“No. We cannot afford another slight to our hostesses,” Jane replied, using her elder sister voice.
Since you have managed it already, Elizabeth knew she meant. Since Fanny’s departure, much of the goodwill they had shared since her arrival had dissipated. Had it not been so late in the day when Fanny finally left, Elizabeth might have started for home already. Instead, she had made do with a ramble around the garden. She had invited both Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst to ramble with her; both had refused.
Once in the drawing room, Mr Bingley was most eagerly concerned for Jane’s wellbeing; he adjusted the fire screen at least a half-dozen times to ensure no stray draught touched her. Elizabeth wished he would ease his attentions, which seemed to give the Bingley sisters cause for sly looks and raised brows. Probably, Mrs Hurst had relayed Fanny’s unkind words to her younger sister, for that lady seemed even more brittle and unfriendly than she had the day before—and this was saying something. The only thing distracting her from snide remarks was the good half an hour she spent trying to pry Mr Darcy’s attention away from a letter he was attempting to write to his sister, by means of exaggerated praise. Finally, Mr Bingley paused in his attentions to Jane to interrupt her exposition upon the ease with which he wrote.
“That will not do for a compliment, Caroline, for he does not write with ease—he studies too much for words of four syllables. Do you not, Darcy?”
“I write in a very different style than you, to be sure.”
Miss Bingley, offended on behalf of her idol, spat back with a half-dozen criticisms of Mr Bingley’s pen. Elizabeth attempted to divert her.
“Is your headache improved, Miss Bingley? I was sorry to hear you were still thus afflicted today, and were unable to take the air with me earlier this afternoon.”
“The country air is very rarely of use to anybody. I am sure it almost killed me once in Surrey, and is trying its best to finish the job now.”
Elizabeth caught the expression upon Mr Darcy’s face at this cogent remark, and it was all she could do to keep her own expression properly sympathetic. It was he who rescued her.
“A little music would not go amiss,” he suggested, “if either of you ladies would care to indulge us.”
Miss Bingley’s whole body quivered like a terrier who had caught the scent of approval, and she practically leapt from her chair; she was nearly to the instrument before she recalled that he had invited Elizabeth as well.
“Mrs Ashwood, would you prefer to play first?” she paused to ask.
“I would much rather hear you,” Elizabeth replied earnestly, and Miss Bingley happily seated herself at the instrument, prepared to astonish them all with her display of talent. Shewasvery skilled, and yet there was something in her eagerness that incited pity rather than appreciation.
Mr Darcy leant closer to Elizabeth. “You wear a curiously sentimental expression. An especially favourite Italian song?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Oh, no. It is only that Miss Bingley reminds me a little of my younger sister, Mary. I was wishing that I might visit her more often.”
“If she is a great deal like Miss Bingley, perhaps you see her often enough as it is.”
“Unkind, Mr Darcy,” she chided, although her tone was mild. “But no, they are not much alike, except in their zeal for performance. They both wish to be recognised for the talent they possess, a very human desire, I think.”
“Very much so,” he agreed. “Yet, I find it grating in such cases. It is as though I am required to provide a constant reassurance. Why do females not rejoice in their accomplishments for their own sake instead of expecting the accolades of others?”
“Are we not told to beware of pride?”
“Might I refer you to the parable of the talents?” he parried. “Or, what is that hymn?Improve Each Shining Hour?”
“How do we know if wehaveimproved, however, if no one notices?”
He smiled, and she somehow felt as though she had done something wonderful in gaining her point. Perhaps because he smiled so seldom?
“Your position is reasonable. I ought, therefore, to be more diligent in compliments to, for instance, my sister, who rightly looks to me for ‘notice’. On the other hand, it does not follow that I need heap praise upon every female for every accomplishment, beyond that which common civility requires.”
“I would agree. However, if the company as a whole lacks a degree of attention, it may fall to those who feel that deficiency to compensate.” She glanced to where Jane and Mr Bingley remained occupied in a conversation that excluded those around them, while Mr Hurst snored upon a sofa.
Mrs Hurst rose and joined her sister at the instrument, and after a small consultation, the pair began an ambitious recital.
“Must I promise to applaud at the end of each number?” he asked wryly.
“Perhaps one in three,” she countered.
Mrs Hurst achieved a splendid, warbling crescendo, ending in a shrill, if slightly squeaky climax—matched only by the violent thundering of the keys on the pianoforte, as Miss Bingley pounded enthusiastically to a sublime finish. He looked at Elizabeth, brows raised. She nodded with as much soberness as she could muster.
They lauded the two with a quiet if brief applause. Mr Bingley and Jane looked up, plainly startled, having noticed nothing of the magnificent duet. Mr Hurst emitted a nasal snore.
“Bravo,” Elizabeth praised the pair. “I cannot possibly follow such a remarkable showing. Might you play another?”
