Miss Darcy Falls in Love

by Sharon Lathan

  She looked up into Sebastian’s pale eyes that watched her with sympathy. “I am fortunate, from a certain perspective, that I was blessed with many more years with my father.”

  “Was he a kind man? A devoted parent?”

  She nodded her head emphatically. “Oh yes indeed, he was, but also extremely sad. He never recovered from mother’s death. William has told me of how altered he was after. I have no memory of him from before. To me, he was always affectionate, ready with a laugh and a tight embrace. Yet, I knew of his pain. He would tell me of mother, speaking of her as if she was still alive, which I suppose she was to him, in his heart. His voice would be sad, yet oddly joyful. He told me once that she gave him purpose and happiness, and that the best gifts of his life came from her. When I asked him what those gifts were, he said it was Fitzwilliam and me.” She smiled brightly, eyes moist. “Is that not beautiful?”

  “Indeed, it is. And very true, I daresay.”

  “I miss him, but content myself in knowing that he is with mother, the woman he loved so completely. He must be overjoyed and at peace, and they are no longer alone. Do you believe in such an afterlife, Mr. Butler?”

  “I do. I am sure you are correct in your assumption, Miss Darcy. And I am thankful that God blessed you with a brother who is so devoted. Nevertheless, I am saddened at your losses at so young an age.” He smiled ruefully. “My father can annoy me no end, but I do revere and love him. I cannot fathom the day he will pass away, and not only because I will then be Lord Essenton and forced to relinquish my wayward existence.”

  She chuckled, appreciating his lightening of the sad subject, and decided it was time to change the topic. “Oh, look. Hymnals. My, some of these are quite old.”

  “I love hymns. They seem more… spiritual than sacred music alone.” He shrugged. “I suppose that makes no sense.”

  “On the contrary. It makes perfect sense. The focus of a hymn is on praise and worship of God. The words are felt deep in your soul.”

  “Have you heard many of the hymns of Charles Wesley?”

  “Indeed, I have! They are among my favorites. Our rector at Pemberley Chapel met both the Wesley brothers and studied with them for a time. Theologically, I believe he greatly agreed with Mr. John Wesley, but in the end could not bear to break with the Church, but our services draw upon many tenets of the Methodist Movement.” She glanced over to see how Mr. Butler was accepting that borderline heresy, but he was staring at her with deep interest and no obvious censure. “My brother is better educated than I, but we Darcys have a strong faith.”

  “Yes. My grandmother speaks reverently of her family’s devotion to religion, even if she has not precisely followed a strict moral code.” Again, the strong affection was evident in his voice, even when teasing about Lady Warrow’s eccentricities. “You may be interested, Miss Darcy, in some of the psalms I have placed to music.”

  “Indeed, I am.”

  He shook his head at her awed enthusiasm. “It is a hobby, one might say. Amid more serious compositions and study, I have been methodically compiling short hymns from the scriptures. I have often wondered how the creations of David may have sounded as originally placed to music.” He laughed. “Presumptuous, I know. And of course they did not have pianos two millennia ago, so very different than my humble offerings to be sure.”

  “All instruments are pleasing to God, Mr. Butler. And I would love to hear your hymns.”

  “Once we are settled in Paris, I will dig them out for you to peruse. I would be greatly honored, and benefited, if you sang a few of them for me. Some are written for a soprano and your voice is beautiful.”

  She flushed, nodding once before turning to the object beside the harpsichord. “A Silbermann pianoforte. Oh, this is a beautiful specimen, if a bit battered. We have a Silbermann at Pemberley, although it is a far later model than this one.”

  “These markings here date it at 1737. They’ve improved the design considerably since then. Do you prefer the pianoforte to the piano?”

  She pursed her lips, thinking carefully as she ran her hand over the smooth wood. “They are different. I like the softness, the tonal quality, and the sustain of a pianoforte. For my seventeenth birthday, my brother gifted me with a Stein from Vienna. Four years prior he had purchased a Broadwood piano with six octaves! Oh, it is a wonder and I adore it. It was a horrible extravagance to buy a second instrument of such magnitude so soon after the other, but he knew how I appreciated the varied registers of the pianoforte. He spoils me horribly.”

