Page 34 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“Thank you, sir. I am decided.” At that, Miss Mary’s eyes flickered up to Darcy’s, and after a deep breath, she nodded confidently. He did not need to read the title of the piece she had selected to know that she was going to do something spectacular. Flexing her fingers, she poised them over the keys, took another deep breath, and began.

The opening notes of Beethoven's Appassionata fell like hammer strikes—dark, urgent, relentless. Darcy dared not look away from the pages. He had an important task to perform, and he would not disappoint Miss Mary. But he imagined all manner of sour expressions on Miss Bingley’s face. This was no pretty drawing-room piece meant to showcase nimble fingers and fashionable taste. This was music—real, serious, demanding music that required not merely accomplishment but mastery. Miss Mary's hands flew across the keys with a precision that turned Miss Bingley's earlier performance into a child's recital. The pianist’s face showed no awareness of the room; she made no performative glances to gauge her audience's admiration. Miss Mary disappeared into the music entirely, her usual stern expression transformed by fierce concentration and unbridled joy. The first movement's tempestuous passages rolled through the room like thunder. The performer’s fingers never faltered. This was what genuine dedication to craft looked like. Unassuming Miss Mary, with her deft fingers, produced an enormous power from the instrument. The final movement's presto raced toward its conclusion, the pianist’s hands a blur.

When the last crashing chord fell, silence filled the room like a held breath. Only then did Darcy look away from the music sheets. He took in the audience’s reactions in a glance. Sir William’s mouth hung open; his wife brushed a tear from her cheek. Mrs. Bennet beamed with pride, and even Mr. Bennet considered his middle child with something approaching wonder. Mr. Hurst, who had been slouched half-asleep on the couch before, now sat upright. Mr. Bingley’s cheerful fidgeting had stilled. Miss Bingley sat stiffly on the sofa, her self-aggrandizing triumph replaced with alarm.

Miss Elizabeth wore her pride openly, her hands spread over her heart as she smiled at her sister. What a contrast with Miss Bennet, whose polite smile was marred with the slightest pinch. Darcy saw it, and it confirmed his suspicions of her character.

Sir William began to applaud, upsetting a porcelain figurine on the side table in his excitement, and the room erupted. His page-turning duties complete, Darcy turned to Miss Mary and bowed. Her eyes met his in question, as though to ask Did I do it well? In response, he applauded louder and longer than the rest. Miss Bingley's tight smile suggested she knew she had been utterly, irrevocably outmatched. But it was Mr. Hurst who surprised everyone by calling out “Encore!” with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, his ruddy face animated for the first time all evening. Mrs. Hurst's fan snapped open with an audible crack, and Miss Bingley's glare could have curdled milk.

Miss Mary rose from the bench, a faint flush of pleasure coloring her cheeks. “I thank you, but I think we have all heard quite enough from me this evening.”

It was a perfectly rational reply which brought the musical exhibitions to a perfect end. The Bennet sisters had carried the evening triumphantly, and everyone knew it.

CHAPTER 17

The following two days in Elizabeth’s constant company passed more pleasantly than the work they accomplished together ought to have allowed. From the attic to the cellar, Darcy helped her sort through every object, separating what belonged to the estate and therefore protected by the entail, and what belonged to the Bennets and would be sold. All of this in preparation for the arrival of the Custom House officer and the bailiff, who Darcy hoped would reward their hard work and initiative with more time.

Several times, Elizabeth had reminded her father of the importance of transferring bank funds to her uncles, who would keep them secure. Every time, he assured her that the transactions were at the top of his mind, to which she urged haste lest the bailiff arrive before they expected. Finally, Mr. Bennet determined to go to town, leaving before dawn so that he might have sufficient time to conduct his necessary business and return in time for dinner.

Mr. Wickham was their guest, and Darcy anticipated a wretched meal. The devil was certain to tighten the noose he himself had placed around his neck the moment he had introduced himself as Daniel Robinson. The soup course had not ended before the harmless talk of the weather, the roads, and Wickham’s general impression of Purvis Lodge and his Meryton neighbors was exhausted.

It started with the purposeful mention of Derbyshire. Had the Bennets traveled that far north? Darcy choked down another spoonful of white soup, measuring whether he had eaten enough to avoid notice or if his lack of appetite would betray his tumultuous thoughts. He felt Wickham’s gaze on him, looked up to see the smirk on his face. Darcy forced down another bite.

Quite naturally, or so it would have seemed to the other occupants at the table, the conversation turned to Pemberley. Wickham extolled the grandness of the estate, the charm of the surrounding villages, and the happiness he experienced in the company of the Darcys, who were kind to the humble son of their land steward. Darcy reached for his wine glass.

“I do not know what Mr. Darcy saw in me to grant me so much favor, but he took it upon himself to provide a gentleman’s education. He believed I had great potential.” Wickham paused and clutched his chest, as though overcome by the rush of fond memories of his generous mentor. Clearing his throat, he said with a gravelly voice, “He treated me like a son.” Darcy imagined launching over the table to strangle Wickham.

“Were you close to his son?” Elizabeth asked.

He glanced at Darcy and dabbed his lips with his linen napkin, hiding another smirk. “We were like brothers.” The claim was a blatant slap in the face. They had never been like brothers.

“Did Mr. Darcy have no other brothers or sisters?” asked Miss Mary.

Darcy’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears. The Bennets did not know about Georgiana? He was certain that his father knew everything that could be learned about the Bennets. He had assumed Mr. Bennet would have done the same—but then, judging by what he had recently learned about the man, it was not surprising.

Wickham had grace enough to look uncomfortable. “He had a sister—twelve years his junior.”

Miss Lydia pounced on this information. “A sister! How lovely! Would she be about our age, do you think, Mr. Wickham?”

“Yes! Tell us all about her!” agreed Miss Kitty.

Darcy stared at the red wine in his glass, his vision blurred and his limbs numb.

“I regret to inform you that Miss Darcy died when she was quite young.” To his credit, Wickham seemed sincerely sad. Darcy remembered him pushing Georgiana on the garden swing and running around the maze as she shouted directions from atop his shoulders. There had been some good moments, but she would have needed protection from the man he later became.

“Oh, how terribly sad,” said Miss Lydia.

“What a tragic loss for the family,” agreed Miss Mary.

“It happened quickly—the fever. She was only four years of age.”

Miss Bennet pressed her hands against her heart. “So young!”

Mrs. Bennet dabbed her eyes. “Her poor, dear mother! However did she bear it?”

Darcy continued staring at his glass, his stomach heavy.

“She died shortly after,” Wickham replied. Darcy squeezed his eyes closed. “The loss was too great for her heart.” More than that, Wickham did not say, and of that Darcy was grateful.