They continued their discussion for what must have been another hour, moving from literature to music to philosophy. Elizabeth told him about the books that had shaped her thinking, the ideas she found compelling or absurd. Fitzwilliam shared what he could remember of his education, his time atCambridge, the philosophers and historians who had influenced his worldview.
"Tell me about your family," Elizabeth asked, although she had a fair idea of it from the letters he had written to Cassandra. “What are they like?"
"I have a sister named Georgiana, who is sixteen, shy, and extraordinarily talented at the pianoforte. I have been her guardian since our father's death five years ago, along with our cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, who shares the guardianship."
"She must be remarkable to inspire such obvious devotion."
"She’s a truly sweet girl," he said simply. "Perhaps overly sheltered—I worry sometimes that I have been too strict, too protective. But after our mother died when Georgiana was quite young, and then our father..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the portrait above the mantelpiece, which Elizabeth now recognised as depicting a handsome couple—presumably his parents. "I suppose I have always felt responsible for shielding her from harm."
"Your parents, when did they pass?"
"My mother died when I was twelve. Georgiana never really knew her." His tone remained steady, but Elizabeth could hear the old grief beneath it. "My father lived until five years ago. His death was sudden, an inflammation of the lungs that took him within a week. Georgiana was only eleven. It affected her profoundly."
"I am sorry. That must have been difficult for you both."
"It was. But we managed. Now tell me more about yourself, Elizabeth. Beyond your reading preferences. What else brings you pleasure?"
"Long walks in the countryside. Spirited conversation, as you have already discovered.
Time with my sister Jane, who is everything good and kind in this world." She paused, considering. "And observing people, I suppose. Understanding what motivates them, what makes them behave as they do. My father says I have too much interest in human folly, but I find people endlessly fascinating."
"That observation itself is fascinating." He tilted his head, studying her with open curiosity. "And what are your preferred pastimes beyond reading and walking?"
"Estate management, though I suppose that is more obligation than a pastime now," Elizabeth said wryly. "I helped my father manage Longbourn's accounts for years—he said I had a better head for figures than anyone else in the family. Embroidery, but I am merely adequate. And music, though again, my skill is only passable despite years of practice."
"I would be interested to hear you play sometime."
They talked for another half hour, Elizabeth sharing stories of her own family—Jane's sweetness, Mary's solemnity, Lydia and Kitty's silliness. He listened with undivided attention, asking questions that suggested true interest rather than mere politeness.
Finally, he stood and offered his hand. "Would you permit me to show you something? I think you might find it interesting."
Curious, Elizabeth allowed him to help her to her feet. His hand was warm and steady in hers—a simple touch, yet it sent awareness racing through her. She followed as he led her from the library, down another corridor lined with more portraits, and into a room she had not yet seen.
It proved to be a music room, dominated by a magnificent pianoforte that gleamed in the light from the tall windows. The instrument was clearly of exceptional quality, its wood polished to a mirror shine, its keys pristine.
"My father commissioned this shortly before his death," he explained, running his hand along the polished surface with something approaching reverence. "It is one of the finest in England, or so I am told. Before her departure abroad, Georgiana played it constantly, for hours every day. I find the sound comforting, even though I have no talent for music myself."
Elizabeth approached the instrument carefully, as one might approach something precious. "It is beautiful."
"Would you play something? I know you said your skill is only passable, however, I am curious to hear you." He gestured towards the bench. "Unless you would prefer not to—I do not wish to put you on the spot."
“I do not mind,” she replied. She settled onto the bench regardless, running her fingers over the keys experimentally. The touch was exquisite—responsive yet forgiving, allowing even her mediocre technique to produce a pleasing sound.
She thought for a moment, then began to play—not one of the fashionable pieces ladies were expected to master, but something a music teacher had taught her years ago. A folk melody, simple in construction yet complex in emotion.
As her fingers moved across the keys, Elizabeth felt the music express what words could not—her complicated feelings about this marriage, this man, this new life. Hope for what might develop between them, foreboding about the secret she still kept. Brightness in their growing rapport, shadows from the past that threatened their fragile beginning.
The melody wove through the air, filling the room with its bittersweet harmony. Elizabeth lost herself in the playing, in the way the notes seemed to speak for her when her own voice could not. This was what she felt—this mixture of promise and uncertainty, of tentative joy shadowed by persistent fear.
"That was..." Her husband began as the last notes faded. That was beautiful, Elizabeth. Truly."
“What, if I may ask, did the music make you feel?”
“A liberating feeling. Almost like I was being assured that everything would be fine.”
She turned to look at him and felt her breath catch at his expression—open and touched by something that might have been wonder or recognition.
"That feels appropriate somehow," she said quietly. "For where we are. What we are trying to build.”
