by Maria Grace
He locked himself in his room with the curtains drawn against the sun. Perhaps he could sleep until it was time to depart this horrible place.
Fitzwilliam insisted he drag himself to Holy Services on Sunday. While it was his habit to do so, the knowledge that the vicar was none other than Miss Elizabeth’s cousin made the entire affair unpalatable at best. But after Fitzwilliam’s years in the army, he could be a force to be reckoned with, and Darcy lacked the energy for the standoff. Thus, he went.
Though the sun was bright and the air crisp and fresh, the walk to the stone parish church was flat and dull and grey. The birdsong seemed monotone and off-key; even the bleating of sheep rasped harshly against his beleaguered nerves.
The smell of cold, damp stone filled his nostrils as he settled into the family pew, trying to avoid eye contact. Yes, there were those with whom he shared an acquaintance, and he should deign to speak with them. He would fulfill all the obligations of etiquette at the first moment that civility was available to him. For now, it was not.
A flash of blue caught his eye. His lungs seized and refused to breathe.
Wait. No, it could not be. It was simply not possible. There in the vicar’s family pew with a woman who must be Mrs. Collins.
Her.
Darcy swallowed hard and blinked several times. Breathe, he must breathe.
“Darcy? Darcy? Are you well? You look like you have seen the devil himself.” Fitzwilliam elbowed him sharply.
Darcy jumped and shook his head. “Yes, yes, I am fine.”
“You have noticed Mrs. Collins’ houseguests, I see. Aunt Catherine was just telling me about them.”
Them? Were there two? By Jove, yes there were two young ladies sitting with Mrs. Collins. One must be her sister; they shared a very similar look. But the other—
“… the other is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I am told, a childhood friend of Mrs. Collins and cousin of Mr. Collins.”
His heart swelled to fill all his chest and shut off any hope of breathing. It was her—it was her! Here in the middle of exactly where she had no reason, no hope of being, she was here. A strange sense overtook him. A foreign mix of peace and euphoria floated his limbs and left his head muzzy and light.
The next day, he lost no time in suggesting to Fitzwilliam that it would only be proper for them to pay a call upon the parsonage to honor the new Mrs. Collins. While Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, he did not hesitate to act upon any idea that would excuse them from Aunt Catherine’s presence.
And no wonder. Aunt Catherine was in rare form this visit. Even in the short time they had been there, she had wasted no time in insisting that Darcy act upon hers and his mother’s plans for their offspring to wed. While it would be a sure way to silence his muse forever, he was not yet that desperate. Still, a shiver snaked down his back as he trotted downstairs, avoiding the parlor Aunt Catherine preferred to use in the mornings.
∞∞∞
Darcy had been in the parsonage often enough; he and Fitzwilliam always called there when they visited Rosings Park. The prior vicar had not been dissimilar to Mr. Collins, grateful for Aunt Catherine’s condescension and a bit of a toad-eater—probably the basis by which Aunt Catherine chose the current holder of the living.
But somehow the place felt different as the housekeeper showed them in. It was not the lighting, nor was it the smell. A presence—sweet and steady— filled the entire house, noticeable the moment he entered the front door. She was indeed here.
Mrs. Collins—had he met her before? She seemed familiar—they must have met in Hertfordshire. That was it! He had seen her at the Netherfield Ball. A plain, mousy woman, exactly the sort that would have married the vicar, she introduced Fitzwilliam to Miss Elizabeth who curtsied to them both, saying nothing.
But she did not need to say a single word. Her presence spoke everything that needed to be said. The previously unremarkable parlor sang with her being, and his muse sang harmony against its melody.
How could he be so supremely favored to find her here when his soul was the most desperate? What would such favor cost him?
Fitzwilliam prattled on for some time with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man. Darcy exhausted his conversation after having addressed a minor observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins.
It might not have been noteworthy conversation, but it was sufficient to be considered polite. More important, it permitted him to remain and allow his muse to nourish itself with sidelong glances at its sustenance. Perhaps he could, he should, force himself to say something more. “Is your family in good health, Miss Bennet?”
“They are, thank you. My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?” Something about the way her brow arched as she looked at him.
