That launched a billowing cloud of dust, and Harriet began coughing. An image of pestilence stirred in the back of my skull. I fixed my eyes on the cold light of the Thames and jammed my crossed wrists against each other, drawing my gloves snug. The image faded.
Georgiana struck a sour note and uttered a dismayed cry. She played a chromatic scale, every note from bottom to top, her hand roaring up the keys at jaw-dropping speed. Mrs. Reynolds arrived as Georgiana finished and exclaimed, “This instrument has not been tunedoncein all these years!”
The abandonment of a pianoforte was, apparently, a great sin. Miss Darcy began dictating atonement. A particular sort of hammer felt was required, and a German provider of wire strings. Bowls of water must be placed to prevent the freshly warmed air from drying the soundboard. Mrs. Reynolds nodded as the instructions mounted.
Mary Bennet entered the room and joined me by the window. We watched together.
“For all the terror of this afternoon,” I said, “I regret the salon performances were canceled. I should have liked to hear Georgiana play.”
“She lives in her art,” Mary said. “There is emotion in every note that she plays. And in every memory she recalls.” Mary’s eyebrows knitted as if that were foolish, but her lips parted in wondering admiration.
“I would find that exhausting,” I said.
Mary gave a short laugh. “The music was not the only event canceled. We had planned to protest the aristocracy’s restrictions on binding. Your letter was on this subject.” She closed her eyes and quoted: “My dear friend Harriet, through no fault but uncertain parentage, is assumed unable to bind—condemned as inferior by a cruel gentleman.”
“That is why I wished to attend,” I said, disconcerted that she could recite words I had written months ago. I had been very open with my thoughts. “In my enthusiasm to help Harriet, I may have shared her situation too freely.”
“Many women come to us for help. Their wellbeing is at risk. We hold secrets close.” There was a pause. “You did not say that Harriet is Black.”
That was an unexpected comment from so liberal a lady. “Surely that is irrelevant.”
“In a moral world, it is irrelevant. In this world, her position is more precarious.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “I have solvedthat.”
Mary’s spectacles glinted as she turned, golden circles around her light brown eyes. “How?”
“I have elevated her in society. We are the best of friends.”
“That is a solution?”
“If we are together, she can hardly be turned aside.” Mary’s eyebrows arched to match her round lenses, so I added, “All that remains is overcoming the silly perception that, because Harriet’s parents are unknown, she will fail to bind. When that is done, she can marry a suitable gentleman. We could not continue our friendship if she marries poorly.”
“You speak of her like she is a project!”
“Yes,” I said, pleased she understood. “Some years ago, I made an excellent match for my dear friend Miss Taylor. This is a better challenge.”
“A challenge?” Mary’s voice was tight. “Do you comprehend the issues she encounters? The prejudice?”
Perhaps she did not understand after all. “I am opposing prejudice.”
“With no experience of it. What if—”
Mary was cut off as a footman announced, “The master and mistress havearrived.”
We descendedto the main floor and joined Mr. Darcy and Lizzy in a sitting room. The windows again overlooked the Thames, but now through autumn-bare branches. We strolled the room in pairs or threes, the tone formal and too bright. The violence of the day hovered unsaid.
This room was fully reopened, missing only carpets. The narrow floorboards gleamed, inlaid with ruby patterns of rosewood or cherry. The chairs and end tables were delicate Rococo curves awash in gilded filigree—a beautiful style, although out of fashion. The war discouraged French influence.
Harriet’s eyes were agog. Hartfield, my family home, had a comfortable country style that was the peak of fashion in Highbury, but it was far less shiny than this.
Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightley strolled to the far window, their hands clasped behind their backs while they discussed whatever gentlemen discuss when ladies are out of hearing. Shooting. Horses. The near-murder of a wyfe.
The ladies gathered. I complimented the room’s restoration, and Georgiana agreed happily; she seemed recovered from the emotion of homecoming. Then she said, “My brother asked me to give you a message when you woke. I had forgotten until now.”
“He must tell me himself,” I said.
“He wishes to speak with you,” she said earnestly. “I am sure he will do so.”