  “He loves you immensely,” he corrected. “Have you read that Broadwood has invented a seven-octave piano?”

  Her brows rose. “Truly? That must be amazing. You should write for such an instrument.”

  He laughed. “Eventually, perhaps. I do plan to tour the Érard establishment while in Paris. He is on the innovative edge of piano development.” He glanced around, noting Mrs. Annesley unobtrusively standing at a far window, and leaned toward Georgiana, whispering conspiratorially, “I have penned a six-octave fugue, but do not think it very good, so do not tell anyone.” He winked.

  She leaned closer, whispering back, “I wrote a six-octave sonata and think it quite good.”

  His eyes opened wide, his mouth dropped open, and his hand instinctively moved to lightly grasp her forearm as his voice rose in surprise. “You wrote a sonata? How could you not tell me this? I am so proud of you! All this time talking about music, with me droning on egotistically about my achievements, and here you are a composer!”

  “It is nothing compared to your accomplishments, Mr. Butler, truly. But”—she looked at him through her downcast eyes, her cheeks scarlet—“if it is not too much trouble… that is, if you have the time, later… maybe I could play my melodies for you? For your critique?”

  He lifted her chin gently, his voice low and smile genuine. “We are friends, are we not, Miss Darcy? I would be privileged to hear your creations, and knowing your skill, I doubt if my critique is necessary.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes with their faces less than a foot apart. He held her chin, fighting the urge to stroke his thumb over the warm softness of her flesh or, better yet, the inviting moistness of her lips. The lips that parted slightly, affording a glimpse of her teeth and the tongue behind, Sebastian vividly imagining how incredible it would feel to press his lips against hers, insert his tongue between, and touch…

  With a shake he removed his fingers from her chin, clearing his throat gruffly as he straightened. “Well, I see that we have much to cover once settled in Paris: the Conservatoire, all this music to listen to, the Louvre, Érard’s, hymnals, my sister’s weeping. You shall grow quite ill of me, madam.”

  “Unlikely, sir. Besides, I shall be leaving Paris by mid-April at the latest.” She was surprised to hear a normal voice escaping her dried throat, the words distinct even though she did not consciously form them. How could she when the only thought inhabiting her brain was to wonder how it would feel to kiss Mr. Butler? She was scandalized by the impression, her heart pounding at the shock of such a notion. She slid her arm away from under his hand and pressed her palms flat onto the surface of the harpsichord, willing them not to tremble or betray her thoughts by caressing the skin where his bare hand had lain. Somehow she had to ignore the desire that burned over her flesh that begged to be touched.

  “Oh? Your plans have become set?”

  “A letter arrived today from my friend Miss Bennet. She is Mrs. Darcy’s sister and has recently become engaged. The wedding is scheduled for late April, and I must be there. So you see, I shall not long be around to distract your studies for the hassle of fulfilling promises, made in the heat of the moment, that you are too much of a gentleman to break. Honestly, Mr. Butler, please do not allow me to invade your purpose. You owe me nothing.”

  “I enjoy our time together, Miss Darcy. It is in no way an imposition and none of the invitations I extended were hastily rendered. I quite know my own mind. And besides, my seri
ous studies do not begin until the fall, when my enrollment at the Conservatoire begins. Until then, I am free to be spontaneous.”

  Smiling gaily, he waved his arms in the air, using the gesture to shake off the lingering stupor and smother the strange stab of breathless sadness that entered his heart at the thought of her leaving.

  They continued to wander about the rooms, conversation light and pleasant as they enjoyed their companionship and mutual interest. Their balance was restored amid talk of music, but it was not only Mrs. Annesley who was aware of the constant separation of several feet and the careful avoidance of touching each other.

  Chapter Five

  Consonance of Purpose

  It was late afternoon when they returned to Château la Rochebelin, Georgiana intending to depart to the de Valday château after biding a proper adieu and expressing her appreciation to Mr. Butler, but they were interrupted by his sister while yet standing in the foyer.

