separation of the sexes after the meal, as might have been customary with a larger party.
Instead, as footmen cleared the remnants of the meal, Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested they retire to the Blue Drawing Room for coffee and, perhaps, he added, his voice carefully casual, “a little music, if you are so inclined?”
The Blue Drawing Room possessed a surprising warmth and lived-in comfort.
The chairs and sofas were beautifully upholstered, their cushions plumped and inviting.
The curtains were of a lighter, more cheerful style, patterned with roses and ivy.
The bookshelves that lined one entire wall were filled not with tomes of arcane theory, but with well-loved volumes of poetry, novels, and plays.
And in a prominent position, stood a beautiful pianoforte, its polished wood gleaming warmly in the firelight. It looked cherished. Cared for.
“Ah,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his gaze following Elizabeth’s to the instrument, “My late aunt’s pianoforte. Darcy has always kept it in perfect tune, perfectly maintained.”
Darcy’s expression immediately tightened. He turned away abruptly, ostensibly to examine an intricately carved jade that sat on the mantelpiece.
“It is a lovely instrument,” she said, sotto voce.
“Do you play, Elizabeth?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, his tone encouraging, as if sensing her unspoken desire.
“A little, and poorly,” she replied, “Enough to amuse myself, and occasionally, I fear, to severely torment my family.”
“Then please,” he urged, gesturing towards the pianoforte with an encouraging smile. “Amuse us. Or torment us, if you prefer. Either, I assure you, would be a welcome change from the usual.”
The lure of the beautiful instrument, the siren call of its silent keys, the desire to lose herself in the comforting patterns of music was too strong to resist.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she seated herself and lightly touched the smooth ivory keys. For a moment, she simply sat there, gathering her thoughts, allowing the quiet anticipation of the music to settle within her. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she began to play.
She chose a piece she knew intimately, one that resonated deeply with her own current emotional state – a beautiful, somewhat melancholic sonata, a piece that spoke with eloquence of longing, of loss, but also, crucially, of a resilient and enduring hope.
The notes flowed from her fingers, filling the room with a rich sound.
The pianoforte’s voice, despite its age, was unexpectedly sweet, perfectly clear, and meticulously tuned.
She lost herself completely in the music, her earlier anxieties, her resentments, her fears, all fading into the background as the intricate, interwoven patterns of melody and harmony unfolded beneath her hands.
She played with a depth of uninhibited feeling that she rarely allowed herself to express, pouring all her emotions into the evocative, bittersweet, and moving strains.
Vaguely, she was aware of Colonel Fitzwilliam settling back into his comfortable armchair, his face softened by an expression of appreciative attentiveness.
But it was Darcy, her infuriating, and now strangely affecting husband, that she was most acutely conscious of, though she did not, could not, dare to look at him directly as she played.
She wondered what he was thinking. Was he judging her performance, her poor fingering, her missed notes, her choice of music, with his usual critical eye? Or was he, perhaps, capable of being moved by the simple unadorned beauty of the sound?
When the last, lingering, poignant notes of the sonata finally faded into silence, a silence that seemed to hold the echo of every unspoken sorrow and every burgeoning hope, Elizabeth slowly lifted her hands from the keys.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, her emotions exposed, and vibrating like the strings of the instrument she had just played.
“That was exquisite, Elizabeth,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said softly, his voice husky with admiration. “It was a privilege to listen.”
Elizabeth flushed, warmth washing over her at his sincere compliment. But it was Darcy’s reaction she awaited, with a combination of acute trepidation and a strange anticipation.
He had not moved from his position by the mantelpiece, where he had stood, silent and motionless as a statue, throughout her performance. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were almost haunted.
She saw a muscle working in his tightly clenched jaw, as if he were battling some powerful, internal emotion he dared not acknowledge, let alone express. He seemed, for an instant, to be looking not at her, but through her, at some cherished, painful memory conjured by the music.
Then, as if shaking himself with a great effort from a deep trance, he cleared his throat. “You play remarkably well,” he said, his voice low, almost gruff, yet with an underlying note of something that sounded startlingly like appreciation. “Beautifully, in truth.”
The heartfelt simplicity of his praise, bereft of any customary qualifying clauses or flourishes of superiority, affected her strongly. More than the words, it was the effort, the visible crack in his reserve.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “I am glad you found enjoyment in the piece.”
Hoping to dissipate the sudden intensity of the room, she lowered her gaze to the keys and let her fingers drift into a lighter, simpler melody. But she could still feel his eyes upon her, an unwavering gaze that held her even as she hid behind the notes.