Chapter Two The Soldiers Campaign #2
"My apologies, Miss Elizabeth!" he said, attempting to flip the pages back and somehow managing to knock the book off the stand. It hit the floor with a resounding smack.
Elizabeth collapsed into laughter, her hands dropping from the keys. "Colonel, I believe you are trying to undermine my performance."
"I am overwhelmed by the vigour of your playing, Miss Elizabeth!" he defended himself, scrambling to retrieve the music.
Across the room, Darcy stood rigid beside his cousin Anne's chaise. His eyes were burning holes into the Colonel's back. Elizabeth caught sight of him over the top of the pianoforte, and a spike of defiance overtook her. Why should he stand there judging them?
She glanced at Anne de Bourgh. To Elizabeth's surprise, she was not staring into space as usual. Her eyes were fixed on the pianoforte, and she was watching the Colonel's clumsy flirtation with clinical fascination.
"Miss Elizabeth! Richard!" Lady Catherine bellowed from her armchair, slamming her teacup into its saucer. "This is an intolerable racket! The timing is wrong, the fingering is abysmal, and the page-turning is a disgrace to music itself!"
"Aunt, I assure you—" the Colonel began.
"Silence! I cannot bear to listen to it a moment longer." Lady Catherine rose, a mountain of rustling purple silk. "I must demonstrate how the piece is meant to be executed. Move, Miss Elizabeth. Observe a true master."
Elizabeth quickly stood, curtseying to hide the grin splitting her face. She stepped away, retreating to the centre of the room. As she did, she accidentally caught Mr Darcy's eye, and she hastily averted hers.
Lady Catherine sat down at the instrument and struck the first chord.
It was catastrophic. She pounded the keys with the grace of a blacksmith hammering an anvil, the notes crashing together in an off-tempo dissonance.
It was, Elizabeth realised with horror, substantially worse than her sister Mary on a bad day.
Elizabeth looked at Darcy again.
Darcy's expression was blank, but as Lady Catherine hit a flat note, a single twitch convulsed his right eyelid.
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh. Darcy saw her effort. For one fleeting, miraculous second, the mask slipped. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, his eyes sparked with shared amusement, and they existed in a silent circle of mutual understanding.
Before Elizabeth could process the strange warmth that flared in her chest, Colonel Fitzwilliam was at her side.
"Miss Elizabeth," he whispered loudly, wincing as his aunt struck another discordant chord. "I fear for my hearing and I have developed a sudden passionate interest in horticulture. Will you do me the great honour of inspecting the ferns in the hothouse?"
"With pleasure, Colonel," Elizabeth whispered back, grateful for the escape. She took his offered arm, and they slipped through the side doors, leaving the musical massacre behind.
The hothouse was an overwhelming contrast. It was sweltering and thick with the smell of damp earth and exotic blossoms, condensation dripping from the glass panes.
"Ah, sanctuary," he sighed, turning to Elizabeth with a brilliant smile. He stepped closer, the tight confines of the walkway forcing an unexpected intimacy. "I must confess, Miss Elizabeth, I care nothing for ferns. I wished to have you to myself for a moment."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to offer a witty retort, but the door behind them banged open.
"We have arrived to view the horticulture."
It was Darcy, his voice stiff, his face flushed. Clutched firmly by the elbow was a wheezing Anne de Bourgh.
"Darcy!" the Colonel said, his smile freezing. "And... Anne? I did not know you enjoyed the damp, Cousin."
"I do not," Miss de Bourgh said flatly, her voice nasal. "I was reading a book. Fitzwilliam dragged me from my chaise and informed me I required a botanical education. It is hot in here. I feel quite ill."
"It is excellent for the lungs, Anne," Darcy said, though he was not looking at her. He was glaring at the few inches of space between the Colonel and Elizabeth. He positioned himself squarely in the middle of the aisle, an impenetrable, broad-shouldered wall of chaperonage.
"Fascinating specimen here," Darcy said loudly, gesturing vaguely to an ordinary, half-dead spider plant.
Elizabeth stared at him, utterly bewildered by his erratic behaviour. One moment they were sharing a secret joke over terrible piano playing, and the next he was invading a hothouse using his sickly cousin as a living barricade.
"Look," Miss de Bourgh said, ignoring the tension. She leaned forward, pointing a trembling finger at a large leaf. "A caterpillar. It is covered in yellow hair. How disgusting. I wish to paint it."
The Colonel, trying to recover his romantic moment, turned back to Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth, do you notice how the light filters through the canopy? It reminds me of the—"
"It is eating the leaf," Miss de Bourgh interrupted, leaning closer, her nose inches from the bug. "Fascinating. Its mandibles are quite destructive."
"Yes, Anne, very destructive," the Colonel sighed, his shoulders slumping.
"Lizzy!"
The hothouse door opened a third time. Charlotte stood there, Maria peering nervously around her shoulder. "Lizzy, Lady Catherine has finished her performance and is now demanding to know if you possess a tambourine. I believe it is time we returned to the parsonage."
"I am coming, Charlotte!" Elizabeth called out with relief. The humidity, the glaring Darcy, the eager Colonel, and the caterpillar-obsessed Miss de Bourgh were too much to endure.
She curtseyed hastily to the gentlemen. "Good afternoon, Colonel. Mr Darcy. Miss de Bourgh."
She hurried out of the hothouse, taking Charlotte's arm and breathing in the cool air of the gardens.
She did not look back, but she could easily imagine the tableau she left behind: the charming soldier, the bored heiress, and the brooding master of Pemberley, all standing awkwardly among the ferns.