  “Oh, there you are Sebastian! Finally,” she exclaimed from the stairs, descending in a breathless rush. Her face was glowing, the permanent smile that seemed to be etched into her lovely face these days broader than usual. “Miss Darcy,” she greeted with a perfunctory bob in Georgiana’s direction, continuing on without pausing, “my sisters’ dresses have arrived and Adrien is thoroughly indifferent to the fact! He persists in vexing me with his pathetic jests and pretended ignorance.”

  “I doubt if his ignorance is pretended, dear sister,” Sebastian interrupted with a chuckle.

  Vivienne waved her hand irritably, her face falling into an adorable pout, her eyes wide with astonishment. “How can he not recognize the supreme importance of gowns to a wedding ceremony? You must come and talk reason to him!” she pleaded, grasping his hand. “You comprehend these things and can communicate the significance!”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes, glancing sidelong at a smiling Georgiana. “I have yet to decide if having five sisters is a blessing or a curse. Years of polite praise for their attire have somehow translated to an awareness of feminine sensibilities and superior fashion sense. God help me.”

  Vivienne tugged on his hand while reaching to clasp Georgiana’s as well. “Come! You too, Miss Darcy. We females shall provide a united front against the stupid males devoid of basic common sense.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  But Mr. Butler was ignored as they were dragged to the parlor. A number of people sat and stood about the large chamber, but Georgiana was instantly overwhelmed by the profusion of ruffles and lace draped over two long sofas. She honestly could not count how many gowns there were. The piles were so voluminous that one would initially think there must have been a couple of dozen, but even a cursory observation of the prancing young woman modeling one of them gave pause to that idea. The dresses for the Butler sisters were a masterpiece of satin and velvet, melding an older style with the newer French passion for crinoline skirts, wider hemlines, and excessive adornments. The yards of fabrics and trimmings necessary to fashion such gowns was mind-boggling, and Georgiana could not help but wonder what the bride’s gown looked like!

  “Am I not fabulous, Sebastian?”

  “Yes indeed, Adele. You are for certain the loveliest creature I have ever seen.” Sebastian bowed grandly to his youngest sister, who beamed with satisfaction. “I fear you shall outshine the bride.”

  Vivienne snorted her disdain at that notion. Lord de Marcov laughed gaily, drawing his fiancée close to his side and patting her hand placatingly. “Adele, my sweet,” he said, “you are a vision, but none on earth could compare with my precious Vivienne, owner of my heart.” He brought Vivienne’s fingers to his lips for a tender kiss, his bride-to-be smiling but quick with a retort.

  “Flattery shall save you from severe punishment, Adrien, but total salvation will only be granted if you fawn gushingly over the dresses. I do not wish to marry an utter simpleton. Sebastian is here to assist you in comprehending your lunacy and error.”

  “Is he now?” Lord de Marcov looked to Sebastian with a raised brow, his grin broad. “Please, enlighten me, Butler. I have mentioned appreciating the frilly bits along the hem and the puffy sleeves, but apparently that is insufficient. Should a gentleman know the proper name of each button, cloth, and lacy ribbon as well? Rather effeminate, is it not?” he finished with a mildly suggestive smirk toward Sebastian, who only laughed.

  “Poor soul,” Sebastian said with mock pity. “You miss the point entirely, de Marcov. Trust the man who has five sisters and a mother”—he bowed toward Lady Essenton—“as possessing superior intelligence over the unfortunate man with one sister. Your life shall be a happier one if you learn enough to feign avid interest over womanly essentials. The proper amount of animation will earn undying devotion and respect, you reaping the reward of unwavering favor and coddling. It is a game and an art form that I have obviously perfected ably, since my sister enlisted my help to penetrate your density.”

  “You boor!” Vivienne launched a small sofa pillow at her brother’s head, Sebastian catching it deftly. Laughter rang out, voices rising in amused conversation. Sebastian turned to Georgiana and winked, she hiding her mirth behind her hand.

  “How did you find the museum, Miss Darcy?”