His throat tightened so swiftly, he could not even exhale. He could not lie, but he could not tell her the manner in which he had seen the elder Miss Bennet. She required an answer, but how could he offer one? “I had not been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet in town.”
It was entirely true; he had not lied. But something about the way her eyes narrowed—how much more did she know, and how did she come to know it?
∞∞∞
Those eyes preyed upon him, tortured him, taunted him with reminders of his subterfuge. But was not telling Bingley something that he would be better off not knowing truly wrong? Surely, it was for Bingley’s own benefit that he concealed Miss Bennet’s call. And his sister, her guilt was surely far more conspicuous. After all, she knew directly that Miss Bennet had come to the house; he had only happened upon her and surmised what had happened.
The logic was sound; his argument would have persuaded the king’s finest barrister. But his muse was no barrister. She turned on him as surely as a vixen would turn on a threat to her kits. Was it possible for a muse to bare her teeth and growl, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog? If it was, surely that was the sound that awakened him the next morning and every morning thereafter.
If only he could see Miss Bennet again, perhaps there would be some way he could make things right and appease his vengeful muse. But each time he tried to approach the parsonage, the image of her taut brow as her gaze penetrated his very being stopped him. Clearly, he could not intrude upon her solitude uninvited. So, he remained at Rosings manor, tortured, pacing his chambers like a caged wildcat, avoiding Aunt Catherine’s demands.
Finally, after a full week had passed, the denizens of the parsonage were invited to Rosings Park to dine after church. Perhaps Aunt Catherine had grown weary of so little company; perhaps she thought their presence would draw Darcy out of his rooms. Whatever her reason, it meant that he could encounter her again and perhaps, somehow appease his muse’s fury at his mistreatment of her chosen vessel.
∞∞∞
Darcy presented himself in the drawing room a quarter of an hour prior to their guests’ appointed arrival. The room was stiff and formal and largely purple, as it ever was, but the air crackled, electric in anticipation of the awaited company. Unfortunately, Aunt Catherine immediately seized upon him and Fitzwilliam for conversation.
Fitzwilliam handled it with aplomb, wandering away at the first opportunity to create a cozy cluster of chairs to draw their guests’ companionship to himself. Blast and botheration—did he realize what he was doing? He must—his posture gloated both over his triumph and the fact that Darcy could voice no complaint.
Their guests arrived, but only one mattered. She curtsied, greeted Aunt Catherine, and proceeded to join Fitzwilliam with her friend Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas. Mr. Collins, naturally, waited upon his patroness.
What joy! Darcy’s muse chittered something vengeful sounding in his ear—suggesting that perhaps he deserved this torment.
“You are on time tonight, I see, Mr. Collins.” Did Aunt Catherine really need to state the obvious?
The vicar bowed, a glow of sweat simmering on his forehead. “Yes, your Ladyship. You have indeed i
mpressed upon me—”
“And your guest, did you find she was apt to be timely?” Aunt Catherine stared at Miss Elizabeth with a most peculiar, narrow-eyed look.
Mr. Collins sat in the stiff, polished chair nearest Aunt Catherine. “Yes, yes. She was most timely—”
“I am pleased to hear her mother has properly attended to those things.”
Darcy hid his snort in a bout of coughing. If only Aunt Catherine knew Mrs. Bennet, she would never mistake good training having come from her. She was a dreadful influence on her daughters. It was a great credit to Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth that they were nothing like their mother.
Darcy’s gaze wandered to the other side of the room. While their characters were utterly unalike, mother and daughter shared physical similarities. The lines of their jaws in particular favored one another. The shape of her cheeks and eyes were also similar. And their ears shared the same graceful curves and swirls. She had very attractive ears.
At some point in his sojourn to Hertfordshire, someone had mentioned that Mrs. Bennet had been a great beauty in her youth, and that was how she had got her husband. Her daughters were said to continue the line of family beauty. That was essentially correct, but to limit Miss Elizabeth’s appearance in such a way was nearly criminal. Her beauty was hardly so ordinary.
Miss Elizabeth laughed—a lovely, light, lyrical sound—at something Fitzwilliam said. How vexing that he should be in conversation with her while Darcy could not. It did not help at all that Miss Elizabeth should smile and her eyes twinkle so over her merriment in Fitzwilliam’s presence. Darcy’s left hand balled into a fist.
