Elizabeth found herself reading the lines over and over, though the message was simple enough. It was not the words that held her, but the mark of his sure hand on the page. Her fingers traced the bold flourish of his signature.Fitzwilliam Darcy. His name was a curious dichotomy, stirring both the ache of his continued absence and a growing respect for the integrity that demanded it.
Thus the days passed in a restive and interminable vigil, each passing hour deepening the strange new ache in her chest. She had imagined his return a hundred times: a look from him that held no wariness, a silence between them that held no censure, and a word from her that was finally, truly honest.
The reality, when it finally came, was best described as anticlimactic. Darcy’s return was no grand affair, but the wearymidnight arrival of a man drained of all but his resolve, who disappeared into his rooms and spent a full day lost to an exhausted sleep.
But now, with some semblance of normalcy restored, they found themselves here, in the Blue Drawing Room, attempting at an evening’s entertainment. Most nights they had all made various excuses to retire after dinner, but the colonel, sociable as he was, could not be repressed for long. When tonight he had suggested plaintively that they remove to drawing room, Elizabeth had not found it in her heart to deny him. He truly was a long-suffering and gracious guest.
Elizabeth settled onto a sofa with her needlework, the rhythmic pull of the thread a comfort.
Darcy, after pouring a generous measure of brandy for himself and the colonel, took a chair by the hearth, ostensibly listening as his cousin launched into a lengthy critique of the latest bills before Parliament. He offered occasional commentary, but his eyes held a brooding quality. Mostly he stared into the crackling flames as if seeking answers, or perhaps oblivion, in their fiery depths.
From behind the shield of her embroidery hoop, Elizabeth could not help but observe him. Darcy was, she suspected, a man who held his drink exceptionally well; his control was too absolute for obvious outward signs. Yet, as the evening wore on and the level of brandy in his glass lowered with each sip, she registered the slightest of shifts. A fractional easing of the usual tension in his shoulders, a more deliberate cadence to his infrequent words, a subtle warmth that touched the high planes of his face, almost too faint to discern in the firelight. It was less a visible alteration and more a subtle atmospheric change around him, a minute lowering of his ever-present guard.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, in contrast, grew progressively more cheerful, his laughter louder, his pronouncements onparliamentary incompetence more expansive and amusingly embellished with each sip. He was, Elizabeth thought with a private smile, a most amiable drunkard, his spirits rising in direct, inverse proportion to the general gloom
Eventually, the colonel turned his attention to Elizabeth. “Elizabeth, you have been far too quiet this evening, diligently plying your needle,” he declared, his voice rather more loud than usual, “Will you not take pity and offer us a little music?” He gestured towards the beautiful pianoforte that stood gleaming in the firelight.
She hesitated. The last time she had played in this room, Darcy’s reaction had been so unexpectedly vulnerable it had shaken her. To play now, with the memory of Buxton still so fresh, with the air between them still so fraught with unspoken things, felt almost like a trespass.
Yet, the lure of the instrument, the desire to lose herself, if only for a little while, in the structured beauty of music, was strong. And the colonel’s plea, however alcohol-influenced, was undeniably heartfelt.
“If you truly wish it, Richard,” she said, setting aside her needlework.
“Wish it? I absolutely insist upon it!” he declared.
After searching through the sheets of music, Elizabeth chose a piece she knew well. As the first notes filled the room, a familiar sense of peace settled over her.
She played, lost in the music, only vaguely aware of Colonel Fitzwilliam settling back into his armchair with a contented sigh. Then, in the midst of an intricate passage, she sensed a presence beside her. Startled, her fingers stumbled briefly.
It was Darcy.
He had risen from his chair and moved, with a quietness that belied his stature, to stand beside the pianoforte. He did notspeak, yet she felt the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. The warm scent of him enveloped her.
The music, she thought, must be affecting him more than he showed. The stern lines of his face were eased, and his eyes held a distant expression as he listened. The brandy, perhaps, had subtly eased the iron grip he usually maintained on his deeper emotions.
As she reached the end of a page, he leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper, close to her ear. “Allow me.” And before she could fully process his meaning, his hand reached out to turn the page of sheet music for her.
“You can read music? I see I must amend my list of your accomplishments,” Elizabeth said, her surprise evident in her voice. It was a relatively inconsequential thing, yet it felt like another unexpected revelation about this complex man.
“My mother taught me how to play,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the score. It was the same wistful tone she had heard in the library, a special sorrow reserved only for the memory of his mother, and it touched her heart now just as it had then.
Her fingers fumbled the next few notes. She recovered quickly, a blush stealing over her cheeks, and said, “Perhaps I will have the privilege of hearing you sometime.”
Darcy gave a small smile, but it was a haunted gesture that barely curved his lips. “I fear any performance I could offer now would be poor.”
“I find that difficult to believe. I have come to learn you do very few things poorly,” she parried gently.
“I am at a loss as to how you have reached that conclusion,” he said, “when you have seen the overwhelming evidence I have provided to the contrary.”
“If we are to judge ourselves by our most spectacular failures of expression,” she replied, “then we are both of us beyond redemption.”
A short, rough laugh broke from him, a sound so unexpected it prompted her to turn her head slightly to study him. That explained it, she realised. The change wasn’t observed in his speech, but in his eyes, where the brandy had lent a distinct glassy sheen that softened their usual intensity.
Elizabeth continued to play as Darcy stood beside her, turning her pages. His nearness was a force, a warmth that seemed to seep into her bones, making her fingers tremble on the keys. Every nerve in her body was aware of the mere inches that separated his hand from her shoulder, and she felt a pining, so acute it was almost painful, to lean back into the solid strength of him. It was a mad, impossible thought, a desire for a comfort she had not earned and had no right to ask for.
Her heart, that foolish, traitorous thing, leapt with a painful flutter every time his sleeve brushed against her arm. The unexpected intimacy of the moment was a sweet agony.
When the last notes finally faded away, a hush settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Colonel Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth noted with a glance, had succumbed to the combined effects of brandy and soothing music, and was now slumbering peacefully in his armchair, a snore occasionally punctuating the silence.
