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 notwith 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 enduringhope. 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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Elizabeth, after a night of surprisingly restful sleep, entered the small breakfast room, Darcy was already present. This morning, however, he was not deeply engrossed in the closely printed columns of the London Times. Instead, a large map, creased from frequent consultation, was spread across the table, dominating the space.
He was bent over it, one long, elegant finger tracing a line across its surface, his features set in an expression of intense concentration. He was so absorbed in his task that it took several seconds before he straightened, and acknowledged her presence.
“Is that a map of Derbyshire?” said Elizabeth curiously as she came to stand beside him. Her gaze was drawn to the intricate details of the map, the tracing of rivers, the contours of hills, and the names, sometimes still their Roman variations, of long abandoned settlements.
