She would tell Fitzwilliam...eventually. When the moment felt right and she could frame her actions in ways he might understand without feeling betrayed by her secrecy.
Just not today.
Not while her guilt still sat heavy and she lacked the courage to face his potential disappointment.
***
By the time Elizabeth descended to the breakfast room, she had determined to arrive late enough that Fitzwilliam would have already departed for whatever plans he had made with his uncle or cousins. The mantel clock showed half past eleven, safely beyond the hour when gentlemen typically broke their fast.
At this time, the only people she’d likely encounter were ladies, who maintained more leisurely schedules.
The breakfast room proved mercifully quiet, occupied only by Mary and Jane. Her sisters glanced up at her entrance, looking pleased to see her.
“Lizzy! Are you recovered?” Jane set down her tea, the delicate china making a soft clink as it met the saucer.
“Quite recovered, thank you.” She served herself modest portions from the sideboard of toast, preserves and tea. Then settled at the table with the best approximation of normalcy she could manage.
“Mama is still campaigning vigorously to extend our stay,” Jane stated. “She spent nearly an hour yesterday evening enumerating all the reasons why departing so soon would be premature. She has compiled quite an impressive list, actually. I believe she has reached seven distinct arguments, each more elaborate than the last.”
“Seven seems excessive even for Mama,” Mary said. “What could possibly constitute seven separate reasons for remaining at Matlock?”
“Well, she counts each daughter’s individual need for extended exposure to appropriate society as separate arguments,” Jane explained, her tone suggesting she found her mother’s logic as dubious as Mary did. “So that accounts for four points immediately, with the exception of Lizzy, who is already married.”
“Naturally.” Mary’s dry tone matched their father’s characteristic irony. “Because surely a few additional days at Matlock will make all the difference in securing our futures. Besides, Kitty might already have made an attachment.”
“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked but Mary waved a hand.
“Never mind. Mother also argues that departing too hastily might offend our hosts. After all, there’s still more of the estate to explore. And Papa has not completed his examination of Lord Matlock’s library, although I suspect Papa would be quite content to leave that research unfinished if it meant returning to his own study.”
The conversation continued, with more observations being made about family members and speculation about plans for the day. Elizabeth listened with peripheral attention, her thoughts stubbornly fixed on the missive making its way towards Ireland alongside consequences she could not fully anticipate or control.
“Lizzy?”
She startled, realising Mary had spoken her name twice. “I apologise. I was wool-gathering.”
“I said that Miss Darcy enquired after you earlier. She wished to consult you about some music, I believe.”
“Did she?”
A glow of appreciation broke through the cloud of guilt that had been smothering every other emotion. The fact that Georgiana sought Elizabeth’s opinion felt significant, evidence of the blossoming friendship between them.
Mary nodded. “She is in the music room. She seemed quite eager to speak with you specifically.”
Elizabeth excused herself from breakfast, grateful for another purpose beyond endless contemplation. Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, sheets of music spread before her, her expression intent.
“Elizabeth!” She exclaimed, pleasure lighting her features. “I hoped you might join me. There is a piece I have been practising, but I cannot determine whether the tempo marking is correct. The notation suggests allegro, but the composition feels as if it ought to be played more moderately.”
“Show me.”
Elizabeth took a seat beside her on the bench, scanning the music whilst Georgiana played the opening bars. The notes flowed with absolute accuracy, each one struck perfectly, but something in the phrasing felt hurried. The emotional weight was lost beneath speed that prioritised technique over feeling.
“You are absolutely right,” Elizabeth said when she finished. “The tempo should be more restrained. The piece tells a story, I think. Longing, perhaps, or remembrance. Rushing through it diminishes the sentiment.”
Georgiana’s smile widened. “I thought so as well, but I was uncertain. The notation seemed so clear that I questioned my own judgement.” She repositioned her hands, playing the passage again with more deliberate pacing, and the difference was immediately apparent. The melody was given space to breathe and its melancholy beauty permitted full expression.
“Perfect,” Elizabeth urged. “You have excellent instincts. Trust them.”
They spent the next half hour working through the piece together, Elizabeth offering occasional suggestions as Georgiana’s playing transformed from technically correct to truly moving. The younger woman’s face glowed with concentration and pleasure, dissolved in the shared joy of making music.
