Que en el mundo es una sola.
La mi sola, Laureola.
“And now the English:
My only, Laureola.
I, the captive Leriano,
Although I am very proud,
Wounded from that hand
That in the world there is only one.
My only, Laureola.
Elizabeth took up her guitar and tuned it to Mynheer’s voice. Her ear for language readily accepted the musicalinterpretation of the Spanish songs, and she found the exercise enthralling. Time stood still; each song was beautiful on its own. Her favourite was¿Corazón, porqué pasáis?which narrated the worries and uncertainties of a young lover’s perception of her beloved. Rapid rhythms in the accompaniment mirrored the staccato of an unsure heart. Dissonant harmonies created uncomfortable feelings of uncertainty; a chromatic melody and mixed meter further embodied the riddle that is an undetermined love story:
¿Corazón, porqué pasáis
Las noches de amor despierto
Si vuestro dueño descansa
En los brazos de otro dueño?
Ah!
She cried as she sang the translation:
Heart, why do you pass
The nights of love awake
If your owner rests
In the arms of another?
Ah!
What would it be like to feel such worry? To experience such love? The joy of binding her soul to another? Could she bind herself to Collins? No! She only felt despair. Her voice stumbled, “I apologise, Mynheer. I cannot continue—singing these songs is too painful.”
“But why? Surely, one day, you will arouse such passion in a young man.Youwill be ardently loved and admired!”
She broke down into tears. Her misery was too much. She needed someone to confide in. Mynheer Meyers lookedenquiringly at her; he took her hands. “You have so much to give, Miss Elizabeth. Please tell me. Gemeene plaag rust wel—a trouble shared is a trouble halved.”
Chapter 3
London, May 3, 1809
Darcy hailed a hackney, gave the direction to number forty-four Grosvenor Square, Darcy House, and swung adroitly up the step onto the passenger bench. It had been some fourteen months since he had made the journey from his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn tothe House, as the family called it. After such a long period of time, he and his father, he hoped, might be able to partake of rational discourse rather than descending into recrimination and anger. Little time remained to seal the breach.
The House fronted Grosvenor Square, but its entrance had been moved to Charles Street some ten years before. Surmounted by a canted bay rising through the first and second floors and standing on two columns, the portico lent the building an imposing facade. Darcy ascended the steps; the door opened, and Winthrop, the butler, greeted him:
“Master Fitzwilliam, what a pleasure to see you.”
“Yes, indeed, Winthrop. Too long, perhaps. Is my father at home?”
