“Perhaps I should leave you now to rest?” Mary asked hesitantly. “I can return and read to you if you like.”
“That would be nice,” murmured Elizabeth. “They will bring Lavinia to me this afternoon after the wet nurse feeds her. Then you can meet your niece.”
“I have already met her,” Mary replied proudly. “I think her quite pleasing.”
Elizabeth gave a small smile. “Do you? Please do not mention this to Fitzwilliam, but I fear our daughter is not, well…very attractive. Thomas was such a beautiful baby, whereas Lavinia seems to have such a pinched little face: her chin is a bit too pointed, and I cannot call her eyes exactly lovely. However, I am sure I am needlessly worrying. She will, no doubt, begin to blossom soon. Her arrival into the world was hard on her as well.”
Mary stared at her sister, one of the two great beauties of her family. She took a deep breath. “Lizzy—would you love her any less if she were not a beauty?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
“No, of course not, Mary—you misunderstand me. I love my daughter with all my heart. As I said, I am likely worrying without cause. But you must own life is more difficult for those who are unattractive.”
Mary felt a jolt of anger. Was that comment directed at her? Was Lizzy making a reference to her plain looks? “Time will tell, Lizzy. Perhaps you are right and it was the difficult birth. She will most likely end up being quite a beauty. After all, you and Mr. Darcy are her parents, and nobody would call either of you plain.”
Elizabeth rolled over in bed and shut her eyes.
“Yes, of course,” she said in a drowsy voice. “And even if Lavinia should be plain, she will have dowry enough to guarantee she will not be left on the shelf.”
***
Clenching her fists, Mary left Lizzy’s room and walked rapidly downstairs. She replayed the conversation with her sister in her mind. Did Elizabeth really mean those things she said? No, she could not have. Surely, the comments only came from the strain of her long recovery after giving birth. After all, Lizzy was innately kind, and even though she had a renowned wit, she never used it in a mean-spirited or cruel manner. And yet…what she said about life being “more difficult for those who are unattractive” stung. Mary reached the music room and paused, then walked with deliberation to the pianoforte.
Although she knew it would only be polite to first ask permission from Georgiana to play it, Mary went straight to the beautiful instrument—a gift to her from Darcy for her fifteenth birthday, Georgiana had said—and sat on the bench covered in needlepoint depicting angels and flowers. After a moment, Mary chose a sonnet from her memory and began to play, gently at first, but soon she was pounding hard upon the keys, trying to release her anger.
When she finished, a familiar voice spoke.
“Gracious. I have never heard that particular piece played with such…vigor, Mary.”
Mary’s head snapped up to see Georgiana standing in the doorway. She dropped her hands in her lap and, avoiding eye contact, mumbled an apology.
“Forgive me, Miss Georgiana, I had a need to…release some slight irritation. I should have asked your permission before I touched your piano. I apologize.”
Georgiana crossed the room and sat beside her on the bench. She placed her hand on one of Mary’s.
“Do not be sorry. You are more than welcome to play while you are here. Your sister often plays it, and you are my sister too, so you must not think you require my permission.”
When Mary did not reply, Georgiana stood and riffled through some sheets of music on a small table nearby. She chose one and set it before Mary.
“Have you seen this? It is a duet. I know both parts, but have not yet had anyone to play it with me. Would you…would you like to try?”
Mary felt tears prickle her eyes; gracious, why was she so emotional? She nodded and shifted down a bit on the bench. After scanning the score a moment, she adjusted her glasses and placed her hands on the keyboard to signal her readiness. Georgiana happily set hers in position, and giving a nod, the two began to play.
When they finished, Georgiana considered her sister-in-law.
“That was quite good, Mary; I am pleased to finally hear it as it should be played. Thank you.”
“I made a few mistakes.”
“Hardly even noticeable, to my mind. However”—Georgiana seemed to consider her words carefully before continuing—“it would be a small improvement if you put more emphasis on the melodic nature of your lines.”
“But your lines have the melody for the most part,” Mary protested.
“What I mean is, you seem to play each note and chord with the very same emphasis—the same pressure on the keys, if you will. I do not wish to criticize you, but I had an instructor who taught me that merely hitting the correct notes is not enough. One must sometimes caress the keys and other times strike more forcibly. I have found that, when you allow your emotions to enter into it in such a manner, that is when it truly becomes music.”
Mary was silent, staring at the music.
“Oh, but I should not have spoken. Pray forgive me,” Georgiana hurriedly said. “I did not wish to offend you, believe me.”
“I do not take the least offense, be assured. I want to improve my technique. My father only paid for a very few years of formal instruction, you see, and since then I have been on my own, learning as I can.” She turned an earnest face to Georgiana. “I appreciate your comments, truly. The things you just said I have never heard before, and now I understand why someone once referred to my piano work as plodding, rather than playing.” Mary smiled. “Shall we try it again? I shall endeavor to take your instruction into account and then you can tell me whether you see improvement.”