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” Aunt Catherine rapped her knuckles on the arm of her chair to punctuate her demands.
“We are speaking of music, madam.” He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Of music! Then pray speak aloud.” She waved her boney hand, directing all attention towards herself as she eased back into her seat. “It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
Darcy jumped. Aunt Catherine so rarely gave anyone else entry into the conversation, his mind went blank.
“Darcy?” And now she took offense at his lack of ready words. Delightful.
“I … uh … she is doing very well. She takes great joy in the instrument. I find her at practice many hours during the day. There is a new pianoforte being made ready for her even now. I believe it will bring her great pleasure to play on a superior instrument. Her music teachers have all reported that she is indeed a true proficient.” It probably was not appropriate to bait his aunt so, but who could help themselves?
Fitzwilliam snorted into his hand.
“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” Aunt Catherine favored him with a small glower, “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a great deal.”
Darcy gritted his teeth and drew two deep breaths before responding. “I assure you, madam, that she does not need such advice. She practices very constantly.” That was decidedly impolite as he had already mentioned the scope of her practice.
“So much the better.” She braced her elbows on the arms of her chair and pulled herself up very straight—a monarch issuing a decree. “It cannot be done too much, and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet…”
She had dared talk to Miss Bennet? No doubt insulted her, giving his muse more offense for him to atone for.
“… several times that she will never play really well unless she practices more, and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house.”
Darcy winced and covered his face with his hand. Even if Aunt Catherine had not given prior offense, she was making the most of the opportunity now. Thankfully, a squadron of maids brought in refreshments, and Aunt Catherine was distracted, telling them precisely how to accomplish each task.
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Miss Elizabeth of her promise to play for them. She sat down directly at the instrument, a picture of grace in each movement.
If there were ever an opportunity for him to move, it would be now. But how?
Fitzwilliam drew a chair near the pianoforte. Aunt Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, far too loudly, to Darcy. Enough of her rudeness!
He walked away from her and quite deliberately to the pianoforte, stationing himself so as to command a full view of Elizabeth’s astonishing countenance.
No, she was not a proficient musician; barely tolerable she would be considered in some circles. Her posture, according to Georgiana’s music masters, was sloppy, and her hand position unacceptable. Still, she seemed to possess a muse of her own that lit her eyes and sweetened her voice as she played and sang for them.
Somehow, in some way utterly unexpected, one muse spoke to another and together they took flight, soaring above the confines of the floor, somewhere near the high ceiling above them. Dizzying, breathtaking, enchanting—
—and devastating as her music came to an abrupt halt.
She looked up at him, eyes full of lively fire. “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
What state had he come to her in? Aching and empty, longing to be filled? Repentant and resolute to make reparations for his past wrongs? What did she think of him? “I shall not say that you are mistaken because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you. I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”
Elizabeth laughed heartily.
The muses laughed with her.
Oh, how well that sounded! Surely that should count in his favor.
She turned to Fitzwilliam, color high in her cheeks. “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you.” It was her disdain that he feared, not her teasing smiles and glittering eyes.
How difficult, profoundly difficult it was to tell what she was seeing in him right now. Damn it all! Why could he not read her easily? Why should others have that gift and not he?
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of.” Fitzwilliam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” He winked at Darcy.
“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you—but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce, and, to my cer
tain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
She had been one of those young ladies—that was bad enough—but that she should have also heard his unkind remarks as well! It was only just and fair that he should feel the sting of that now as much as she had then. No wonder his muse had been so profoundly offended. Was it telling that he had forgotten the incident? “I had not at that time the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.”
“True, and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room.” Her eyes held his with such just accusation that he could not look away.
He nodded very slowly, accepting the charges against him.
At last she looked aside. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy cleared his throat softly, “I should have judged better and sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” Her eyes flared with fresh fury. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
“I can answer your question without applying to him.” Fitzwilliam leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, his chair creaking softly. “It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
Darcy held his breath to keep from muttering. It was so good of Fitzwilliam to be such a staunch supporter, now that he was under such prosecution—just though it may be. “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
“My fingers,” Elizabeth’s eye brow arched just so, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then, I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution. The fault is mine and mine alone.”