  “It was surprisingly comprehensive for so small an establishment. Thank you for recommending it, Lord de Marcov. Mr. Butler and I greatly enjoyed the diversion.”

  “I do pray you managed to acquire some sort of education while there, as that is presumably the purpose to you tarrying on the Continent.” It was Lord Essenton, his voice mild as he addressed his son, but with an edge noted by all.

  “Indeed, sir, it is my overall purpose, and my time at the museum was”—he glanced to Georgiana with a soft smile—“enlightening.”

  Lord Essenton frowned. “Just do not lose sight of why you are here. You have the year ahead of you to learn all you can and get this musical nonsense out of your system before returning to England and your duties. Remember our agreement.”

  Lady Warrow spoke up from her regal perch on an elaborately carved Queen Anne chair. “Sebastian will stand by his word, Essenton, have no fear.” She smiled at her grandson, ignoring Lord Essenton’s annoyance. “Study as you wish, dear boy, but do not forget to play as well! Life should be enjoyed to the fullest. Too much seriousness makes for horridly dull people.” She gazed pointedly at her son, standing erect and irked nearby.

  “Thank you, Grandmother. Never fear, my intentions are intact, but this time is for Vivienne. And a holiday is always good for fresh inspiration, I daresay.” His tone was gay, eyes sparkling as he attempted to lighten the mood inserted by his father, but Lord Essenton was not finished.

  “I am to understand you are departing for Paris soon, Miss Darcy?”

  “You are correct, my lord. We depart tomorrow and plan to stay in Paris until early April at the latest, then returning home.”

  He nodded, smiling pleasantly. “Well, it has been a delight encountering you here in Lyon. Please extend our best wishes for a safe journey home to Lord and Lady Matlock.”

  “I shall do that for you, Father, as I will be seeing Miss Darcy and the earl and countess while in Paris.”

  “Indeed. Well, that is excellent news.” His voice was dry, belying the words. “Again, I do hope you will not forget to prepare for your stay at the Conservatoire and your current planned occupations.”

  “I shall not, but occasional diversions are abundantly welcomed.” He smiled at Georgiana, who blushed, both of them missing the tight scowl that flashed across Lord Essenton’s features before disappearing behind a serene façade.

  ***

  The loud knock at the door revealed the twins and their brother. They filed in before permission was fully granted, not that Georgiana was surprised, since the ritual was a nightly one. Zoë carried a tray, balancing a silver teapot with steam rising from the spout, a tiny bowl of sugar, a small pitcher of cream, and four china cups. Yvette bore an identical tray laden with an assortment o
f pastries.

  “Petits fours filled with caramel crème, baklava, and pumpkin custard tarts! Fresh today,” Yvette sang, making yummy sounds as she set the tray onto the waiting table.

  “And I have Beaumarchais to entertain!” Frédéric declared, waving the leather-bound book high in the air. “You fair maidens may repose as I dramatically play all the parts! Applause and accolades highly anticipated, just so you know.”

  Laughter, silliness, and gossip would rule for the next several hours. Georgiana had swiftly grown to anticipate these hours spent in foolishness and youthful companionship. The activity was nearly unknown to her, as her only sibling, although dearly adored, was far older. The only time in her twenty years she had experienced what it was like to have this brand of kinship was with Mary and Kitty Bennet. Then, as now, she treasured the frivolity and amity. However, that night was bittersweet because it was their last, since Georgiana and the Matlocks would be departing for Paris the following day.

  “It is just not fair! How can our parents be so cruel as to bring you into our lives, sweet Georgiana, only to be wrested away in so short a time! It is unconscionable!”

  “You must stay in France! How can we live without you?” Zoë interjected, every bit as dramatic as her sister.

  “I am sure you will manage to survive quite well,” Georgiana answered with a laugh and playful shove.

  “Will you not miss us horribly?” Yvette asked with a sob.

  “Most horribly, I assure you.”

  “If only you could have fallen madly in love. Then you would be forced to stay, as your heart would be ripped asunder otherwise!” Yvette declared with a passionate clutch to her left chest, sighing hugely and falling backward onto the pillows that were stacked before the fire.