Before he could address her, Lady Catherine’s voice rudely interrupted the gentle music of the young girl at the harp.
“Miss Bennet, if you truly are acquainted with Salamanca, perhaps you can favour us with a Spanish air?”
Darcy bent his head, whispering so that no one else might hear. “Do you play, Miss Elizabeth? If not, I shall make your apologies.”
“I do play, Mr. Darcy. The guitar is my preferred instrument. It was not my intention to entertain this evening, but I believe Lady Catherine’s request is something of a challenge. If the French cannot intimidate me, then neither can an English lady.” Elizabeth blushed, for she had recalled just then her entering the French camp at León.
“There is nothing that can intimidate you, Señora Isabella. Please, would you play, if only for me?”
Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly that he wishedherto play forhim; the compliment was all for herself. And that he had called her by the affectionate, yet respectful, name used by the Spanish partisans.
‘Is it possible that he does not disdain me?’ she thought. ‘Surely, such is impossible.’ Yet, she could rationalise his civility. None knew of her disgrace but the Colonel, Don Mateo, Major Hurley, and Lord Wellington—all of whom were in Spain. In London, he could be polite and civil, for her dishonour was safely hidden away from the prying eyes and ears of theton. And, at a charity evening, he would certainly be all that was charming. Nevertheless, she felt all the embarrassment of her situation.
She was not a virtuoso, but the novelty of her music, and the popularity of all things Spanish, gave such pleasure to her audience that her performance was received with great approbation. Afterwards, she returned to her aunt, who looked at her with some interest. “You had said, Lizzy, that Mr. Darcy did not care for your acquaintance. However, his behaviour this evening makes me wonder at the truth of your statement. How came you to it?”
How could she tell of her shame, or her entering the French camp accompanied only by a Spanish pimp? It could not be borne. She could only nod, and mumble that she must have been mistaken.
Towards the end of the evening, Mr. Darcy once more approached. “There is a person who could not come this evening, although she was invited,” he said. “She is known to you, and particularly wishes to see you again. I have the direction of the Gardiners. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to them, and perchance renew her acquaintance with you?”
“Oh, I do so wish to see Georgiana again.” Elizabeth cried. “Aunt, Mr. Darcy wishes to bring his sister, Miss Darcy, to visit. When are we next at home?”
* * *
One afternoon, as Georgiana lingered before a painting of Persephone among the flowers, Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves alone before a landscape of particular beauty. The artist had captured a wild expanse of rugged mountains, the sky heavy with the promise of rain, and a solitary figure traversing the path homeward.
“There is a melancholy in this scene, do you not think?” Elizabeth ventured, her eyes lingering on the painted horizon. “Yet there is also a sort of hope. See how the light breaks through the cloud, just there, beyond the ridge.”
“In Spain, when the sun would rise above the mountains, it always gave me hope, that we would escape the place. I look back now—while a terrible time, there was also much beauty.” Elizabeth looked away, a shadow of pain and doubt flickered across her eyes.
“I must apologise, Miss Elizabeth. When Georgiana and I reached Salamanca, we did not return your call. It was very poorly done.”
“May I ask you why, Mr. Darcy? I must admit, it left me confused. But I could not fault you. You must protect Georgiana’s reputation, and quite rightly she should not be associated with my indiscretion at León.”
“No! You did no wrong. It is I who should be censured. I did not know my own mind. My conduct, my manners then, is now, and has been for many months, inexpressibly painful to me. It was Richard, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who reproached me, and so well applied. ‘Had it not been for Miss Bennet,’ he said, ‘we would be fleeing for our lives. Likely, Darcy, you would have been taken by the French, and Georgiana…’ But I could not see it—I was too consumed by my own pride, and my belief in the superiority of my connections. You taught me that they, of themselves, are nothing unless tempered by the exigencies of the world around us. What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled.”
“I do not understand, sir. Whatever can you mean?”
“It was only on the journey to Lisbon, having left Salamanca too hurriedly, I must say, that I thought of what you had sacrificed. You were a lady of the utmost propriety. Yet, you were always willing to forgo what society said was right, for what you, with such integrity of character, knew what was right in your heart.”
“Ah, I believe you misunderstand my character. My mother would have it that I cleave little enough to society’s mores. Though, perhaps, she herself is not the best to complain of my unladylike behaviour.”
“No, Miss Elizabeth, you have never been unladylike. It is I who have been ungentlemanly. Dare I say it? You are the finest woman that I know.”
Elizabeth blushed. Could this truly be the Mr. Darcy who had abandoned her and Lydia in Salamanca? Was this the man with whom she had walked, her hand in his, climbing the Cantabrian Mountains?
Before she could reply, Georgiana came skipping up to them. “Oh, Lizzy, come, I must show you. There is the most delightful portrait of Madame Catalani—and to think, we heard her sing just two nights ago!”
Elizabeth allowed Georgiana to take her arm, glancing back, just once, to meet Darcy’s gaze. She was grateful for the reprieve and yet acutely aware of the tremor of feeling that lingered—an earnestness, a vulnerability—that unsettled and warmed her in equal measure.
The three made their way through the gallery, Georgiana speaking animatedly of Madame Catalani’s performance, her cheeks aglow with youthful admiration. “I had never heard anything like it,” she exclaimed.
She paused before the portrait: the artist had rendered the singer with an almost luminous quality, her dark eyes alight, her mouth poised as if to loose a note that would echo through the gallery’s halls.
“She sang as if her heart would break for joy or sorrow,” Elizabeth said softly. “I think she knew both, as did the artist.”
“Gunters!” exclaimed Darcy. “I am in need of refreshment, and Berkeley Square is very close.”
Georgiana clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, yes, ices! Do let us go, Lizzy—if you are not too tired, that is?”
