“Not so late as to miss the overture,” said Richard as he bowed to his mother. “We arrived just as the bell rang.”
Darcy greeted his aunt with a nod and took the seat beside his uncle.
“Your restraint is appreciated,” said Lord Matlock. “Though I trust your reasons are as dull as you will claim.”
“I had no desire for conversation.”
Richard settled himself beside his brother.
“We came in under full sail and no one spotted us. Admirable discipline, I should think.”
Lady Matlock's eyes moved briefly from her son to her nephew before returning to the stage. Amelia smiled.
“You have just missed cousin Madeline.”
Darcy looked toward her.
“Indeed?”
“She was below only a few moments ago with Mr. Gardiner and their niece.”
“Their niece?”
“Newly arrived from Hertfordshire, I believe. Mama was quite taken with her.”
Richard glanced toward his mother.
“And is this niece as pretty as she is provincial? I do think we ought to be warned.”
“You are impossible.”
Darcy paid them little attention. His gaze had already returned to the stage, where the musicians were still arranging themselves below. The noise of the theatre washed over him unheard.
He recalled Madeline seated beside his mother in the music room at Pemberley, her posture straight, her fingers poised over the keys as Lady Anne guided her through a difficult passage. Many afternoons had passed so, while he lingered nearby, quietly listening. He had been no more than six when he first climbed onto the bench beside her. He had scarcely spoken then, not to anyone but his mother, yet he remembered whispering her name. Maddie. Just once. She had turned and smiled, and from that day forward, he always sought her out.
The last time he had seen her, he was thirteen and she eighteen. Within weeks, her father was dead, then his sister Georgiana, and then his mother. The fever had spared nothing. After that, there were no visits, no letters, no invitations. His father closed the door upon his mother’s family, and with it, upon Madeline.
Even after his father’s death, the habit remained. He supposed he might have written. But she had married, and their situations were so altered that he never did. From time to time he heard news of Madeline, though never often and never directly.
His eyes drifted across the theatre, more from thought than design. A box on the second tier caught his attention, positioned near the curve of the house. A young woman sat near the front, turned slightly toward the house but not toward the stage. Her gown was of pale sarsenet, simple but elegant, and the light from the chandeliers caught the gleam of its trim as she moved.
She was laughing. Not in the loud way of those eager to be heard, but with a softness that reached her whole face. There was joy in it. Not practiced amusement, but the quiet delight of someone unaccustomed to such pleasures and finally granted them.
She looked young, yet not quite girlish. There was an ease in her manner that suggested neither self-conscious display nor studied composure. She seemed happy. Entirely and unquestionably so. And that, more than any symmetry of feature or grace of movement, was what struck him.
There were others seated behind her. He noticed them only distantly. His attention remained fixed on the girl at the front.
She turned her head then, slowly, as though surveying the room. Her eyes passed near his, though not quite to them. She did not see him.He had not seen such lightness in years.
"Darcy."
His uncle's voice drew him back.
"I understand you have reviewed Mr. Gardiner's proposal," said Lord Matlock. "I take it the report was favourable?"
"I have read it."
"And?"
